for secret relationship: how about hotch and reader are together, and the team keeps trying to get ahold of them but can't?
interruptions
omg OMG cw; fem bau!reader, one small description of reader having long hair, secret relationship, suggestive content, lots of kissing, fluff <3
Aaron's lips moved against yours with such practiced ease, it was dizzying.
In the comfort of his bed, the sheets were tangled around the two of you, the soft mid-morning light pooling in from the window. You were pressed against him, one leg slung over his waist, Aaron's hand cupping your cheek.
Lips moved in a quiet rhythm, unhurried and languid. Each kiss was deeper than the last, but never rushed. Your hand slid up his chest, feeling the steady, and accelerated, beat of his heart. His skin was warm under your touch.
Your mouth curved into a soft smile. Feeling the shift of your lips, Aaron couldn't help but do the same.
While last night had been full of urgency and infatuated desperation, this was the opposite. The two of you had all the time in the world.
Time was only interrupted when your phone suddenly began vibrating. You broke away, turning to grab ahold of it.
Aaron immediately protested, a hand grabbing your hip. "Hey-"
"Hold on a minute," you laughed softly. Now behind you, Aaron gently swept your hair over your shoulder, clearing the way before pressing a soft kiss to your bare skin. Again. And again. "It's just Penelope."
He hummed gently, his lips brushing along the curve of your neck. Savoring the feeling you arched your back, melting against him. Soon, a hand plucked your phone right out of your grasp.
"You're busy."
You let out a soft laugh as you shifted in his arms, rolling over to face him. You barely had the chance to blink before his lips were feverishly back on yours, making up for lost time as if it had been weeks as opposed to seconds since he last kissed you.
But give or take a few minutes, your phone rang again.
"Let it go to voicemail." Aaron mumbled against your lips, his voice low and breathless as he refused to pull away. The insistent buzzing of your phone was a distant hum compared to the heat of his mouth on yours.
You panted softly in response, "it could be important."
"It's fine."
"That eager to have me all to yourself?" You smirked lightly, reaching up to the back of his head and starting to gently run your fingers through his hair.
"Immensely." Aaron confirmed, his eyes dark and deliberate.
Laughing softly, you leaned into him again.
But five minutes later, Aaron's ringtone pierced through the air.
"You've gotta be kidding." He groaned as he sat up, answering his phone hastily, "Yes Dave?"
You bit down onto your lip, looking up at him in amusement.
Aaron listened for a moment before his lips twitched lightly, his eyes knowingly finding yours. "No... I don't know why she wouldn't be answering Garcia. Is everything alright?"
You attempted to strain your hearing, hoping and ultimately failing to catch a fragment of what Dave was saying.
"Okay. So why are you calling me?" He paused, listening. "I haven't seen her, no. I can try to give her a call, but if she's busy, she's busy."
Since you couldn't follow their conversation, you made use of your time by straddling Aaron. His free hand shot out to hold onto your thigh.
"I'm sure she's fine."
Leaning down, your lips found the hollow of his throat, leaving small marks. You purposely kept them low enough that they could easily be concealed by one of his button-ups.
You were definitely more than fine.
"Look, I gotta go - I'm in the middle of something." Aaron rushed out, his breath catching slightly. "See you Monday? Thanks, bye."
"Well?" you inquired, a half curious, half teasing smirk finding its way onto your face. Aaron immediately put his phone on do not disturb, retrieved yours, and swiftly did the same.
He rolled on top of you, pinning you gently beneath him. He quipped, his grin full of mischief as he gazed down, "like I said, not important."
pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader
summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request.
warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits.
word count: 2.1k
✧ masterlist
Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud.
It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’
And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.
So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.
“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.
You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”
“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.
“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”
“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”
Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”
“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”
You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”
Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”
You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.
“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”
“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”
“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”
Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”
“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.
“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”
“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.
You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.
“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”
“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”
“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly.
“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”
“They live to complain.”
A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.
“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”
“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.
You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”
He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”
That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”
He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”
You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”
“They already know.”
“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”
He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.
“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”
“So… business as usual.”
“Basically.”
He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.
Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.
He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.
And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.
“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk.
He tilted his head. “Tempting.”
“You’d never actually do it, though.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”
Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”
You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”
Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you.
Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them.
“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart.”
And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”
He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”
You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”
“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.
You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”
“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”
You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”
“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”
He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”
“Okay, now I have to see that.”
He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”
“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”
You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.”
“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.”
“It’s mostly just you.”
He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan.
“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”
a/n: my requests are open <3 english is not my first language!
★ fluff | ♡ smut | 𐙚 angst
spencer reid
♡ eye for an eye | 3.7k
your neighbor was acting weird, and one night he finally tells you why
𐙚 acessory to murder | 2.3k
someone kills your abusive ex and the bau comes to interrogate you. little did they know they were hunting one of their own
♡ siren | 2.8k
during a weekend off on rossi’s beach house, spencer can’t get himself to sleep, so he goes outside for tea and fresh air. you happen to have the same idea.
★ (un)requited | 1.5k
spencer confesses his love for you, but you don’t say it back (because he walked away before you get to do so).
★ XO | 2.8k
you find out spencer had never been on a date at a carnival, and you decide to take matters into your own hands.
emily prentiss
★ commando | 1.2k
emily became a professional in guessing your underwear. but one time she missed it.
underwear trilogy pt. 2
♡★ (no) underwear | 4k
you go on a date, but all you can think about is emily. so you have no other option than to confront her about it.
underwear trilogy pt. 3
aaron hotchner
★ ♡ 𐙚 after hours au's masterlist
♡ overtime | 3.9k
hotch calls you into his office after hours about a missing report but you know the real reason behind it
♡ devoted | 3k
hotch comes home tired from another draining case. luckily, you’re always there to greet him with a drink and the tiniest dress you own.
★ 𐙚 to be loved is to be known | 3k
reader didn’t want aaron to meet her family. after one dinner he understands why.
♡ 𐙚 help | 5.7k
you struggle with having sex, so you ask your boyfriend for help
check trigger warnings!
★ ms. springs | 3.1k
when yet another woman becomes interested in hotch, you start to rethink your decision of keeping your relationship a secret. jack solves your dilemma in a second.
★ lisptick stain | 2.9k
you stop kissing your boyfriend because his friends were making fun of him. aaron was having none of it.
★ kiss & needles | 1.1k
you learn the art of sewing and the bau team is your first victim
lipstick stain part two
★ hotchelle | 1.8k
you have a furry emergency, and it’s up to your knight in shining armor — a vest and a government gun — of a husband to save you.
★𐙚 so close to what | 2.7k
almost two years after meeting (and falling for) aaron, you face him again at your dad’s party. and then he meets your new boyfriend.
★ ♡ tattoo your name across my heart (so it will remain) | 3.8k
you surprise your husband by having his signature tattooed.
𐙚 girl crush | 7.3k
beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
★ summer flame | 3.2k
you develop a crush on the middle aged dad during your summer trip.
♡ summer fling | 3.2k
things get heated after your fourth date with the middle aged dad you’ve been crushing on.
summer flame part two
𐙚 about time | 4k
it was long since you stopped being just aaron’s plaything, even though he refused to acknowledge it. but everything changes when, after a mass shooting, he almost loses you.
♡ my kinda love | 2.6k
hotch gets to work with dark circles and a coffee three times larger than his usual. the reason? just walked into his office for a visit, with her tiny dress and insatiable appetite.
♡ man's bestfriend | 3k
You and Derek broke up so naturally you fuck his boss in a party restroom.
♡ mine to break | 3.9k
When aaron introduces you as a friend to his team your whole relationship collapses. you started to doubt everything you thought you knew until there was only one thing certain: you deserved better. to prove to yourself how much you don’t need him, you decide to go on a date with someone else, just for aaron to barge in and show you he’s the only one you’ll ever need.
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
full pairing masterlist here (not necessary to read in order)
wc: 3.3k
summary: this thing with your attending ascends to a new level
contains: mdni! implied age gap, power imbalance, ooey gooey disgusting people having lovey dovey sex
a/n: this pairing is so special to meeee! please reblog if you like it, rbs keep your fav writers alive | beautiful divider from @andromeda-graphics
Jack Abbot holds his phone a full eight inches from his face, squinting and readjusting to the font on the screen. He finally registers the contents of the text you'd sent, and a slow, surprised blink flickers over his face.
You glance up surreptitiously from a patient's chart, clear on the other end of Central. Your heart is hammering as you think of your text, at how seditious it sounded, at least by your somewhat prudent standards.
If we get out of here at the same time, I'd love an escort home.
That ember between you and Jack sparked when you switched to the night shift a couple of months ago. Flame caught last week when you kissed him in the park, and he kissed you back.
Since then, nothing but a whisper of smoke. He's been friendly at work —professional— to your increasing frustrations. When you meet him at the park after each shift, a recently established ritual, he's not so much as touched you.
You've begun to wonder if you damaged something irreparably by kissing him. But, god, the thought of his lips over yours has driven you crazy over the past week. The memory of his warm, dominant mouth over yours sneaks up on you in the middle of shifts, knocking you in the knees and turning you into a wobbly mess.
And, if you're being honest with yourself, your vibrator just isn't cutting it.
Movement from across the hub catches your eye, and you watch Abbot jab his index finger at his phone. A resounding buzz in your pocket shoots straight to your core, but you maintain your composure as best you can, and wait for him to stalk off to another patient.
Once he's disappeared behind a curtain, you fumble for your phone, chest heaving slowly when you see his response. Simple and clear. Classic Abbot.
7:30. Our spot across the street.
Your spot —yours and Abbot's, that you share, together— is a bench in the park across the street from the hospital. Enclosed in a copse of trees, sunrise filtering through the branches, it's been the perfect hideaway this past month of meeting him after each shift.
Not that there's been anything to hide. Deep conversation, inside jokes, and one tummy-turning kiss.
You're pacing the length of the bench when a familiar frame ambles ever closer.
Your ponytail is loose, the easy morning breeze catching it as Jack reaches you. His camoflauge-printed backpack is slung over one shoulder, his slight limp more prominent at the end of a twelve-hour shift. He looks tired, but not dragging, and you feel the same. You don't think you could folllw through with this if the shift had been particularly taxing.
"You're not anxious, are you, sunshine?" Abbot's lips twist in the side of his mouth in that fond manner he seems to save especially for you.
"Just restless," you lie, hoisting your own backpack up. You adjust the straps, wrapping your hands around them. "Thank you for walking me home, Dr. Abbot."
He laughs. You worry for a split-second that he's laughing at you. But then he extends a hand.
"How far's your place?" He asks as you tentatively slide your palm down to his. His hands are calloused, weathered like you thought they'd be, but surprisingly gentle. Skilled in keeping steady in moments like these.
You let him cradle your hand in his, trying not to focus too hard on the acrobatic flips in your tummy. "It's about a twenty minute walk," you explain, then give the address. The downward twitch of your eyes betrays your concern.
He doesn't balk, but uses his free hand to tug his phone out of the pocket of his cargo pants. "You alright with an Uber?"
You nod. "Yeah, but I can Venmo you for half—"
He squeezes your hand. "Not necessary, sunshine," he cuts you off as he leads you down the path. You have the fluttery realization that you've only ever walked separately through this park, never together.
When your lips flatten in a tight line, he squeezes your hand again. The feeling shoots up and down your nerve endings, mini strikes of lightning.
Jesus Christ. If holding this man's hand can get you all hot and bothered…
"You have trouble letting people take care of you," he observes. A statement, not a question. He doesn't even bother to look up from the Uber app on his phone.
"I— wh— excuse me?" A fizzy laugh of disbelief blusters through you. A psych evaluation wasn't exactly how you expected this morning to go.
"I do the same thing," Abbot shrugs as he leads you to the sidewalk. Conveniently, you realize, on the other side of the park as the hospital. "It's okay," he adds, unnecessarily.
You hum, rolling this thought around your head as the Uber lines up with the curb. Abbot opens the door for you, because of course he does.
The ten-minute ride to your building is dizzying, your heart beating in your ears the entire time. The forefront of your mind has gone completely impotent for small talk, settling instead for a buzzy silence.
Abbot rubs the back of your palm with his thumb in an intimate form of comfort you allow yourself to accept. You find yourself looking at everything in the car except for him, practically springing up when it rolls to a stop at your building.
Opting for the elevator in lieu of stairs to your third-floor apartment, you lead your senior attending to your door. Your backpack suddenly weighs as though it's packed with bricks. The hallway suddenly stretches miles long.
When you brave a glance over your shoulder, Jack trails after you, the corners of his mouth flicking up when his eyes meet yours. An unspoken question, volleyed telepathically from his brain to yours.
Are we actually doing this?
An uncharacteristic surge of confidence drives you to your door, digging your keys from the pocket. You turn the lock, tongue jutting out to wet your lips. Jack slides his hands along the straps of his backpack.
His eyes shoot to yours when the door creaks open.
A bubble of nervous energy pops somewhere in your chest.
"Are you a vampire?" You ask suddenly.
The question stuns him into a low, terse laugh. "What?"
"Do you need to be invited in?" The quirk of a smile betrays that you're merely teasing. You nod sideways to the open door. "Would you like to come in, Dr. Abbot?"
A visible grimace twists his expression. "You can't… you can't call me doctor right now, sunshine," he laughs good-naturedly, but the weight of the words tells you he really means it.
"Got it," you snatch your backpack and lug it inside, closing the door behind him when he follows. "Jack."
Jack's eyes scan your apartment contemplatively, and you're all too aware of the tightly compacted space. A kitchen and living room split in two by a granite island, a bedroom and en-suite just off to the side. Morning light spills in through the living room windows, illuminating the small space.
"It's a little small," you ramble. "But it's close to the hospital! And it's got a great view."
"It's very…" Jack sets his own backpack beside yours, stepping into the space. "You."
This makes you smile, a twinkle where the morning light catches your eye. "What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, feigning suspicion.
Jack doubles back, meeting you where you lean against the kitchen island. He takes your hand in his. Two sets of fingers fumble and tangle together. "I mean that it's warm," his voice drops an octave, flowing honey in your ears.
His eyes meet yours pointedly, and your gaze dips shyly. His other hand curls beneath your chin, coaxing you to look back at him. "And cozy," he adds, bridging the gap between you by pressing his lips to your cheek. His stubble tickles, and your legs wobble beneath you. "And inviting," he husks into your ear, lips moving to your jaw. "And disarming, in the best way possible."
Your hand breaks from his, white-knuckling a fist into his t-shirt, the other snaking up to finally answer a question that's been rattling in the back of your mind for months. Jack Abbot's hair is soft, just as hypothesized, curls melting against your palm like snow.
"That's nice," is the grand, quippy retort that spills out of you before you can think better of it. "You're nice."
"Don't tell anybody," Jack chuffs, pressing scratchy kisses into the underside of your jaw. Cradling your chin with one hand, the other presses your hip into the countertop, holding you in place, as if he anticipates your squirminess. Which he's right about, of course. "You'll spoil my reputation."
"I think you're doing that yourself," you tease back, craning your head up for him.
But his kisses come to a halt, a short breath puffing from his mouth, ticking your ear.
Jack rears his head back, fingers loosening their grip on your waist. "You're right," he slowly peels away. "This isn't… I'm breaking a lot of rules right now," his voice warbles.
You blink. The color has drained from his face.
"Jack?"
He doesn't step away from you, but his hands hover in the liminal space between your body and his. Caught, you think, between two opposing lines of thought.
You tug on the fabric over his torso. "Hey," you urge. "I'm breaking the rules, too," you say softly, even though the absence of his touch sends a shudder through you. "I invited you here, Jack," you remind him.
He loosens a little, scrunching his face up in some sort of internal war that you realize doesn't concern you. This isn't about you. It's his guilt, rattling inside of him like a jar of marbles.
"I'm taking advantage," he murmurs, refusing to look at you. "It isn't right."
"We're two consenting adults," you retort matter-of-factly. "It doesn't need to leave the walls of this apartment."
Jack shakes his head again. He's locked in some prison of moral dilemna, wracked with guilt and shouldering all the responsibilities. You should have expected it —this is exactly what he does with all his patients. He bends the rules and works the system to help his patients, but not at the potential cost of anyone's career but his own.
He won't put you in jeopardy, too.
"You have trouble letting people take care of you," you say finally, squaring your shoulders. His gaze snaps to you. As if in warning.
The morning sun through the window elucidates details of his face you've never been close enough to see. Silver fox truly is the best way to describe Jack Abbot, with the toasted hue of the stubble, jagged edges of his jaw, and the lines of skin branching from the corners of his eyes.
Yearning swirls around in your stomach.
"If I kiss you," you trace a finger over the lines around his mouth. He twitches at first, then relaxes into it. "Will you let me?"
Pouting old man, you think.
His Adam's apple bobs. "Yeah," he exhales, the word softened in relief.
You cup the back of his head, holding him steady so you can stand on your toes and do just that. He melts into it when you slide your lips over his, a soft, easy kiss.
It feels like everything you've never had, this kiss. Like he wants you just as much as you want him, like he doesn't have a specific end in mind, like he isn't pushing some sort of agenda. Every man in your past has betrayed you in varying degrees, but you feel oddly confident in placing your trust in Jack, in allowing him to hold the pieces of you that you shield from the rest of the world.
"You taste like cinnamon," Jack observes when the two of you finally come up for air.
You thread your fingers through his hair, humming contentedly. "I put it in my tea," you offer as explanation, though you're sure he wasn't asking.
Jack grabs you gently by the hips, and you give a little hop. Ass on the counter, legs opening to create space.
Your tongue dips into his mouth just as his fingers dig into your waist. Jack lets you, in a surprising moment of submission, groaning into your open mouth.
You tug at the hem of his shirt. He breaks away from you to pull it over his head and toss it aside. You have to pause for a second, drinking in the freckled skin and forearms lined with a tan that doesn't quite reach his elbows. Your eyes trail over his round, full pectorals next, then down to the rigidity of his torso.
He shyly looks away. You give a little shake of your head.
Wordlessly, he cradles your jaw, then surges forward to kiss you again. Warmth emanates from his skin, trapping you in a vacuum of airless heat. His tongue presses against your lips, and you grant him entrance, an uncontrollable whimper dissolving into his mouth.
Soon he's carrying you to the bedroom with an exaggerated limp you feel inclined to address. You scoot up on the bed, licking your lips breathlessly as he climbs over you. His stalwart frame over yours, a work rivaling that of Michelangelo, all grooves and angles and crooks.
"Is this okay?" Jack's propped up over you, slowing in a moment of tenderness, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear.
"Yes," you exhale, sliding your hands up and down his arms.
"B-because if it's not, I can—"
"Jack," you flatten your palms over his cheeks in a mild smack. That certainly gets his attention. The warmth of his eyes crackle, a hazel fireplace, as they look down into yours. "I'm good. I want this," you nod to emphasize your point.
And then he's kissing you again, all hungry and desperate like he needs you to breathe. All you can hear are the coalesced sounds of your breathing —yours, airy and quick, his, gravely and heavy.
"Fuck," he murmurs against you before sliding his tongue into your mouth once again. It's a homecoming as he laps into you, hands traveling under the hem of your scrub top and the t-shirt beneath. You've never felt that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
You do now.
His fingers slide beneath the band of your sports bra, pressing firmly into the plush of your breasts. "Fuck," he says again, his thumb catching your nipple. You gasp.
His eyes snap open into yours. "Okay?"
"Perfect," you suppress your impatience. He's being responsible about it, of course he is. He's the ER cowboy, he follows the rules until the system turns out to be broken.
You slide your hand beneath the waistband of his pants. You saw the bulge straining against the seams, but you had no idea he'd feel so… solid.
His vulpine face twitches a little when your hand slides over his partial erection. "This is okay?" You ask, because you feel like you should, and he shudders a nod.
"Yes, fuck. Please, sunshine," he groans. You stroke him, a long, languid slide down his shaft, the throbbing increasing in intensity.
"Is that a crike kit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" You joke before you can think better of it, and before you can flush with embarrassment, his thumb rolls over your nipple.
"You're ridiculous," he laughs, husky and low and warm in your ear.
Lots of kisses follow, especially when your shirt comes off. Then his pants, then your pants.
His prosthetic glints under the light of your bedroom, and you ask if needs to take it off first. He insists he's fine, thanks you for being so considerate by kissing down your stomach, to the upper plains of your thighs.
"You taste so good, sunshine," he murmurs against you. "Can't wait to be inside you."
"I can see that," you exhale, the words coming out brattier than you intend. Jack throws a wicked grin your way.
Your panties are soon tossed aside. Jack kisses the thrush of your middle before slowly extending a finger. He feels you out, opens you up. He slackens your jaw. He blurs your vision.
You whine. "Oh, my god, Jack, please."
"Let me take care of you, angel girl," he kisses your neck, then pushes his finger further in.
When you tug down his boxers a few moments later, you balk.
"I don't think—"
"It'll fit," Jack assures you with a kiss. "And if it doesn't, you tell me, okay? This is just as much for you as it is for me."
As his finger moves around inside you with skilled precision and melts every nerve ending, you beg to differ, but the words won't form.
Jack kisses your lips the same time he slides his cock into you. He swallows the moan you emit, working you slowly, carefully. When he releases your mouth from his, he asks if you're okay, again.
"Yes, yes, yes, fuck," you groan, curling your hands around his bicep. Your thighs tense and tighten around him. "Please, Jack, please. You can let go."
Jack obliges.
He carefully rolls his hips into you. Long push in, tantalizingly slow drag out. Once you're open for him, he picks up his speed, his finger working against your clit simultaneously.
"Fuck, you're taking me so well," he praises, finding exactly what you need after a moment's work.
His cock fills you, his free hand holding your hip in place because god, you're squirmy. "Stay still, angel," he pleads, kissing your nose.
His hips snap and he ruts into you, quickly, so fast. Then it's all pressure and heat and salt from tears stinging at your eyes.
Tightness clenches throughout your middle as you screw your eyes shut. "Oh my god," you cry, because it's never felt like this before. "Oh, my god, Jack, I'm gonna—"
"Go ahead, angel," Jack groans into you. "You can let go."
When you finally do, pins prick all over your arms and legs. There's this drawn-out moment of ethereal bliss that coats over you like the tail of a shooting star. A sharp moan.
Warmth. Lightning. Peace and release.
Jack's not too far behind, his face tightening in a paralleled moment as he spills into you. "Fuck," he grumbles as he does, red flooding over the freckles of his cheeks. "Fuck, angel, I'm so sorry, I—"
"It's okay," you pant, still clenched around him as his thrusts turn into slow, descending rolls. "It's okay, Jack. I'm on birth control."
He nods, lowering his forehead so it's anchored against yours. "I thought maybe I'd last longer than that, though," he chuckles, clearly sheepish about it. "It's… it's been a while."
"That's okay," is all you're able to say, apparently, as you slide your fingers against his stubble. "It was good, Jack. It was good."
The breathy, lighthearted smile on your face makes Jack inclined to believe you.
He slowly pulls out, the weight of his forehead still pressed to yours.
Your jaw drops as his cock leaves you feeling cold and ghosted. He kisses down your nose, your cheeks, your chin, then ends on your lips.
"You were so perfect," he breathes into you between kisses. "So perfect, sunshine."
"Maybe it's just been a while," your laugh is airy and deflective. Jack lands on his back beside you. His shoulders bump against yours, crammed comfortably like sardines on your queen-sized mattress.
He grabs you by the arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to his lips. His kisses are feathery light and quick, as though he's expecting you to dissolve like sand between his fingers.
"No," Jack exhales, his voice jagged and comforting, a warm, scratchy sweater. "It was perfect because it's us. Because it's you."
I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me
All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving
Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again.
You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out.
Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands.
Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading.
Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop.
They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out.
Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove.
Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her.
That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.
Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying.
You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”
He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in.
Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”
Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”
Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”
“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”
“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense.
“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”
He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile.
The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic.
“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him.
Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”
“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before.
Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”
Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you.
Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”
Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”
A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”
“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.
He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey.
You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”
He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”
“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him.
The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”
You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it.
Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”
Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”
Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him.
His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw.
It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married.
He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt.
“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?
“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed.
He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips.
“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra.
Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room.
“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed.
“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises.
You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway.
The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night.
You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease.
Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now.
Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…
Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift.
He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye.
The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless.
You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”
You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”
“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”
You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”
He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”
Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away.
You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?”
When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face.
You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him?
A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you.
Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago.
He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore.
With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.
You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn.
“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme.
“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich.
It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon.
Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle.
You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours.
Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out.
You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”
Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag.
Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash.
Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive.
Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly.
One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-
“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”
Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life.
Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire.
That has to count as worse news, right?
No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you.
That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?
You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.
Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you.
Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off.
You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work.
“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring.
He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”
You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it.
Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief.
Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”
“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him.
However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs.
You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other.
You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel.
“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security.
His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to-”
“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off.
You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”
He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”
“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down.
For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car.
There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars.
Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect.
When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you.
“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you.
“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him.
“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water.
Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him.
You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is.
He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”
He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand.
Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”
Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”
“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”
Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug.
You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns.
But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can.
He’s pulling away before you can make your decision. “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife.
When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of.
You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks.
You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries.
Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you.
Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”
“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”
Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you.
“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”
“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.
“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”
You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”
You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet.
“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress.
Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming.
“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”
Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”
Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”
Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”
“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”
“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car.
Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him.
You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face.
There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut.
And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t.
It just doesn’t seem right.
In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate.
Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave.
You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb.
You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back.
You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore.
Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine.
“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart.
Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave.
Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy.
He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him.
You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him.
He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.
Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever.
You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids.
Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask.
She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar.
“Mariella?”
“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now.
“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”
You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”
Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”
“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water.
You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show.
For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work.
Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance.
Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp.
You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”
“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak.
“How?”
“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look.
“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”
In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”
You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.
Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh.
“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”
Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”
She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”
“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”
Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”
“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”
Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky.
“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look.
Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily.
“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare.
The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension.
Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner.
“What does illegitimate mean?”
Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.
Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”
Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”
Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”
Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself.
Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him.
Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself.
“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”
Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly.
“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”
“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt.
“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?”
You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.
Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use.
“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot.
You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you.
“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”
“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”
Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”
“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”
You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.”
Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you.
You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”
You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off.
“How far along?”
Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”
Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers.
You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”
“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation.
He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real.
“What are you going to do?”
You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”
“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip.
“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”
He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now.
“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off.
You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter.
God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real.
His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you.
Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”
“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”
You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it.
“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”
“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”
“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely.
You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”
“Not even a crib,” he demands.
You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”
Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”
You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”
“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face.
“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”
“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?”
You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”
“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”
Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”
You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea.
“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”
“You offered me your couch!” He argues.
“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare.
Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.”
“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out.
If only he could have done that five months ago.
Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment.
Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”
Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”
Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap.
“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside.
“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”
“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos.
But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices.
“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on.
His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him.
Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels.
“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside.
Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door.
“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment.
“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless.
Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in.
“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace.
“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”
“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm.
You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.
You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.”
He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff.
For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.
By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home.
At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago.
“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby.
“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!”
Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”
“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.”
You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.
Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go.
It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months.
The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this.
You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him.
Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day.
Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”
You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over.
Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room.
You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you.
This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks.
You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”
Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”
“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”
“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”
You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months.
You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it.
“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”
As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son.
His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”
You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done.
Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies.
“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”
Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face.
Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft.
“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human.
“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up.
“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”
You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.
“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile.
“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”
“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.
“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”
You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens.
You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady.
Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”
The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly.
You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both.
“What?” You sigh at the look on his face.
“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs.
“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are.
You’re enjoying it far too much.
Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head.
“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”
“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you.
With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”
Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant.
You feel way too exposed and you hate it.
“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal.
Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”
“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.
Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”
Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name.
You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”
Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny.
“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects.
“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan.
It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch.
Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”
Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet.
Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station.
You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks.
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is.
“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”
He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”
You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”
Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes.
You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”
“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts.
Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this.
“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet.
“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him.
“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”
You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop.
“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him.
“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?”
Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off.
Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”
Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes.
“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut.
“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him.
“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”
Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight.
Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”
Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts.
“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”
Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once.
Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach.
“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?
You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm.
“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”
Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for.
He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder.
Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”
Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again.
And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day.
What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself.
You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you.
You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you.
“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen.
“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”
He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face.
“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver.
Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching.
Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?
You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift.
You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with.
“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one.
“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin.
“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”
Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him.
“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”
You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”
He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target.
He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate.
“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is.
“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”
You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile.
“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben.
You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands.
“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello.
“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either.
He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”
“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”
He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?”
“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh.
“Yeah, give me half an hour.”
You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”
“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him.
He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”
Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers.
“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”
Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down.
Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything.
Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing.
You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out.
But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps.
The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks.
“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles.
“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them.
“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you.
“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over.
Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes.
“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up.
In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done.
Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”
“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both.
Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare.
“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”
“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him.
You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital.
Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff.
“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids.
Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?”
“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you.
“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”
“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”
“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap.
Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”
“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”
He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face.
He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you.
“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus.
“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car.
“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside.
“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace.
Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push.
They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed.
Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere.
You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms.
People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile.
“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man.
“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”
Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger.
“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.”
“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs.
You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing?
Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep.
One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”
Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand.
“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”
He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”
“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter.
Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you.
“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing.
“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would.
“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter.
Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”
The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss.
Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes.
You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”
She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.
“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”
Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”
Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”
“You know you’re a nerd, right?”
You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”
It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s.
You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?
You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more.
You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby.
Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery.
You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time.
Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib.
It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here.
You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times.
But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you.
Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you.
“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point.
Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”
You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”
Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day.
Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you.
Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits.
You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet.
Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it.
You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this.
You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong.
You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need.
Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this.
“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion. You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye.
“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”
Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”
Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” you croak out.
His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.
“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”
Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”
“What-”
He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share.
You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately.
“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”
You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope.
“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself.
You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip.
Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match.
Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?
You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft.
“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat.
Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got.
“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team.
At least they get along.
“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”
He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges.
With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”
He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”
“So?”
Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”
“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut.
“Crap, I meant-”
“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again.
“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said.
“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing.
Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously.
With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know.
“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off.
“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.
Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”
Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”
Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”
Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”
Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”
Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born.
“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”
“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy.
“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”
Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous.
“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?”
Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting.
“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women.
You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”
Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey.
You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining.
“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school.
“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”
“A daycare?”
Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole.
“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”
Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon.
“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”
Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack.
“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”
“Hey-”
Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”
You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.”
Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.”
Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”
“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you.
You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station.
By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him.
He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t.
“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer.
But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out.
Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”
“Myself?” Sammy asks.
Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate.
You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise.
Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back.
“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton.
“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh.
“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”
Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you.
“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly.
Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists.
Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”
You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months.
His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.”
Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs.
“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”
Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him.
Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you.
What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?
A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you.
SUMMARY ➩ Sammy is insecure, lost in his marriage and lacking excitement in his life until he meets you, a stripper who misses the thrill of dancing simply because she wants to
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ finally! i love this pair and season one chubby sammy so much! my dorks from different walks of life NOT PROOFREAD
Sammy couldn’t have been more out of his element.
Even when he was younger, long before marriage and the oath he’d taken to obey the law at all times, he never was much of a partier. There was a handful of basement couches he’d lounge on while surrounded by a cloud of smoke but nothing like this.
A few of Nate’s patrol buddies had gone on and on about this new bar they’d been frequenting and he should have known by the emphasis they put on certain words like ‘mind blowing’ that it wasn’t going to be any regular dive situation.
He’d only been half invited which already made him hesitant to come along, even before the string of messages from Tammi being left on his phone as soon as the sun began to set. It was more like a pity thing that happened as an afterthought when they noticed him over Nate’s shoulders, throwing out there that he could tag along.
He was quick to say he was fine and he was tired anyways but Nate, ever the good friend, insisted he was welcomed and just had to come along.
So now Sammy was sitting in the back corner of a sketchy strip club that was very much not a bar. Sure there were still drinks spilled in the suspiciously sticky carpet and loud music playing with crackling interference but the addition of the half dozen naked women on poles made it pretty clear.
Luckily the other guys seemingly forgot he was there after the first hour and he’d gotten away with pretty much sitting completely still and fiddling with the ring around his finger, his gaze pointed at his shoes in a way that he hoped wasn’t insulting to any of the dancers.
It felt wrong to even be there and he halfway wondered what Mariella would be thinking about the fact Nate was a large amount of bills deep in showing his appreciation to the scantily clad bodies around him.
He had no issue sneaking away to approach the bar and ask for a water, leaning against the wood of the counter and glancing back at the group he had came with that was too preoccupied with another dancer offering lap dances to notice he had wandered off.
His stomach was a little tight and he figured he was being dramatic, he should let loose like the dozens of other married men in the building, but it clearly wasn’t working in his favor. The fact he had driven with Nate and his car was currently twenty minutes away parked at the station didn’t make him feel any better, not exactly sure the ones in his pocket would be enough for a cab home.
He was on his third water when you finally approached him, slow and casual like you didn’t even know he was there by the time you rested your elbows on the counter and half bent over.
Then your face turned to the side, eyes locked on him with a clear amount of interest that made his throat dry up. He gave you the best polite smile he could before awkwardly looking away, mostly due to the fact he could see almost every inch of your skin outside of the two tiny pieces of fabric covering your nipples and bottom half.
“Not interested?” Your voice was sweeter than he had expected, his own biases leading him to think you might have a cigarette induced rasp or a permanent seductive purr. You sounded as if the two of you were in line at a coffee shop and not surrounded by drugs and bodily fluids. “In a dance I mean.”
You’d continued after his eyebrows furrowed in confusion but he didn’t really need the clarification, just shocked you were wasting your time talking to him instead of somebody more willing to pay you.
He glanced back over at the group and sighed when he saw Nate already watching him and giving him an exaggerated thumbs up, piecing together that his partner had more than likely sent you over.
“I’m married.” He said and tapped his hand against the bar top, the metal band clinking against the wood.
Your eyes didn’t leave his face for even a second, clearly having no interest in the object symbolizing his commitment to another woman. You had no way of knowing that his marriage was basically a hostile roommate agreement and it made Sammy feel a little deceitful to boast his marital status when it was so awful lately.
But he didn’t think you really care about the specifics considering he was still in a strip club on a random Wednesday night.
“I think you’d have a hard time finding somebody who wasn’t married here.” You replied with an amused grin and he was shocked you’d admit something like that, so clearly announce the wrongdoings of the paying people around you.
He supposed there was no reason to sugarcoat it, he wasn’t going to believe any different anyways. The bartender wordlessly slid a bottle of water in your direction and you smiled in thanks, shifting on your feet like the tight heels you had on were bothering you the longer you stood in place.
Sammy didn’t realize his gaze had dropped down to the curve of your ankle until you cleared your throat, looking slightly pleased when his eyes shot back up a bit more flustered.
You stared at each other for a few long seconds, as silent as it could be in the loud club. He allowed himself to recognize how pretty you were underneath the heavy glitter eyeshadow and exaggerated lip before he mentally scolded the thought.
“You’re a cop.” You said next and it wasn’t a question but he still gave you a quick nod in response to verify.
“That easy to tell?” He shifted against the bar and now it was your turn to let your gaze drift down his frame, although you lacked any of the shame he had held while doing it.
He wondered what you saw when you looked at him, hopefully not the mildly insecure unhappy husband he’d become in recent years. He knew his button up shirt fit a little snug around the stomach area lately and his jeans were more wrinkled than he would have allowed in his late twenties when he had the energy to care about appearances.
It had been a long time since Sammy felt the need to look good for anybody but the feeling was blooming the longer you scanned him.
“Your partner said you’d been stressed.” You take a drink of your water bottle after you said it and he eyes the curve of your throat as you slightly tilt it back.
“He’s an idiot.” Sammy replies with a dismissive shake of his head but he knows Nate was telling the truth and he’s sure you know it too.
You don’t say anything for a long time and he has the teenage like worry that he had ruined the conversation, too awkward or stilted for even a paid stripper to want to continue to talk to him.
Then you’re moving closer to him, abandoning the half empty water bottle on the bar top in favor of letting your palm lay flat on his chest. His breath catches in his throat but he tries to not look as pathetic as he feels, not even able to remember the last time Tammi touched him this simply.
He definitely can’t remember her ever blinking up at him the way you are currently, eyes somehow still full of interest and curiosity despite the lack of material he’s given you to work with.
“You don’t want a dance?” Your voice is lower now like it’s an offer just for him, like you haven’t been more likely than not praying on pathetic married men all night long.
There’s an obvious hesitation, during which he allows himself to shift his gaze from your pretty face to the way your chest is almost pressing against his. You see both, the look he gives you and the way he doesn’t turn you down right away.
“No I… I’m good. Thank you.” His words are tighter now and barely escape his throat but he finds himself meaning it.
To your credit, you step back and don’t make another move. You don’t even look upset at his denial even though you’re probably not used to, atleast he assumes so considering you look like that.
You grab your water bottle and he can tell you’re about to leave so he sighs and digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out the singles Nate had thrust in his direction when they first got there to insist he had fun.
“What did he pay you?” He’s asking and surprising himself by following the few steps backwards you take so you can’t get too far.
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion for a second before he’s glancing at the group of guys, mouth parting in realization.
“Oh I’m on my break.” You say simply and you wave a dismissive hand at the stack of bills he’d pulled out, fully turning to leave just as he freezes up.
Sammy spends the rest of the month thinking about you.
He had hoped he wasn’t the type of guy to be ridiculous enough to believe the stripper liked him more than anyone else just because she batted her eyelashes or did a special spin move on a pole, but he thinks he just might be.
The fact you hadn’t been under any obligation to speak to him, no price tag over his head, and you had even denied the tip he’d tried to add on to the nonexistent total, is warring with any rational he has in his mind.
It’s a little ridiculous, the way he listens closely to Nate and his patrol buddies locker talk in hopes they’ll possibly be discussing another night out.
Another two months pass before the chance ever presents itself.
Sammy’s passing by Nate’s desk when he hears another detective suggest the club for his partners birthday party and he’s embarrassingly quick to RSVP for it once it’s official, earning a suspicious look from Nate at his eagerness.
The looks don’t stop either because when they finally get there, back in the vaguely familiar corner with the uncomfortable red seating, Sammy has his head on a swivel on a constant look out for you.
“You waiting for somebody?” It takes him a few seconds to even process Nate is talking to him and his head snaps to the side, a little flushed from being caught.
He’s sure he looks incredibly obvious with the way his eyebrows furrow and his finger points against his chest in near theatrics.
“Me?” His voice sounds unnaturally high and clearly his partner thinks so too because his lips curl up in a half smile. “Who would I be waiting for?”
“Maybe that pretty stripper you were talking to last time.” Nate shrugs easily like it’s not a big deal, like they aren’t both married, and maybe it just doesn’t matter to him. Sammy starts to think he’s the only guy in the entire building with any actual loyalty towards his wife and then remembers he came to specifically seek you out and he erases the thought.
He makes a point to ignore what Nate had said and tries to be less obvious in the way he’s looking for you but it doesn’t matter anyways because you never show up.
You’re not on the stages, not walking around offering special dances and he even lingers near the private rooms on his way to the bathroom to see if you come or go at any point.
It’s pathetic and he’s starting to feel so embarrassed that his neck is hot so he decides against going back to the group, hopefully too drunk and stupid to even realize he doesn’t come back. He figures they won’t notice anyways as humiliating as that is but Sammy knows enough to tell when he’s the odd man out.
He doesn’t have much time to wallow in his own self pity because he finally spots you as soon as he pushes through the back entrance door, entering out into a small alley with a security guard right outside the building and a designated smoke area.
That’s where you are, leaned against the eroded brick wall with a cigarette pressed between your lips. Your heels look smaller than last time but that’s about the only noticeable difference, back in another outfit that barely counts as clothes with makeup so heavy he can barely tell what your features actually look like.
He gets a few solid seconds of staring before you’re glancing over and you look mildly annoyed at the disturbance at first before your eyes flash with recognition.
He hates that he feels a spark of something he probably shouldn’t at the fact you remember him after such a brief interaction all those weeks ago. Although he figures you don’t get rejected often so maybe he stuck out in your mind.
“Officer.” You greet him warmly, dropping the cigarette on the slightly wet asphalt and driving the toe of your heel into it.
“Sammy.” He corrects softly, finding himself giving you an amused look as he moves closer. He stops a few feet away and also leans against the wall, looking out into the alley and avoiding your gaze all together even though he can feel it on the side of his face.
“Not having fun?” You question and he’s half tempted to check your reaction to the way he immediately shakes his head but he keeps staring at the buzzing streetlights and overflowing garage bins.
You make a soft humming sound at his denial and he hopes you aren’t offended, doubts it considering you’re opting to stand out in the sketchy alley instead of being at work. He has the cop instinct to ask you why you do what you do, find out what led you here and make sure it was something you were doing willingly.
He knows how stupid that would be and he’s sure he’s not the first guy to want to save the stripper, cop or not, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“But you came back.” Again, apparently like most things you say, it’s a statement and not a question.
Now he finally looks back at you which he immediately knows is a mistake considering you’re a lot prettier up close, not that the view from far away is even remotely unpleasant. He just has the same realization he had last time, that you look a lot different underneath all that makeup.
Your eyes looked a lot younger than they did under the glowing stage lights and a lot more tired, much more human in a way that made his throat tighten a little.
“Do you like it?” His voice dropped lower until it was just above a whisper, trying to stop the hovering security guard from overhearing his pathetic attempts at small talk.
You smile in a way that makes him feel stupid, like you’ve heard the same line from a hundred different guys and he knows that’s true. He has half the desire to convince you he’s not like them before you even try to answer, tell you that he’s not being sleazy but genuinely trying to know how you feel.
Maybe you can somehow see that in him or maybe you give everyone the same line, but you respond softly.
“It pays the bills.” Your shoulders shrug and he’s briefly drawn to the glitter adorning your collarbones, accented by the strapless poor excuse of a shirt you’re wearing.
“That’s what people who hate their job say.” He replies back with surprising ease and now your smile grows into something more genuine, his own lips curling up to match it.
“You sound familiar with that.” You say in response quickly and he scoffs in amusement. “Do you hate your job?”
“It pays the bills.” He delivers and now you fully laugh, not the high pitched giggles he’d heard some of the other dancers giving his objectively unfunny coworkers, but a real laugh that spilled out before you could stop it.
It trails off into a slow nod of agreement but he can see the way you’re biting your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling too wide and he feels a surge of confidence he definitely didn’t have the other night.
His eyes trail up and down your frame since you’d taken to looking straight ahead for a moment, lingering on the smooth skin of your thighs and the curve of your hips that’s followed by your low hanging skirt.
You half clear your throat and he knows you’re trying to get his attention but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, feeling that almost unfamiliar stirring in his gut that he had almost forgotten the sensation of. He’s sure he looks pathetic when you finally lock eyes again but you’ve lost the alluring smile, lips parted like he’s managed to shock you from the sheer desperation radiating off of him.
He knows that’s probably not true, you’re more likely than not an expert in the embarrassment that comes with being a man.
But he likes the way you’re watching him now, like he’s somehow managed to spark your curiosity despite how overly boring his entire life is.
Coming to a filthy strip club and sitting in the corner like a loser is by far the most exciting thing Sammy has ever done on his own violation. He gets a thrill from his job and he’s seen things most people can’t imagine but none of that is because of him, because he was any bit interesting or rememberable.
So he can’t even feel too guilty about the pull he feels towards you when you look at him like there’s something you’re trying to figure out, making him believe for half a second he has something below the surface level that is worth discovering.
“I think I’d like to dance for you.” You say finally and your voice is softer than it had been earlier, almost sounding like a request if he didn’t know any better. “It’s extra fun when you’re not into it.”
“I’d be into it.” He corrects you immediately, not wanting to give you the wrong idea. Maybe part of him doesn’t like you thinking he’s some sexless man even though the guilt crawls back up at that thought so he pretends he’s saying this to spare your feelings. “Probably too into it, that’s why I don’t want one.”
You eye him for a second, half skeptical and half amused, before your body is turning to face his. Then your hands back on him like it had been all those weeks ago when you touched his chest, this time wrapping halfway around his bicep and squeezing.
“Just one dance.” You’re whispering now and he wonders if it’s because the security guard still lingering behind you or if you’re trying to make him feel special.
He’s ashamed that it’s working.
“Come on.” He lets it leave as a sigh, trying to avoid looking at you but finding it nearly impossible. You were already ridiculously pretty but it’s even worse now that you’ve got this devoted look in your eyes like you’re about ready to beg him for that dance. “There’s a dozen guys in there who would pay you triple what I can afford.”
He isn’t sure how true that is but he imagines you have to be pretty popular with the crowd inside, he can’t think of a single other dancer that has caught his attention the way you had. There was just something about you and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’s the only one who could feel that.
“I’m not asking you to pay me.” You say back and his shoulders tense, no doubt noticeably because you move your hand off his arm to rub the stiff muscle.
“That’s ridiculous.” He half mumbles because he’s not really sure if it is all that crazy, he’s not exactly up to date on the terms and conditions of a strip club. “Wouldn’t you get in trouble?”
Your eyes brighten and he realizes a little too late that his question made it seem like he was actually considering your request.
“Not unless you tell on me.” You’re back to whispering now and your voice is deadly like that, all soft and private. “Are you going to tell on me officer?”
He watches you for a few long seconds, searching for something on your face that he’s not sure he’d even know how to identify if he managed to find it.
“Why?” His tone is overly curious and desperate for an answer that can help him understand this. He almost wishes you’d just straight up tell him you feel bad for him so he can stop pretending this is something else.
“Dancing used to be fun for me.” You say it with a soft shrug and he’s a bit surprised at how honest that feels. “It would be nice to do something because I want to. And I like the way you squirm.”
He lets out a disbelieving laugh at your added on statement, looking away from you for a second in contemplation and feeling a weird zing of warmth when he faces you again and sees you’re back to smiling.
“I don’t squirm.” He’s pretty sure he’s quite literally squirming as he says it, confirmed by how amused you look.
You’re both quiet for a bit after that and he lets out a deep breath, feeling overly ridiculous for the fact he’s considering your offer. Both because he’s married and it should be an automatic no but, on the completely other end of the spectrum, he can’t figure out what kind of guy turns down a free professional lap dance.
He’s not really sure what kind of guy he’s less comfortable being.
“Maybe next time?” His eyes squint a little when he says it, coming off completely unbelievable which clearly you agree with because you give him a tight smile and nod your head.
Sammy has a hard time going back inside let alone leaving the building entirely, the offer lingering in his head until he gets back home and then for days afterwards.
He’s not sure why he can’t stop thinking about it, why he can barely look Tammi in the eyes.
It’s ridiculous to know that a brief conversation with a stripper in a sketchy alley was one of the only times he’s felt listened to in the last ten years. He can’t remember the last time he’d bantered with his wife or complained about his job in a way that didn’t just frustrate her, she certainly didn’t express her wants and desires to him anymore unless it was something she wanted him to pay for.
He couldn’t get what you said out of his head about wanting to do something because you wanted it.
He knew you probably didn’t mean him specifically, he wasn’t sure why that could possibly be the case so it made more sense to completely write it off. But you were willing to make him apart of that equation and that alone felt complimentary.
So Sammy went back to the club.
This time he wasn’t dragged along reluctantly by a group of asshole cops, it was nobody’s birthday or special celebration and he couldn’t hide within a small crowd to avoid being singled out.
Going by himself felt like a whole different experience and he halfway considered turning around as soon as he entered but he pushed further into the dark building, rubbing his sweaty hands against the sides of his jeans and trying to look less awkward when he finally made it to the bar.
It felt like a safe enough neutral ground for him to be able to scan the surrounding areas and try to find you. He felt a little stupid when a few minutes passed and you were nowhere to be seen, wondering for a second if you were even working today.
And then there you were.
He registered as soon as you walked out onto the main stage, center of the club and a little larger than the smaller ones adjacent to it, that he had never actually seen you dance before.
You were beautiful enough that he was sure people paid just to be around you but watching you move around on the pole was a whole new level of things. He wouldn’t be surprised if a handful of men and women went broke just to possibly catch your attention for a second or two.
You moved like you were just dancing for yourself, barely looking out to the small crowd watching you. It was like your own private universe and Sammy was sucked into it, leaning forward on his stool against the bar and wishing he had sat closer to the stage so he could have a better view of you.
He thought on what you had said, about not having fun anymore. It was noticeable to him but he figured he was probably the only one paying attention to your expressions and the bored look on your face, the other men leaning forward to try and pass you dirty single bills only focused on the way your top barely covered your nipples and your nearly sheer panties.
Sammy was suddenly extremely happy he wasn’t any closer, especially when you spread your legs teasingly for the men in front of you.
He didn’t feel any sort of jealously watching you give attention to the other patrons but there was a foreign sense of pride. You were good at what you did and clearly that was the general publics opinion too.
He almost felt bad for the girl that had to go on after you, met with a lot less enthusiasm than you had managed to draw out during your short performance. You were still on stage as she came out and got set up, collecting the dollars placed in front of you with a tense jaw and an obvious tightness to your spine.
If he hadn’t already felt stupid for being there alone, then it really settled in when he left the bar in favor of lingering near the stage dressing room exit doors. He wasn’t even sure if you’d leave from there, getting a watchful eye from the closest security guard who was clearly ready to stop him if he got too close to the restricted area.
The feeling was gone as soon as you stepped out and saw him, recognition and surprise clear on your face as you approached him easily like he was an old friend.
“Sammy. You came back.” You sounded soft again like you were genuinely pleased to see him.
“Yeah I…” He trailed off and awkwardly adjusted his collar, feeling a little hot suddenly as he shifted on his feet. His eyes went to your face after drifting around for a few seconds and he was relieved to see you looked patient but far too knowing. “I thought about it.”
You didn’t need to hear him finish before your hand was wrapping around his wrist, making him tense for a second before you were tugging him along with you as you walked. His fingers curled up into a fist repeatedly as the nerves hit him hard, trying his best to not let his gaze drift down to your panties as you led him.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from you when it came to this dance offer but it definitely wasn’t a private area in the back of the club. You weren’t in your own room but there were wooden partitions on the back of the booth chairs that blocked you from any viewing eyes.
He stood there stiffly as you had a brief hushed talk with one of the security guards outside the sectioned off area, the large man’s eyes drifting over your shoulder to Sammy before giving you a curt nod and stepping aside so he was also outside the walls.
“Sorry.” You mumbled it out as you let go of his wrist that felt like it was burning from your touch. He was standing there still, a little thrown off by how quickly things had escalated. “Figured we’d talk in here instead.”
He nodded his head but he wasn’t sure he really understood still, glancing around and clearing his throat.
“You’re nervous.”
Again with the blunt statements, leaving him feeling a little stupid at the near pity in your voice so he furrowed his eyebrows. You stepped closer until you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and he stared down at you, curious and so clearly hesitant still but he had showed up so it was too late.
He knew he’d never get you out of his head if he didn’t follow through with this.
“That’s okay.” You were whispering now and he was surprised at how intimate it could feel in this area with you despite the fact the club was still lively around you, just outside the half walls that did very little to block out the sounds and overlapping voices. “Can I help you relax?”
He didn’t trust himself to speak yet so he nodded again, watching you hesitate before your hands were going to the top buttons on his shirt. You undid three of them and stopped there but it was enough to suck the breath out of his chest.
“You can’t touch me, obviously no pictures and videos.” You were still speaking quietly as your hands moved to rub over both his biceps, both helping in relaxing him and also making his head spin dangerously. “Don’t stick any dirty bills in my underwear… although that one doesn’t really apply to you since this is on the house.”
You smiled up at him then and the combination of your touch and the look on your face almost killed him. He couldn’t stand how pretty you were, wishing he could at least request for you to wipe the eyeshadow off of your eyes so he could make out the shape of them better.
It was a weird detail to obsess over, especially since it still looked good on you as is, but he craved to see you in more of a natural state.
Selfish. Something he didn’t allow himself to be ever.
“I want to pay you.” He spoke finally and his voice came out as quiet as yours had gotten, sighing when you shook your head immediately. “Doesn’t feel right.”
“What? Feels more like cheating?” Your eyebrows furrowed and he felt a little thrown by how accusatory your tone suddenly was. He almost countered your claim with the reminder that you had begged him for this but that felt stupid because you weren’t wrong and he had made the choice to come back.
And it was even more true that the lack of exchange that was payment for a service made this feel too real.
“Maybe this was a bad idea.” He said back and now it was your turn to sigh, hands rubbing over his shoulders as you shifted closer.
“No I’m sorry.” You sounded genuinely apologetic and he tried not to stiffen too much when you were suddenly kissing against his jaw. It was the first time anyone other than Tammi was touching him in a dozen years and maybe the first actual sign of affection he’d gotten since four summers ago. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He knew right away he’d struggle with not touching you, both because he felt awkward just standing there and because he wanted to desperately.
“I want this too you know.” You whisper next and that hits him harder than any amount of touching you could do, pausing in the soft kisses so you can stare up at him again. “What can I do to help you relax?”
Sammy feels like he can’t voice what he wants, not in general and especially not under these circumstances. But his brain is clearly a traitor because his eyes drop down to your lips before he can stop himself, noting that they’re a little extra shiny from kissing his skin and he’s sure your lipstick is left on his jaw.
“Oh.” You sound breathier than he figured he’d ever hear you get and he halfway wonders what about this is affecting you so much.
Maybe you’re just a very good actress.
“You want me to kiss you?” You’re still whispering but it feels incredibly loud and he’d take a large step backwards if it wasn’t for your hands still clinging to him.
“I don’t know.” He sighs and his hands twitch at his sides again. “I shouldn’t.”
“I didn’t ask if you should, I asked if you want it.”
He watches you for a long few seconds, eyes locked on yours that are too desperate for it to make sense to him. You look about ready to convince him but there’s no need to considering he nods just when he feels like you’re going to pull away.
You don’t hesitate, like you’re worried he’s going to change his mind if he’s given another second to think, pressing your mouth against his.
He’s quick to move against you because he hasn’t felt heat like this in a long time and now he’s drowning in it, taking a step forward so you’re fully flushed against eachother as you kiss deeply. There’s no slow build up or soft movement until you get used to each other, pace quick and needy from the beginning with your tongue already licking across his bottom lip.
Theres no question about allowing you access and you make a soft pleased noise when he so easily lets you lick into his mouth, his hands clenching into tight fist while they hover over your warm skin.
Luckily you move your own palm down to grasp his and press it against your body, a silent show of permission that he takes advantage of right away.
He knows you’ll probably take away the privilege once the dance actually starts so he lets himself be greedy, rubbing his rough hands up and down the bare skin of your back and smiling into the kiss when he feels the way you shiver at the touch.
You clearly like it, like him for whatever reason.
You’re kissing for so long that he feels a little dizzy from how breathless he is, tongues tangling more than anything else like you’re drunk on the taste of each other. You’re grabbing anywhere you can, from his arms to the back of his neck and even moving down to press against the softness of his stomach.
He’s not sure how much time passes before you stop and it takes a few tries, pulling off and giving him soft pecks that turn into another full blown makeout session before long and that process repeats a handful of times before you’re lightly pushing him backwards to sit down.
You move his hands down to his sides and he takes the silent direction, knowing he’s technically not supposed to touch you anymore even though he’s feeling pretty confident by now that you wouldn’t exactly mind.
Still, he wants the full illusion of getting a real dance from you so he white knuckles the plush seating beside him and keeps himself focused.
Watching you dance on stage versus having you right in front of him is an out of body experience.
You’re back to being sensual and untouchable in a way that makes him almost needy just from looking at you, back to longing for your attention and feeling like he must be the luckiest guy in the world to have you looking at him.
It’s jarring how fast you can go from desperately kissing him and gripping onto his frame to dancing in front of him, just out of reach like he doesn’t deserve to touch you.
And he really agrees.
You’re torture in human form, especially when you move so you’re almost on his lap but not quite enough for him to feel you. You’re hovering over him, knees on either side of his thighs, and letting your hands run through his hair and down his neck.
It’s brutal and he wishes he could live here like this, willing to suffer at your hands for as long as you still want him to.
“You’re cute.” You say softly and he’d almost forgotten what your voice sounds like, too focused on your cleavage nearly pressed against his face and the feeling of your hands all over him. “You want to touch me so bad.”
“I won’t.” He assures you, needs you to know he’ll listen to whatever rules you set in place for him.
You hum like you’re satisfied by his answer, nose rubbing against his, and if he had a tail it would most certainly be wagging.
The dance last for a few songs but it lingers in Sammy’s head for much longer.
He leaves the club that night a little dazed, feeling slightly wobbly on his feet despite the fact he hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol.
There’s a high that comes from seeing the relaxation on your face when you danced for him, laughing whenever he let out a strangled breath and smiling as you moved to the beat he would surely look ridiculous to if he tried.
Obviously he was still human and apparently still very much a man because he couldn’t get your body out of his head either, the taste of your tongue and the way you touched him in areas of his body he had neglected just like most aspects of his life.
Sammy felt like a terrible husband when he got back home that night, taking an extra long shower to get your lipstick off his skin and throwing his clothes in the washer to rid the them of the body glitter and smell of your perfume. He felt even worse when he climbed into bed with Tammi and spent hours tossing and turning because of thoughts of you.
But he felt noticed for the first time in a long time and it was starting to outweigh any guilt.
He started to go every week.
It made him feel almost nauseous with anxiety the first few times he showed up, you’d never actually invited him back although you had kissed him a few more times before you had to go backstage again.
He wasn’t sure if you wanted to see him again, maybe you’d tell security to ban him or tell him directly to his face that he had gotten the wrong idea and you had just been bored. But you smothered that thought pretty quick, rushing up to him whenever he’d walk through the door and pulling him into dark hallways to kiss him on the days you could spare the time.
Sometimes you were busy with performances and he’d settle in the back with a clear front view of the stage, watching you move and trying to ignore the tightness in his chest when somebody yelled something gross that made you noticeably faltered.
Other nights he got you to himself for a long moment, almost close to an hour a handful of times.
He’d tried to talk to you occasionally and you’d open up just enough to peek his interest without actually letting him know anything about yourself. You’d smile softly at him when he tried to check in on how you were doing like you found him cute for even thinking you’d answer.
You’d dance for him, either for the entire duration of your time in the private booths or just a quick song before you’d settle down next to him and kiss him softly.
He realized pretty quickly how much you liked to kiss.
He noticed that right alongside your interest in his stomach, the size of his legs and how thick his fingers felt when you played with them. Sammy had been smaller in his life and he definitely had put on some weight now that he was spending a lot of his day behind a desk, a sore spot for Tammi who would not so subtly recommend diet meals and calorie plans.
You didn’t seem to mind at all, the complete opposite actually. He was sure you’d pull his shirt off the second he walked in the door if it was allowed, your hands constantly wandering beneath the fabric and unbuttoning it all the way down to his ribs so you could atleast see a part of his chest.
Sammy realized after three months of visiting you almost religiously that he wasn’t as delusional as he thought and you actually liked him.
You’d even broke what he figured was the biggest personal rule in the club, whispering your real name against his mouth one night when he had called you by the given stage one.
It had taken a few seconds to process but the slight nervousness in your eyes made it obvious what you were saying to him.
So of course he couldn’t keep himself away, it would be impossible to even try.
He couldn’t pretend that it didn’t give him a small thrill to sneak around and see you, to tell Nate he was too busy to watch the game or make sure Tammi processed him complaining about having to work overtime.
You were the single most interesting thing that had happened to him probably in his entire life.
Sammy actually was running late tonight and it had already been nine days since he’d last seen you, the longest stretch you’d gone in a long time. He still felt ridiculous to be hurrying to a strip club after a long shift, having to pick up extra hours to help lessen Nate’s workload so he could go home to his baby.
Tammi was growing used to him being busier lately so she’d only thrown a major fit which he was grateful for, having no time to talk her down on the phone considering he was probably going to miss you entirely if he didn’t hurry up.
He was speed walking away from his car towards the entrance when a voice made him falter.
“Sammy?”
Thankfully he knew your voice so well by now, especially the way you said his name, because he almost thought he wouldn’t recognize you if you hadn’t spoke. Maybe he would have passed right by and continued to search for you inside.
You had absolutely no makeup on other than the black smudges stuck on your waterline and some left over glitter adorning the visible skin, a lot less than usual considering you were wearing a large shirt that covered most of your frame down to your thighs.
Sammy had never seen you like this, natural with your hair flowing down your back and a few inches shorter due to the flat shoes you were wearing.
He noticed immediately how much younger you looked when you were bare faced, ashamed to realize he had never actually asked how old you were. He had figured you were over twenty one because you worked in a club but you had such youthful features that he had to wonder if that was even the case.
“Hey.” He tried to keep his voice normal and soft, not wanting to freak you out.
There was a security guard hovering near the entrance of the club but he was out of earshot and you were practically alone in the parking lot. He hoped you felt safe with him by now but he didn’t want to assume, staying as still as possible.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He sighed out and shook his head, gesturing to where his car was parked like he was going to explain it all to you before stopping, words catching in his throat as he looked at you closely again.
“This is weird right?” Your voice was soft too and thankfully you seemed just as comfortable as normal, posture relaxed as you shifted the bag of things you were carrying in your arms. He figured it was outfits and shoes, maybe even some of your tips although he hoped you stored them somewhere safer.
“No it’s…” He trailed off and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Okay yeah maybe a little bit.”
You smiled lightly at his honesty and squinted your eyes in a half wince like you were contemplating doing something stupid. Eventually you sighed and took a step closer to him.
“Walk me to my car?”
He didn’t hesitate to nod and step closer to you as you fell into sync walking, arms brushing each others as you went deeper into the large parking lot.
He couldn’t stop staring at the side of your face, transfixed by this version of you that he probably wasn’t ever supposed to see. You played a part, constantly performing even though he technically wasn’t paying you for the service like everybody else was. It was still your job and the outfits and makeup you wore were your disguise.
You’d told him your name, kissed him on the mouth while giggling like he was your lover, and now he was getting to see you as you yawned softly and not so subtly played with his fingers as you walked.
“You worked late.” You comment when you finally reach your car and he’s glad you’re not jumping to end the night before he even got a chance to talk to you.
He spends a few seconds in silence, scanning over your car. He’s both checking the state of it and also trying to learn whatever he can from you by looking at the small details he can see, what bumper stickers you have on the back and what type of air fresheners you like to use.
“Nate just had a baby.” He answers and he’s surprised by how easy it rolls off, like he’s talking to his wife about his day and not a clearly much younger stripper. “So I was helping him out.”
“So selfless.” You hum and finally, finally, you touch him. Your hands rub over his ribs softly in soothing circles, your back pressing against your car as he shifts so he’s fully in front of you. “You’re a good man.”
“I’m terrible.” He says immediately and you smile at the statement, shifting and pressing a light kiss against his mouth that he returns eagerly.
He’s missed every part of you but especially this and he knows he’s in deep now, actually yearning for you throughout his days and even more so at night. He’d spent a big part of the last few months picturing what it would be like to see you outside of the club, maybe smiling underneath the sun or cooking dinner with him in a kitchen far more lively than his own.
He feels content with this, still technically at your place of work but far enough removed that he has that special feeling again.
You kiss him for so long his lips go numb and then you’re wishing him a goodnight, and shocking him even more by wrapping your arms around him for a tight hug.
Sammy makes sure he comes back the next day as early as he can, not wanting to make the same mistake and only get a few minutes with you before you leave.
He wants to spend as much time with you as he can, willing to pay an absurd amount if it means you stay with him instead of getting on the stage. It’s a weekend, something he usually avoids, and he’s a little thrown off by how busy it is.
A few patrons give him long looks and he’s halfway convinced he recognizes some of them from his time out on the streets, trying to avoid eye contact the best he can and remind himself that he’s still supposed to be a cop even when he’s off the clock.
Being taken into a private area by a much younger stripper isn’t illegal but it’s definitely breaking half a dozen moral codes, most of all infidelity.
He’s almost worse than the men who come here and pay for full out sex, more twisted than a husband who has a meaningless hookup in a cheap motel. Because he may keep his hands to himself more often than not, but you’re living under his skin now and that’s the biggest betrayal of all.
Right away, he can tell you’re more amped up than usual.
Maybe you feel closer to him after he saw you in such a private state yesterday or maybe you’re happy he’s there so early for once but you practically drag him to the private booth, kissing him before you even get inside which earns you both a sharp look from the security guard.
Your energy is infectious as you eagerly sit him down on the seats, the type of energy he hasn’t felt in years and another reminder of how much younger than him you are.
There’s barely any small talk at all before you’re fully climbing into his lap which is something you rarely do even after all of these visits, always hovering over the fabric of his jeans in a straddle or facing away from him and teasing him with the curve of your ass brushing just enough to drive him crazy.
He makes a strangled sound at the contact that makes you smile right before you kiss him, slow and sensual like you have all the time in the world.
“What’s up?” He asks against your mouth, keeping his hands at his sides no matter how strong the urge to steady you is.
“Nothing just missed you.” You say back and kiss him again, a few more times that get longer and longer each time.
He selfishly wants to hear you elaborate considering it’s only been less than 24 hours since you’d last seen him, but you don’t give him the chance before your tongues licking into his mouth and you’re leaning against his chest.
He wonders how he got so lucky to have you missing him, so excited to see him after a missed day that you can’t even follow your own rules about touching eachother.
You’ve been kissing for a long time before he first feels your hips moving, such small movements that he barely registers it at first before it hits him all at once. You’re rubbing yourself against him and he doesn’t even know if you’ve realized that you’re doing it, soft noises leaving your mouth from the way your tongues wrap around each others.
He knows by now that you like kissing, especially when it’s this filthy and passionate, but you seem genuinely overwhelmed by need.
Sammy isn’t sure how he’s supposed to be reacting during this, his hands fiddling with the loose strings on the seat below him because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
His hips do lift off the seating for a brief moment to try and follow after yours, an instinctive move he didn’t even realize he was doing until it was too late. You pull off from the kiss finally like you’re only now recognizing the way you’re torturing him.
“Fuck sorry.” He mutters out but you’re smiling down at him and rocking your hips again like you’re testing his reaction. He groans and lets himself shift one more time, feeling the tent in his jeans rub against the panties that barely cover your core.
“Look at you.” Your voice is like silk and he almost gasps at the sound of it, even worse with your hands suddenly in his hair. “So desperate for it.”
He can’t deny it, knows there’s no use.
A groan leaves him as he shifts again under you and now you finally react, a soft noise falling from your mouth that makes his entire body heat up.
You’ve stopped teasing him suddenly, no more wandering hands or slightly moving against his lap. Instead you’re fully sat down against his hard on and rocking your hips back and forth over it, a cute almost pained expression on your face that he can barely stand to look at.
“You like that.” He doesn’t even realizing he’s talking until he’s said it, a statement and not a question. Your eyes go to his instantly like you’re surprised by the boldness of the claim. “Feel how hard you get me?”
You make a breathy shocked noise before you’re nodding eagerly and really rocking against him, hands moving to his shoulders to support yourself. He can’t stop himself from touching you even if he tried, his hands gently grabbing your hips just to help you move faster.
Now your noises are high pitched and desperate as you rub yourself on him, biting your lip to try and keep quiet as you hump against him.
“Fuck baby there we go.” He’s grunting out and he’s shocked at how unlike himself he sounds, dominant and rough in a way he hasn’t felt in decades. “Make yourself feel good. Just like that, keep using me.”
You’re whining in his ear as your forehead rest against his shoulder and he rubs up your bare back, feeling the shudder that runs through you at the sensation of his rough hands finally really touching you.
It’s got you so pent up and it’s another new side of you he’s getting to discover, whiny and desperate and not at all in control like you were most of time you spent together. You’re burying your face in his neck to try and muffle the sweet sounds leaving you but he can’t stand it, a hand tangling in your hair to tug lightly and get you to let him hear.
You’re not talking, seemingly unable, but you do try to kiss him as you move. It’s sloppy and you can barely keep up with it but he’s fixated on making you feel good so he tries his best to help you.
If Sammy was already obsessed with you, then he was completely screwed now. You’re begging for him to keep going in a high pitched voice and digging your nails into the meat of his arms, calling out his name in soft whimpers when you’re finally releasing for him.
He can’t believe you’re real, can’t believe he’s sitting with you on his lap like this.
You kiss him softly as you’re coming down, arms wrapped around his neck and body completely relaxed against him. He feels a pang of guilt, wishing you were somewhere less noisy and public where he could properly clean you up and make sure you were okay, but you don’t seem at all upset when you pull back to smile at him.
It’s a new development that doesn’t slow down at all, touching each other in a new way almost every time he comes.
You get down on your knees for him, let him feel between your legs and kiss down your body like he has any ownership over it, his fingers in your mouth as you ride against his thigh.
He’d already liked you, would have even content with sitting in the grimy building just to have a meaningless conversation if it meant he got to spend even a second around you.
But now you’d added this new dynamic and he feels like he’s become something completely corrupted, constantly thinking about your body against his and anticipating the next time you’re going to touch him.
Sometimes he stays until the club closes, waiting outside in the alley for you so he can walk you to your car and kiss you up against it.
You talked to him then, maybe feeling safer when you’re not having to play a part. You stand there in your regular clothes and complain about your family in a soft voice, boast about becoming a regular at your favorite coffee shop and tell him about the new neighbors that were a little too long for your liking.
He knows that’s much more dangerous than any amount of touching you can do.
There’s no more sadness when Tammi doesn’t ask him about his day at work because he knows you will the next time he sees you, knows you’ll care and ask follow up questions like you’re genuinely interested in what he does daily.
Sammy craves more, wants to see you under the sunlight more than anything he’s ever wanted before. He wants to wake up next to you and run you a bath after he makes you feel good, come home to you in the kitchen dancing in that free way you do when you feel happy.
He doesn’t dare bring any of that up to you, content with the good thing he has someone acquired.
Something shifts after the sixth month of seeing you almost every week, sometimes multiple times if he can spare it.
You weren’t dancing that night, just sitting beside him and kissing his jaw softly as you asked him questions about his family and how he grew up. He was wondering how much trouble you’d be in if your manager knew how much time you’d been spending with him like this.
He’s started to force you to take some of his money, especially since you’d had to pick up extra private sessions with other guys to make up the difference.
It makes his stomach turn with a possessiveness he shouldn’t have and he knows you agreed because it’s the only time you’d been slightly irritated with him, scolding him in between kisses and reminding him that he didn’t own you.
Telling him over and over that you were doing your job with others still.
The exclusion of him from that statement made him feel a bit better so he shut up and noted to not bring it up again.
Weeks passed before you were sat with him like that, interrupted by his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jeans.
Sammy rarely got calls when he was with you because he’d turn his phone off or stress to Tammi that she had to stop calling him while he was ‘working overtime’. He ignored it like he always did but then it was on its fourth attempt and he started to worry it was important, kissing you lightly and telling you to wait before pulling it out and answering it.
Tammi was hysterically crying, rambling through sobs about how Richter was throwing up all over the house and not acting like himself.
He’d apologized to you a million times, trying not to look at the dejected look on your face as he helped you stand up and left early for the first time in months.
He didn’t really think about it past that, feeling terrible but figuring you would understand.
Then he was back the next week and searching for you, spending an hour in the club without being able to find you. He asked one of the bouncers who was more familiar with him, knowing how regularly he was here to see you.
They told him you’d been fully booked with private dances that night and he felt his stomach turn, knowing you got to select the time slots yourself. You’d left no space for him in your schedule despite knowing what days he’d come by now.
Sammy knew he should just go home and ask you about it the next time he saw you but he couldn’t stand the thought of it being left unresolved.
So he waited.
He spent two hours in the parking lot before you finally stepped out, looking much more tired than usual and speed walking to your car like you had a feeling he was going to be waiting out there for you.
You didn’t look at all surprised when he got out of his car and approached you but you sighed and rolled your eyes, making him falter a little in his pace.
“Not tonight Sammy. Come back next week.” You said dismissively and he scoffed at the detached tone.
“What?” His voice was louder than he meant for it to be but it got you to stop, turning to face him with a glare. “That’s it? Like I’m just some random customer?”
Your eyebrows furrowed and you were taking a few quick steps in his direction, jamming your finger against his chest and jabbing him a few times. He clenched his jaw but didn’t react, swallowing the anger building in his chest.
“That’s exactly what you are Sammy.” You spat and he felt his heart drop, shaking his head in denial before you even got to finish. “I’m a stripper for fucks sake. What the fuck did you think this was?”
Your eyes were full of hurt and he wasn’t an idiot, understanding exactly what this was about.
“You know I’m married. You’ve known that from the second you met me.” His voice is calmer than he expected it to come out, trying to disarm you as he reaches out to lightly touch your forearms and keep you from storming off or touching him roughly again. “I see you more than I do her these days.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You laugh cruelly like he’s saying something completely ridiculous and his face deflates with a sigh.
“You won’t even give me your fucking phone number.” He rubs your arms as he speaks, just trying to get you to understand his point of view. “You want me to leave my wife for you when you don’t want to let me in?”
You harden immediately and he regrets the words, although partially true he also knows you’d shown him parts of yourself that you normally kept hidden away. You had done a lot of letting him in and it clearly hurts you that he acts like it meant little in the grand scheme.
He can only call apologies out to you as you step out of his touch and storm off to your car, roughly slamming the door and squealing out of the parking lot before he can even catch his breath.
Sammy doesn’t see you for two months and every day is worse than the last.
He keeps thinking he’ll get over it eventually, that you were a small chapter of his apparent middle life crisis, but he craves you so bad and he can’t get you out of his head no matter what he does.
He feels dull and lifeless, looking forward to nothing anymore and arguing with Tammi even worse than usual.
The day he breaks is the same day he has to arrest one of the kids he’d taken under his wing, one of the only things he was still able to care about. He sits in his car crying after the arrest for two hours, head pounding and eyes swollen.
His drive starts off in the direction of his house but he remembers the big stupid fight he and Tammi had this morning so he completely changes his plan and heads straight to the club.
He feels stupid as he parks, even worse when he’s getting out of his car automatically at the sight of you. He could cry again just from seeing you in person after so long but he tries his best not to, his head already hurting so bad he’s half convinced this isn’t reality.
You see him and automatically sigh, glancing around like you’re considering getting the security guards attention.
“You shouldn’t be here Sammy.” You say and your tone is just as hard as it was the last time you saw each other.
But then you turn your head to glare at him and your entire body stiffens, immediately seeing how swollen and red his face is and the clear torment on his expression. He knows he’s crying again before your face falls even more, practically collapsing against you when you come closer and wrap your arms around his neck.
You hold him as he sobs and where he’d probably feel pathetic with showing this vulnerability to Tammi, he feels cared for by you.
You don’t make any move to let him go until he pulls back first, keeping his arms loose around your lower back incase you want to step away from him. But you keep him close, fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck while you stare up at him with concern.
“Come on.” You say softly, freeing a hand to rub his cheeks softly and clear them of any wetness. “Get in my car.”
Sammy’s quiet as he follows your gentle order, slumping down in the passenger seat and being too out of it emotionally to even inspect the interior like he would have so eagerly a few months ago.
You drive silently, glancing over at him occasionally to keep checking in. He stares blankly out the window, feeling too guilty to even take the sight of you in the way he wants to so desperately.
Any sense of deserving you he might have built up to feeling in your time together was gone now and he was back to feeling overwhelmingly terrible for inconveniencing you.
You stopped outside an apartment building and he was aware enough to know it must be yours, especially given the nervous look on your face as you unlocked the front door and held it open for him to enter.
Your apartment was exactly how he had pictured it, and he’d spent plenty of time trying to imagine what you went home to every night. It smelled nice, similar to the perfumes you wore, and had warm lighting in every corner that was nothing like the clubs electric vibe.
He didn’t get a lot of time to look around because you were back in his space, holding his face and kissing him softly.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered against your mouth, keeping his hands at his side. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop it.” You scold gently, pulling back and rubbing your thumbs against his skin. You scan over his face like you’re really taking in every centimeter of it and he sighs softly, your nose bumping against his. “You can touch me.”
He does but only with your permission, smoothing both of his hands over the small of your back so you’re pulled closer to him. He ducks his head down between your shoulder and neck, breathing deeply to try and make up for all the time he spent away from you even though he knows it could never be enough.
“Talk to me Sammy.” You say gently while he’s seeking comfort in your scent.
You both end up on the couch as he tells you about his day and why he ended up in this state, your own eyes getting teary when he stresses how hard he tried to help the kid and how defeated he felt when the cycle of violence repeated itself anyways.
Your legs are over his, sitting sideways so you can fully face him and kiss the side of his mouth occasionally when he hesitates to speak certain details out loud.
You clearly care so much still and he feels a crippling amount of relief at that, especially when the conversation shifts to your argument.
“It was wrong of me to be so upset.” You say softly and you look mildly embarrassed, making him immediately start to interject to reassure you even though he’s stopped by you shushing him. “I know you’re married I just… hadn’t really had to process it before that.”
He stares at you as you speak, so beautiful and relaxed in your own space as you curl up next to him. It’s something he had hoped for since he first started seeing you, getting to know you in this way.
“And you were right about me not really letting you in but I was just scared.” You confess and he softens even more, kissing you gently in between your statements. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me without all the glitter and allure.”
“This is all I wanted.” He says immediately and those tears in your eyes return as soon as the words hit the air, tilting your head like you’re trying to stop yourself from crying. “Just you.”
You’re really kissing him now and all the feeling he was missing from his life comes surging back, replacing that numbness that had settled over him the last few months. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss back in the way he knows you like so much, tongues tangling and air irrelevant.
He feels like he’s floating, the luckiest man alive to have you here with him like this.
Sammy won’t be stupid enough to take you for granted a second time, knowing he’d need much more than a phone call to ever pull him away from you again.
summary: you thought your day couldn't get any worse when you find out that your ex-boyfriend is a resident at the ER you just started your fellowship rotation at. turns out, it can.
part one // part two
pairings: frank langdon x ex!ortho!reader
cw/tags: discussion of addiction/langdon stealing benzos, the events of PittFest, discussion and depiction of those injuries and associated treatment (blood, intubations, broken bones, gun shot wounds, etc etc), angst with no resolution. idk it's not entirely devastating but it's certainly not a resolution. mostly canon compliant. no use of y/n. swearing. reader has hair long enough to be tied up in a nondescript updo, but other than that there are no physical descriptors.
quinn is what i decided to name frank's little sister! and obviously this is inspired by scott street by phoebe bridgers :)
word count: 11.4k
masterlist
taglist
Your nerves feel like they’re smoldering, red embers left behind after a blazing fire, seconds away from reigniting if given the opportunity.
Frank tears his gaze away from you as though your presence has greatly inconvenienced him, his lips curving into a barely noticeable frown, the way you’d look after dropping a coffee you weren’t actually looking forward to, but one that you now have to clean up. Sparks of discomfort shoot down your arms, forcing you to bring them up, hugging yourself as if you’re cold while worrying someone might be able to feel the heat radiating off your body if they get too close.
You’re half convinced that he would dissolve into nothingness if you reached out, fingers grazing the edge of his skin, wedging into the version of him that’s existed in your mind for the past five years. Two waves crashing into each other, neither coming out on top, instead moulding into something completely novel.
Your brain reacts as though you’ve stumbled across a piece of furniture from your childhood home somewhere it doesn’t belong. So fucking familiar, yet so wrong.
Your ribs contract, pressing into your lungs, rendering your breathing ineffective, making your vision swim. There’s a dull ache spreading in your stomach, not similar to reopening an old wound, but like discovering that one you thought had healed long ago never actually stopped bleeding.
What’s worse, though, is the way the world continues to shift around you, entirely unaware of the fact that an entire decade of your life is standing directly in front of you, indifferent to anything other than the buzz of the hospital. The only person who is aware has seemingly already moved on, moving quickly to get to the front of the group that you’ve fallen to the back of, rattling off the name of a patient.
The disparity is, quite honestly, humiliating.
Frank moves through rounds as though you’re just another face. He doesn’t stutter or hesitate, and he even laughs with Robby and a few of his patients while updating all of you on their status. You trail along behind them, useless, fingernails digging into your palms in hopes that the sensation will drag you back into the real world.
“Do you have any questions?” Collins asks at one point, clearly looking at you, your last name following the words. You glance towards the patient—a ten-year-old boy with a broken arm—streaks of the fluorescent lights overhead dragging across your field of view, a hazy film covering everything you look at.
“I’ll check the post-reduction films, make sure the alignment is fine,” You say. “But lingering paresthesia and edema call for observation, I’ll do a repeat neurovascular check in an hour, go from there.”
“Great,” Collins says, and you all shuffle towards the next room, not getting very far before you’re interrupted.
“Incoming!” Someone yells, and you look towards the ambulance bay, watching the doors slide open. You hang back for a second, letting the actual emergency medicine doctors make their way over.
“Fourty-two year old male Sam Wallace, blunt head with agonal respirations,” The first paramedic says. Robby grabs a pair of gloves, tugging them on as he approaches. “Dropped down on the T tracks, couldn’t tube him, LMA in place.”
“Suicide attempt?” Robby asks.
“Rescure, he’s a good samaritan,” The second paramedic says. “Took a spill helping a woman who fell off the track, she’s right behind us.”
Princess takes hold of the ambu bag, and Robby directs them to trauma one before gesturing for the second gurney to come through. The sound of a woman screaming fills the ER, and you shift from your spot by the wall, trying to get a glimpse at the scene.
“Woman fell from T platform. Good vitals, no head injuries. Degloving injury, right lower leg, with open fracture dislocation of the ankle.”
You look to your left, grabbing a pair of gloves off the spot on the wall, already making your way over when Robby glances up, saying your last name.
“Yep, heard,” You say, pulling them on, lifting up the gauze that’s covering the wound, taking a quick look at what you’re dealing with.
You keep up with the gurney as she’s wheeled into the trauma room, and you feel a hand on your shoulder, making you stop to turn around. Robby gives you a small nod.
“Take point for the leg,” He says. “Collins and Langdon’ll deal with the rest.”
You don’t hesitate.
“Any other injuries?” You ask, grabbing onto the sheet and transferring the patient onto the bed.
“Nope,” The paramedic says. “Just the leg.”
Robby disappears, and the room quickly fills with mayhem.
“Fifty of fent,” Collins says, gowning up along with practically everyone else. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
You, without getting in the way, line yourself up with her lower leg again and fully reveal the wound.
“Type three open fracture,” You say. “Two of cefazolin, four-hundred of gent and a tetanus shot. She needs irrigation and debridement.”
“Little busy here,” Langdon says, coming up beside you, holding the eFAST.
“Wasn’t asking you to do it, Dr. Langdon,” You say, more hostile than you intended, and you catch the way he stops moving in the corner of your eye. You dare to look towards him, making eye contact, both of you looking away when Robby comes back through the doors, the woman still screaming.
“Fent didn’t touch her,” Someone says.
“Did she faint or did she trip off the platform?” Collins asks.
“Nobody knows, the other guy jumped down and pulled her off the tracks just as the train was rolling in,” The paramedic explains. “Isolated injury to the foot.”
“The train ran over her foot?” Langdon asks.
“Got caught between the platform and the incoming train,” The paramedic corrects.
You step back from the patient as Collins slips her stethoscope in, asking her for her name as she checks the airway. You sigh, holding your hands up so someone can slip past you.
“Students, what might’ve made her faint on the platform?” Robby asks.
“Uh, TIA, CVA,” Javadi says, just as Whitaker says “could be an arrhythmia, cardiac event.”
You can see how terrified both of them look, so you decide to do a little prompting until the room has mellowed out enough to let you take a real look at her leg.
“So what does she need?” You ask.
“Head CT.”
“EKG and troponin.”
“Okay, good,” Robby says. The door to the trauma room swings open, revealing a woman in the same colour scrubs as you, letting you know that she’s a surgeon.
“What do we got, party people?” She asks.
“Subway train degloved her foot with an open fracture dislocation,” Collins explains.
“Oh, and I thought my heels were painful,” She says, shifting past a few people, trying to get to the head of the bed. “You call ortho?”
“Ortho’s right here,” You say, holding your hand up. She looks at you, an amused smile forming on her lips.
“A new face,” She says. “You a resident?”
“Fellow,” You answer.
“Great, someone who actually knows what they’re doing,” She says.
“She’s hemodynamically stable,” Someone adds.
“E-FAST negative,” Langdon says.
“Ma’am, I’m Dr. Yolanda Gracia,” The surgeon introduces. “Any pain in your chest or belly?”
The woman screams in response.
“Can we please push the morphine?” Garcia asks.
“No, it could cloud her mental status,” Collins says.
“I can’t do an exam like this,” Garcia argues. “Push the damn morphine.”
“We could do a popliteal block,” You suggest, eyes widening a little when several heads turn to look at you. “No pain, no side effects.”
Garcia hums satisfactorily. “I like you, ortho fellow. Where’s the other guy?”
She leaves the room, and everyone else continues staring at you for a fraction of a second, then Collins orders the nerve block. Most people go back to their task, but Langdon holds his gaze for a second, his eyes narrowing. You lift an eyebrow, shrugging with a ‘what the fuck is your problem’ motion, which is finally enough to get him to put his attention back onto his patient. Her screaming starts to slow a few moments later, and Robby comes back into the room with a different nurse at his side.
“Call me when you’re reducing,” You say, going to pull your gloves off, but Langdon’s voice makes you stop.
“Somewhere better to be?”
“Actually, yes,” You say, forcing a smile onto your face. “Non-traumatic ortho injuries don’t get put on hold while I’m down here, and I have an arthroscopy in an hour that I’d like to check in on.”
“Oh, alright,” He says, tone bleeding sarcasm. “Have fun, we’ll handle the reduction without you.”
“And why would we do that, exactly?” Robby asks. Langdon shrugs.
“She’s busy,” He says.
“She’s doing her job,” Robby counters. “Page her when you’re reducing, Langdon.”
You push out of the room, the door hot on your fingertips, heat spreading over your chest and neck, up your cheeks and even dusting over your scalp. You’re not sure if you’re about to throw up or sob—maybe both—but you know that you need a second to get your shit together. You open the door to the bathroom, speedwalking past the sinks and into one of the stalls, slamming the flimsy door behind you and flicking the lock shut.
You were supposed to be over this.
Your engagement, planning your dream wedding, talking about future kids—that was all supposed to mean that you had moved on.
And you were stupid enough to think you actually had.
“Oh my god,” You whisper, shaking your arms out, closing your eyes and trying to take some deep breaths. “Suck it up, get a grip.”
A mantra of sorts that you had repeated to yourself countless times during your residency, long call shifts, grueling surgeries, or while working under an asshole preceptor. It managed to keep you sane then, you’re praying it does the same thing now.
But your heart is still racing. Your brain still foggy and fast, not lingering on a single thought for too long before bouncing to the next. Your hands still shake, but not because you’re scared to see him again.
You’re scared of how desperately you want to go back out there just to be in the same room as him. To have him closer than you have in years, finally within arms reach—something you feared you might never have again.
You step out of the stall once you’re slightly confident that you no longer look like a disaster, confirming that fact in the mirror, running your hands until the cold water for a few moments, splashing some of it onto your face. You dry them on a piece of paper towel, tossing it in the garbage, then leave the washroom like nothing even happened, heading straight for the elevator and taking it up to the inpatient ward.
Unbeknownst to you, Dana’s entirely aware of your movements, noticing the drops of water that hang in the edges of your hair as you leave, how your eyes have somehow already dulled since you arrived. She reaches for Princess as soon as the nurse is out of the trauma room, pulling her aside, gaining an odd look that she easily ignores.
“Everything go okay in there?” She asks.
Princess shrugs. “Seemed fine. Why?”
Dana says your last name, followed by “looked a little shaken when she walked out.”
“Oh, I mean, Langdon was a bit of an ass,” Princess admits. “But she snapped right back at him, so, I think she’s probably alright.”
“Good for her,” Dana says. “Keep an eye on them, would you?”
Princess nods. “Sure thing.”
Robby comes out of the room a few minutes later, and Dana catches his attention too, stealing a second of his time.
“I hear Langdon’s already in a mood,” She says. “He’s been off lately. You know anything?”
Robby sighs, shaking his head, shrugging. “He hasn’t talked to me about anything.”
“What’d he say to the new fellow?” She asks.
“Uh…told her we could reduce without her,” He says. “That’s all I heard, anyway.”
Dana frowns. “Seems odd, even for him.”
“Yeah, you know, I dunno,” He says. “I don’t have time to chase him down and ask about it.”
“You could do a little digging,” She counters, and Robby chuckles, rubbing his forehead. “C’mon, for his sake and ours.”
“Fine, sure,” He says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
**********************************
You’re paged back down to the ER fifteen minutes later, grabbing a gown, gloves, and goggles once you’re in the room, purposefully avoiding looking directly at Langdon.
“Ready to reduce?” You ask.
“Pretty much,” He says. “Would you like to explain the reduction to our here students?”
“Sure,” You say, donning your PPE, then giving the three students a relatively comforting smile. You repeat their names in your head, not wanting to forget: Santos, Javadi, and Whitaker. “Alright, if the artery is completely transected, the smooth muscle and tunica media contracts with hemostasis.”
You gesture to the area, watching their eyes flit between you and the injury, nodding along.
“But, if it’s a partial cut, get out your umbrellas,” Langdon adds. You nod, briefly glancing at him.
“Thank you, Dr. Langdon,” You say, trying to sound as genuine as possible. “We need a culture from the open fibula before we reduce.”
Collins opens a sterile swab, handing it to Javadi, who almost manages to hide her grimace as she takes the object in her hand.
“Dr. Collins will stabilize the knee for the reduction, I will distract distally, then medially to clear the tibia,” You explain. Javadi sticks the swab into the wound, this time grimacing more obviously while putting it into the container.
You grab hold of the calf, and Collins puts her hands on either side of the knee, bearing down slightly to keep it in place.
“Ready?” You ask.
“Yep.”
You start moving the limb, not even thinking twice about the cracking that happens as you do, simply adjusting until it returns as close to its normal position as possible without the OR. You do glance up when you hear a ‘thud,’ seeing Javadi no longer standing beside Santos, who rolls her eyes.
“Med student down,” She says.
“Someone check her head,” You say, hearing the final ‘click’ as the bone settles. You gently set it back down on the bed, accepting a splint from one of the nurses. “Make sure she didn’t hurt herself, please.”
Whitaker moves quickly, kneeling beside her, tilting her head. “Uh…I don’t think she hit her head.”
“Okay, then just give her a second,” You say, starting to put the splint in place. Santos still watches you closely, barely paying attention to her colleague who’s now laying on the ground. Javadi comes to a few seconds later, while you and Langdon work on finishing up.
“Welcome back,” Langdon says. “You alright?”
She sits up quickly, blinking, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “Oh, yeah, yes. I’m totally fine.”
“Whitaker, can you take her to see Robby, please?” Langdon asks.
“That’s really not necessary, I’m okay-”
“He likes to stay in the loop,” He counters, not giving much room for arguing. Javadi frowns, but she lets Whitaker help her to her feet, and the two of them leave the trauma room without another word. You finish up with the splint not long after, securing it in place before stepping back from the patient.
“Okay, should be good until she gets to the OR,” You say, checking the time on your watch, nodding to yourself. “I’ll be in surgery until ten, but page me if there’s anything urgent?”
“Yep, will do,” Langdon says, saying your last name as though it might literally kill him to do so. You stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you leave, throwing away your PPE and heading back upstairs.
**********************************
A few hours after the surgery you wander back down to the department yourself, hoping to find something to do that isn’t charting or listening to the other ortho doctors talk amongst themselves. While you love your speciality, you do wish that it didn’t attract a very specific kind of person—one you don’t exactly align with. You don’t get very far before, shockingly, Langdon sees you as he comes out of a room, his eyes lighting up in an unexpected way.
“Hey, I, uh, can I talk to you for a second?” He asks.
“For a patient?” You question.
“Sort of,” He says. “Yes and no.”
“Super clear answer,” You say, not missing the way the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, almost into a smile. “What’s up?”
“Well, firstly, I wanted to say sorry,” He starts. “For how I spoke to you in that trauma. It was uncalled for.”
You nod, agreeing with him. “It was, yeah.”
“I know, I know, I just…” He trails off, looking around, fiddling with his hands. “Hearing Robby say your name this morning felt like I got defibbed, honestly. Totally threw me off.”
“How do you think I felt when he said yours?” You ask. “Wasn’t exactly expecting to see you.”
“Yeah, right, of course,” He says. “Can we start over, or something?”
You hesitate for a moment, but you quickly nod again, shrugging. “I think that’s probably easiest.”
“Great, cool, thanks,” He says. “Now I need your help with a patient.”
He hands you a tablet, letting you look through the chart, forcing you raise an eyebrow. “You want me to consult on a likely sprained ankle?”
“He specially asked to see an orthopedic surgeon,” He says, justifying the ask. “He’s pretty stressed out, I think you could really put his mind at ease.”
“Okay,” You say. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll go do your work up, Dr. Langdon.”
He smiles, and you find yourself smiling too, despite trying to keep your face neutral. Your heart throbs in your throat, making it feel tight, and you quickly turn back towards the patient’s room, listening to Frank’s footsteps echoing behind you. You push the door open, reaching over to turn off the light as you walk in, asking Frank to close the door once he’s fully inside the room.
“Hi Terrance,” You say, setting the tablet onto a set of drawers, grabbing a pair of gloves off the wall and taking a seat on the stool beside his bed, introducing yourself. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, mind if I ask you a few questions about your ankle?”
The exam goes smoothly, and you input an order for x-rays once you’re finished, holding the door open for Langdon as you leave, giving Terrance a quick wave as you go. Frank moves quicker than you, bumping lightly into your back, his hands naturally coming up and taking hold of your shoulders to steady both of you.
“Jeez, sorry,” He says. You inhale sharply, quickly pulling out of his grasp, feeling as though your skin blisters where his hands touched it, your heart rate once again skyrocketing. Your ears ring, your pulse throbbing with each heartbeat, still feeling the pressure of his hands. You reach your own hand up, rubbing your shoulder as though it’s been injured.
“You’re fine,” You say, rolling your shoulder back, trying to play off your movements. He frowns.
“Did—did I hurt you?” He asks. You shake your head, making the sound of your blood louder.
“No, no, I, uh,” You stutter. “I injured it a few weeks ago, uhm, playing…baseball.”
“Baseball?” He repeats.
You internally groan. “Yep.”
Langdon stares at you, squinting. “You play baseball?”
“Sometimes,” You answer. He lifts an eyebrow, a slight smirk forming on his lips. He says your name, your first name, with a hint of amusement.
“I’ve never even seen you hold a baseball,” He says.
“Well, there are a lot of things you haven’t seen,” You say, not even trying to send the conversation in that direction. You sigh, honestly debating faking a medical emergency to get out of this situation. Frank takes a step away from you, any hint of a smile now gone, nodding stoically.
“Right, right,” He says. “Sorry.”
“No need,” You say. “It’s a minor rotator cuff tear, should heal quickly.”
He chuckles at that, despite the awkwardness. “Okay, glad to hear it.”
You gesture behind you. “I should go, uh, chart.”
“Yeah, I’ve got patients,” He says. You turn around, taking a few steps before he says your name again, making you stop and look over your shoulder. “You could’ve just said you slept funny.”
“I panicked?” You offer.
“Clearly,” He says, lifting his hand up, waving. “Don’t catch any more baseballs while you’re gone.”
“No promises!” You call, taking a seat as far away from him as you possibly can, unlocking the computer and checking your messages, making sure nothing urgent came up while you were busy. You see Robby lean against the counter nearby, the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up to his elbows, stethoscope uneven around his neck, completely unaware of the fact that he witnessed most of your exchange with Frank.
“You and Langdon know each other?” He asks, coming a little closer, his eyes focused on you. You type a response back to a nurse from the inpatient ward as you respond, clenching your jaw, hoping your visceral response to the question isn’t obvious to your new boss.
“Sort of,” You say. “He was a year behind me in med school, he’s a familiar face.”
“Ah,” He says, tilting his head, trying to see through your answer. “He seems to like you.”
You hum, fingers gliding over keys, putting an order in for some pain meds for one of your patients upstairs. “Yeah, you know, we hungout a few times at parties. He’s a good guy.”
“He is,” Robby agrees. “Hey, there’s a potential wrist fracture in seven, could you swing by and take a look when you get a second?”
“Absolutely, Dr. Robby,” You say. He stares at you for a second longer, then pushes off the counter, looking around until he finds Langdon. He jogs over to the resident, putting a hand on his shoulder, a curious look on his face.
“Hey, hang on a sec,” He says, forcing Langdon to stop, raising an eyebrow.
“What’s up?”
“Is everything okay?” He asks. “You seem kinda’...rattled lately. Especially today.”
Frank hums, shaking his head. “Uh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Did I do something wrong?”
“No, not really,” Robby says, and Frank lifts his head up, putting his full attention on the attending. “You were a little rough in the trauma this morning.”
“What?” Frank asks. “How?”
“You didn’t exactly go out of your way to make our new colleagues feel welcome,” He explains, hoping Frank’ll get the gist, which he does. He says your name like a question, and Robby nods.
“Yeah, right, sorry,” He says. “I already apologized to her for that.”
“Oh, good,” Robby says. “Why’d you do it in the first place? Did you not get along when you went to school together?”
Frank quickly shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. We—we barely even knew each other, she was a year ahead of me.”
“So I heard,” Robby says. “Doesn’t mean you couldn’t not like her.”
“No, honestly, she’s really nice,” He says. “We had a few mutual friends, and based on how she was then, I’m sure she’s a great doctor.”
“You snapped at her in the trauma this morning,” He explains. “She snapped back. Now you’re making jokes about baseball like nothing ever happened.”
Frank shrugs. “We’ve…known each other awhile, I guess. Good at pushing each others buttons.”
“How long’s awhile?” He asks.
“I dunno’, man,” Frank says. “Have you always been this nosy?”
“Probably,” He says, not letting up, continuing to hold Frank by his shoulder, eyes practically staring into his soul.
“We met when we were kids, alright?” Frank finally says, getting the idea that he isn’t going to be freed until he gives up some kind of information. “Over a decade ago.”
“Were you friends?”
He hesitates again, then nods, shrugging out of Robby’s grip. “Something like that, yeah.”
Robby pivots back to the central hub, leaning towards Dana, who lifts her glasses up and perches them on top of her head.
“So?” She asks.
“Langdon says they met when they were kids,” He explains. “Wouldn’t give me a clear answer on whether they were friends or not, but said they were ‘good at pushing each others buttons.’”
Princess raises an eyebrow at Perlah, muttering ‘they definitely dated’ in Tagalog. Perlah nods emphatically, glancing back towards you, then turning to Princess again.
“Well, I’m a little disappointed in your detective skills, Robinavitch,” Dana says. “But I’ll keep on eye on them.”
“Please,” Robby says, turning at the sound of his name, getting dragged back into work without another word.
**********************************
You spend the next few hours charting, evaluating the wrist fracture, and checking in on your arthroscopy patient. You take a deep breath once you make it back downstairs, pushing through the doors, hoping you’ll be able to find something else to do. Langdon doesn’t immediately greet you, which is already a better start than last time, and you make your way over to the board, glancing up at it.
“Looking for a case, hon?” Dana asks.
You shrug. “Is there anything I could help with? I’m feeling pretty useless over here.”
“Yeah, we’re not used to paging ortho around here,” She says. “But I’m sure there’s a broken bone of some kind that needs to be reduced.”
“Looks unlikely,” You say, still scanning the board, frowning.
“You gonna’ stick around once your fellowship’s done?” She asks. “Maybe we won’t have to keep handling all bone-related emergencies ourselves that way.”
“Oh, uhm, I haven’t decided anything,” You say. “I have a few more rotations at a couple other hospitals, and then I guess I’ll see which one is in need of a new ortho attending.”
She leans closer to you, pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “I’d kill someone to replace one of our attendings here, in all honesty.”
You laugh lightly. “Park?”
“How’d ya’ know?” She asks.
“I’ve worked with the guy for one day and I already kinda’ hate him,” You say. “I mostly came back down here to do charting, he never shuts up about how much he squats or lifts or…whatever. It’s driving me nuts.”
“Well, I’d love to say he grows on you, but he doesn’t,” She says. “But seriously, think about it. You’ve definitely made a great first impression, and Langdon said you’ve been great since you were in medical school.”
You falter. “He did?”
“Yeah, Robby asked if you two knew each other from your time at Pitt, said you were a year ahead but that you were great,” She explains. “That means something coming from that kid, trust me.”
Her gaze narrows, analyzing your movements, hoping that the twenty bucks she put down on you and Langdon being exes won’t go to waste.
You barely react, nodding, tapping your knuckles against the counter. “I’ll have to tell him thanks. I’m gonna’ check in with road rash guy, see if they need my help at all. See you later, Dana.”
You knock on the door before opening it, smiling at the patient as you walk in, softly closing it behind you.
“Mr. Purnell,” You say, introducing yourself, trying not to glance in Langdon’s direction until it’s appropriate. “I’m with orthopedics.”
“Do…am I gonna’ need surgery?” He asks.
“Almost certainly not,” You assure him, grabbing a pair of gloves. “I just came to check on your knee.”
You finally look at Langdon, who nods, stepping back to give you room. You do a quick exam, trying to get a feel for the injury without causing too much discomfort, avoiding the raw spots along his skin.
“Okay, it doesn’t feel like you’ve torn anything, but I’d like to get an x-ray at some point to make sure,” You say. “First, looks like we’ve got a bit of gravel to get out, hey?”
“Just a bit,” Langdon says. “You wanna’ help?”
You think about what’s waiting for you outside the room—nothing—before answering.
“Sure, why not?” You say.
“I’m gonna’ get you some more hands,” He says. “I’ll be right back.”
You and Mel sit side by side, goggles on, carefully working to pull each individual piece of gravel from Mr. Purnell’s leg, doing your best not to agitate the wounds.
“So, first day,” You say. “How’s it going?”
“Uhm, it’s been good,” She says, not taking her focus off the task. “Everyone’s been really nice so far, which is…nice.”
“Yeah, it is,” You agree. “You’ve been working closely with Langdon?”
“Yep,” She says. “He’s great. You went to medical school together, I heard?”
“Sort of,” You say. “He was in the year below me, so we didn’t see too much of each other.”
How many times would you have to tell that lie before your rotation was up?
“Oh,” She says. “Well…he’s really nice.”
“Yeah, seems like it,” You agree. “Where’d you go to med school?”
You keep the conversation going for a little while, just trying to fill the empty space as the two of you work together, asking her questions about her schooling and her sister until the door opens again. You don’t lift your goggles, assuming it’s a nurse coming to check in, but then you hear his voice.
“How’s it going in here?”
You pause, not necessarily because it’s him, but because you can tell something’s off. His words are a little clipped, voice slightly shaky, his usual confidence wavering in a way that most people probably wouldn’t notice. You pull your hands away from Mr. Purnell’s leg, propping the goggles up so you can see him.
“Good,” You say. “We’re almost done, I’d say.”
“Great,” He says, trying to smile, but it’s off. You frown.
“Everything alright?” You ask. He nods.
“Yep, all good,” He says. “Just wanted to check in and let you know that Robby needs you for something.”
“Me?” You ask.
“Yeah, you,” He says. “Dr. King can handle the rest of this on her own, right, Mel?”
“Absolutely, Dr. Langdon,” She says. “Thanks for your help.”
“Any time,” You say, fully removing the goggles, setting the tools you were using down on the tray. Langdon holds the door for you as you leave, pulling your gloves off and tossing them into the trash, sticking your hand under the sanitizer. “You sure you’re okay?”
He shrugs. “Ah, Robby reemed me out for being too hard on a resident, I’ll survive.”
“Oh,” You say. “What’d you do?”
“She’s so…cocky,” He says. “I tried to remind her that she can’t make decisions on her own yet, but it sort of spiralled.”
“Yikes,” You say. “You know, some people might say you’re cocky, too.”
“I’m sure they would, but I’ve got the training to back it up,” He counters.
“You didn’t when you were an intern,” You say. “And I’m positive you were cocky then, too.”
“Are you trying to say we’re similar?” He asks. You shrug.
“I’m just saying maybe you should cut her a bit of slack,” You say. “We were all interns once upon a time, Frank.”
He sighs, hanging his head slightly, nodding. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, peanut.”
Both of you freeze. He closes his eyes, grimacing, praying that you somehow didn’t hear him just call you that. But he knows you did when you don’t say anything in response, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Fuck, sorry,” He says.
Your brain is trying to reconcile with being shot back to age fourteen, then twenty, then twenty-five, when that nickname was used almost every single day. When you were fighting to keep your relationship alive, begging for scraps, all while trying to convince yourself that he loved you, even if he couldn’t always show it.
“It’s cool,” You finally say, but your voice is rough, quiet, strangled. He winces.
“I—I guess, it’s, uhm…” He hesitates, because what explanation can he even give?
Sorry my brain still thinks you’re the most important person I’ve ever known?
“Habit,” He finishes.
“Yeah, of course, seriously, no problem,” You insist. “But maybe…try to break it?”
“Definitely,” He agrees. “Thought I had.”
“Right,” You say. “So, uh, Robby?”
“Yeah, that way,” He says, pointing towards one of the trauma rooms. “I…think.”
“Cool, I will find him,” You say. “Bye.”
**********************************
You successfully avoid Frank for the next hour or so, not sure if you can handle speaking to him again before you manage to unscramble your thoughts, desperately trying to get your brain to stop showing you every time he’s ever called you ‘peanut,’ reminding you of the fact that you were certain you’d never hear him call you that again.
You remember when your now ex called you that a few months after you and Frank officially ended things, how visceral your response had been, snapping at him to never call you that again.
That nickname is reserved. For life. Whether you like it or not.
This is a fucking disaster, you think, pacing back and forth in the back hallway, sneakers tapping against the marble floors. You rub your face, checking the time on your phone, seeing that you still have three goddamn hours left in this shift.
And four weeks left in the rotation.
“Thought I saw you come out here.”
The sound of his voice feels like cement pouring into your lungs, solidifying them, keeping you from breathing. You look up towards the ceiling, closing your eyes, listening as his footsteps come up beside you. You push off the wall you’re leaning against, eyes drifting down towards his wrist, locking on the same bracelet you’ve been trying to avoid looking at all day.
He stops a few feet away, pulling a protein bar out of his pocket, hands shaking slightly as he unwraps it. You clear your throat, putting a hand on your forehead, sighing.
“I feel like I need to say that I really didn’t know you were doing your residency here,” You say, not needing to be prompted, needing him to know that you didn’t choose PTMC for any reason other than it being your best option. “I don’t want things to be weird or anything, and I’ll only be here for a month. Then I’m off to Presby.”
A sound resembling a laugh comes from him. “I didn’t think you did, don’t worry.”
You nod, wiping your hand over your hair, smoothing it back. “Okay. Good.”
“We were bound to run into each other eventually, right?” He says. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen during your residency.”
“Yeah, I was mostly at Mercy,” You explain. “Didn’t get rotated to PTMC at all.”
“Right,” He says. “And now you’re here.”
“For a month.”
“For a month,” He repeats. “I think we can do a month.”
“Definitely,” You agree, a little too quickly, your heart skipping when he lifts an eyebrow, a slightly teasing smirk on his face. You take this opportunity to try and have a somewhat normal conversation with him, hoping it’ll ground you in reality for a minute. “Stayed true to EM, I see.”
“Yeah, nothing could pull me away,” He says. “Had a brief identity crisis where I considered ICU, but that only lasted a month. Abby rallied for family med or peds, you know, better hours. But I think I would’ve been miserable in clinic.”
Your stomach flips at the name, something tugging so quickly in your chest it feels like pain. It’s not surprise—you assumed they had gotten married, and you saw the glaringly obvious wedding band during rounds this morning, looking as though it had always been there. You’d seen the beaded ‘daddy’ on his bracelet, and a flash of his phone background at one point, with Abby’s radiant smile on display as she holds two kids—one girl, one boy.
It proves everything you thought he had been doing true.
Sometimes, when you were alone or coming off of a shitty shift, you found yourself looking through the photos you couldn’t bring yourself to delete, trying to imagine what his life looked like since you had last seen him. It was always some iteration of a wife, kids, residency, maybe a decent sized house in the suburbs or a nice apartment downtown. He always wanted a dog, so you usually pictured him with one, a golden retriever or something else big and loving.
Now, it comes into much more detail. No longer the suspended half-imagined thing that you had tried to keep at a safe distance.
You can see kid-sized shoes and jackets by the front door. An undoubtedly large diamond on her engagement ring. Shared bank accounts. Them buying groceries, or arguing about schedules or daycare or other semantics that don’t actually matter at the end of the day. Holidays, with him and Abby sitting on the couch, watching the kids open gifts or run around the house searching for easter eggs.
“Once I promised her that, then she came around to the emergency med thing.”
You realize instantly that you’ve missed something, numbness starting to run down your arms. You tilt your head slightly, attempting to fill in whatever gap you’ve been left with, frowning slightly.
“Sorry, what?”
He narrows his eyes. “I promised her that I’d only have to work three days a week once I was an attending, then she came around.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” You say. “The schedule’s not bad once you get through residency.”
“Exactly,” He says, but he’s still staring at you. “You alright?”
“Yeah, didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” You say, the excuse coming easily. You’re sure you look exhausted—fellowship was only slightly less insane than residency so far, and your sleep schedule was still taking quite the hit. “She’s probably looking forward to you being done residency. I’m sure the kids are, too.”
He goes still, and you notice before he can adjust, fixing his body language and leaning against the wall.
“They are,” He says. “I am too, you know, I’ve already missed so much.”
You nod. “Yeah, that’s the shitty part of medicine.”
“Absolutely,” He agrees. He rocks back on his heels, reaching for the bracelet, pushing it up his arm, then back down.
“How’s Quinn doing?” You ask, desperate to shift the conversation. He lights up, nodding.
“She’s really good, she actually just started law school,” He says.
“Holy shit, really?” You say. “Wow, that’s crazy. In my mind she’s still like…seven.”
He smiles. “Makes me feel really old.”
“Me too,” You say. “But that’s so cool, good for her. Tell her I say-”
You don’t finish, stepping backwards, clenching your fists, letting your nails dig into your palms for a split second.
“That’s weird, right?” You say. “To tell her I say congrats?”
Frank shrugs. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’d mean a lot to her.”
“Really?” You ask.
“Really,” He insists. “You knew her for like, half her life. It’s not weird.”
Knew.
Past tense.
Because, despite the fact that you know so much about her, you don’t know her anymore. You haven’t known her for a long time.
You force yourself to laugh, again focusing on how fast time moves. “That’s horrifying to think about.”
He chuckles. “For you, maybe. But you’re like family to her.”
You physically bite your tongue, tears bubbling in your throat, forcing you to look away from him. He notices.
“I just meant-”
“I know what you meant,” You say, nodding, forcing yourself to smile to show him that it’s fine. You’re fine.
He thinks carefully about what to say next, hoping his words will be comforting, but they’re the exact opposite.
“She still asks about you sometimes.”
You blink, looking up from your hands, finding his eyes again. “She does?”
“Mhm,” He hums. “She was very disappointed when you deleted Instagram a few years back.”
You laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t really think about my fans before doing that.”
“Very selfish of you,” He says, and you laugh again. “Last time she asked was a few months ago, actually.”
“Yeah?” You say. “What’d she ask?”
He clicks his tongue, squinting with his left eye, scrunching his face up. “She asked if you were a mom. I told her that, just like the last million times she’s asked about you, I genuinely had no clue.”
“Oh,” You say. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” He says. “She always thought you’d be such a good mom.”
“That’s really sweet,” You say, trying to ignore the pain in your stomach, as though you’ve been punched repeatedly.
“Did you ever…you know…”
He trails off, and you consider letting him sit in the beat of silence until you’re both nauseous, but you don’t.
“Have kids?” You finish. “No, not yet.”
“Fair enough,” He says. “You’ve been busy, I’m sure.”
“I have,” You agree.
“Do you, you know, have someone?” He asks. “That you’d want to have kids with?”
Silence crackles between you for a split second.
“You don’t have to answer,” He continues. “Just…curious. And Quinn will be thrilled to finally have an update.”
“I do,” You say. “I got engaged last summer.”
It’s partially true.
The engagement ring sits in it’s box in your pajama drawer, hidden beneath layers of old t-shirts and shorts. You wore it on a chain around your neck for eleven months, and then you took it off, replacing it in the box, where it’s stayed ever since. You can still hear the words of that night in your head, bouncing between the edges of your skull, sticking behind your eyes occasionally and drawing tears along your lower lash line.
“You show up, you care, you go through the motions. But you’re never actually here.”
And then:
“I don’t know if you ever have been.”
You thought it had been because of your job.
But now, you’re realizing it was something you wouldn’t have dared to acknowledge.
Something standing right in front of you.
“Hey, that’s great!” Frank says. “What’s his name?”
The enthusiasm he manages makes you feel sick. You can’t hear how brittle it actually is, how quickly it would shatter if anyone were to poke or prod.
You stutter, not because you don’t remember—of course you remember.
You remember every version of his name, every version of him. The one that shows up on letters from time to time, subscriptions he never changed to his new address, an address you have never known. You hear him when you open the drawer where the abandoned ring sits, living in darkness for the past six weeks, lacking the sole purpose for which it was designed. The way you’ve caught yourself writing his name on paperwork, still thinking about a future that you have no right to envision.
You can hear the way your mother used to say it. How the way it sounded coming from her changed over the nearly five years you were together, tilting with familiarity and happiness and love. You remember the way it looked next to yours on your wedding invitations. How many times you said your first name with his last name, trying to understand why you hated it so fucking much. You hear how he used to say your name, especially when you walked through the door after a long day, how gentle and kind he was.
You see the life you built with him, piece by piece, so cautiously—filling every crack with routine and stability and good intentions, convincing yourself that each milestone pushed you further and further away from the man standing in front of you now. Something you spent so much time trying to make solid you somehow forgot that you were building on a fault line, a ticking time bomb sitting beneath the foundation of your relationship.
There were days you could hear it. The quiet tick tick tick in your head.
When you brought him as a plus one to your best friend’s wedding, after the vows and speeches and toasts, when they thought no one was looking at them. You watched, seeing the way they leaned in close, giggling as though they were first graders exchanging secrets on the playground. You tried to picture your own wedding, with him, and you couldn’t.
That was the first time you heard it.
It became more consistent after that—driving home after a thirty-six hour shift, when the roads were empty and the exhaustion made it impossible to pretend. Having dinner with him, soft music on in the background, your eyes meeting across the table. He’d smile, eyes twinkling, and your heart would jump, because there was an irreconcilable difference that your brain never got the hang of. Espresso irises instead of glacier blue, a colour you couldn’t forget no matter how hard you tried.
Little things started to pile up.
A shitty pun you knew Frank would laugh at. Tick.
The person ahead of you ordering a coffee the way he liked. Tick. Tick.
Painting your nails the colour he always complimented. Tick. Tick. Tick.
You thought you were the only person who could hear it at first, but turns out, your fiancé had seemingly started to hear it too, despite how badly you tried to keep it from him. Because you wanted to want him.
The man who woke up before you, no matter how early you had to get up, just to make you breakfast. Who never complained when you got called into work in the middle of a date, not to be seen for the next sixteen hours, leaving him alone at the restaurant or wherever you ended up that night. Someone who always chose understanding, who never yelled, even if he had every right to. Who loved you in a way that you never had been, but in a way that, fundamentally, you didn’t want.
How on earth could you forget the name of the man that was almost enough? Who should’ve been enough?
You’re saved by the sound of your pager going off, forcing you to reach down, pulling it off your scrub pocket and reading the screen.
“My patient’s about to go into surgery, so—”
“Right, yeah, just one more thing,” He says. You put the pager back, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at him again, feeling your heart pound against your forearms. “Uhm, there’s no good way to say this.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“No one here knows about…anything,” He says. “I’ve been clean for four years now, and I really need you to not say anything about that. To anyone.”
You don’t have much time to process how that actually makes you feel.
“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone,” You say. “Do you really-”
You cut yourself off, reaching down and touching your pager again, reminding yourself that you have somewhere to be.
“That’s not my business,” You say, ignoring the way the implication of his words spikes in your chest, sticking through your skin and sending shockwaves up your body. Did he really think you would out him like that? “I don’t even know you anymore, Langdon.”
You step out from behind the wall that’s been hiding the two of you from the several people that are in the front foyer, pressing the button for the elevator before looking back towards him. He nods.
“Yeah, no, I figured,” He says. “Just wanted to make sure.”
“Consider yourself sure,” You say. The door opens, a ‘ding’ ringing through the lobby. “See you later.”
You disappear as he says the next words.
“See you.”
**********************************
You’re just coming out of surgery when you hear the words over the intercom.
“Wow, looks like our little trauma surgeon gets to go back down to her beloved ED,” Brendon says, looking at you.
“Do you know what it’s for?” You ask. He shakes his head, holding the door open for you, following you out into the hallway.
“I’ll come with you, see if we can both help out,” He says, the sentence sounding vastly out of character for him, despite the fact that you only met him this morning. “Come on.”
The department is even more chaotic than it has been all day when you make it downstairs, Brendon trailing in behind you, eyes sharp as you both take in the situation. You spot Robby a little ways away, picking up your pace, calling his name as you come up behind him.
“How can we help?” You ask. He sighs, looking slightly relieved at the idea of having more hands.
“Uhm, shit,” He says. “You ever been through a Code Triage?”
“Yeah, I did a year at UCSF, we had one there,” You say, hoping that you sound more confident than you feel.
“You know the band system?” He asks.
“Yeah, uh, red is the worst, straight to a trauma room,” You start. “Pink is next, then yellow, then green. Black means DOA.”
“Perfect, I’m gonna’ have you in yellow, reds will probably have much more pressing issues than a few broken bones,” He explains. “Park, you’re in pink, but both of you be prepared to move around, alright?”
“You got it,” Park says. You’re about to find your designated spot when you realize something.
“Hey, where’s Dr. Langdon?” You ask.
Robby purses his lips. “He—he had to go home. He left about an hour ago.”
“Oh,” You say. “Okay.”
The patients come fast.
You lose yourself for a minute, keeping up with all the extremity injuries as best you can, reducing a few on the spot or designating them to be reduced later if there’s still blood flow. Mel, Santos, and Whitaker call your name what feels like every ten seconds, drawing you away from patient after patient, making your head spin.
Broken bones, bullet wounds, trample injuries—the list goes on and on, and it doesn’t help that everyone keeps pulling you to other zones, but you keep your head in the game. You block out any distractions, focusing only on the medicine, coordinating as best you can with Park to get everything done.
You see Mel and Whitaker wheeling a patient away from her spot, completely unresponsive, the splint that you put on still on her lower left leg.
“Hey, hey, what the fuck happened?” You ask, coming over, taking the bag of blood from Mel and holding it above your head, gripping it tightly so it goes in faster.
“Liver lac,” She explains, her head snapping up, looking past you. “You’re here!”
You follow her gaze, seeing Langdon working on a different patient, gown covered in blood. You force yourself to look away, focusing on squeezing the bag, keeping your hands busy.
“In the flesh,” He says. “What d’you got?”
“Uhm, auto versus ped,” Mel says.
“We thought it was just a tib-fib fracture,” Dennis adds, gesturing to the splint.
“Then we found an occult liver laceration,” Mel explains.
“Leg is low priority right now,” Frank says, coming over to the three of you, quickly examining the patient. “If she stabilizes with blood she can wait an hour for the OR.”
“And if not?” Whitaker asks.
“Straight upstairs,” You say. “We’ll go in and deal with her leg in a few days. Mel, hold pressure on this, yeah?”
You pass her the bag, which she takes, nodding. Frank starts to walk away, but he stops, pointing at Mel and Whitaker.
“Hey, good catch, you two,” He says. Mel’s face lights up, a shy smile blossoming, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. You make your way back over to the yellow zone, your legs feeling like lead, wondering if seeing Langdon will ever stop feeling like you’re being chased through the desert by a lion.
You’re in the middle of assessing a broken arm when someone calls your name, forcing you to look up, seeing Samira standing across the department.
“Got an obvious femur deformity,” She says.
“Coming!” You call, setting your patients arm into her lap as gently as you can. “I will be right back, let someone know if your fingers start to go numb, okay?”
She nods, watching you run through the chaos, landing beside a man with blood soaking through his shirt. You look towards his leg, immediately seeing what Samira was talking about, assessing as best you can without getting in the way.
“Left upper quadrant entrance,” She says, pressing her hands to the wound. The man yelps, lunging forward. You move to grab one of his legs, holding him in place, while others shift to take hold of his arms and chest. The nurse beside you rips the guy’s pant leg, revealing a pistol. Your eyes widen.
“Gun!” The nurse exclaims. “He’s going for his gun!”
You don’t even have a second to react before someone slams into you, arms wrapping around your shoulders, shielding you from view. One inhale tells you that it’s Frank, his cologne pressing against your senses, the same one he’s worn for over a decade now. You stand completely still, the entire department going silent, but you can’t see what’s going on, since your face is pressed into Frank’s chest.
“Sig P365, nine mil,” Someone says. “Driver’s license?”
“He just got here,” Frank says, still holding you, looking over his shoulder so he can see the SWAT member.
“Not responding to pain now,” Samira says. Frank lets go of you, not fully, keeping his hands on your biceps, trying to read the look on your face.
“You okay?” He asks.
You nod, looking between him and the broken femur. “Uh—uhm, yeah. I’m good.”
He steps back completely, looking out to the rest of the department. “All clear!”
“Are you sure?” Cassie asks.
“He’s unconscious,” He says. “Everybody back to work.”
You let your brain get the better of you for a minute, vision fading in and out of focus, the only thing you hear being the scattered, muffled sounds of voices. You blink when you think you hear your name, trying to find whoever said it, Langdon’s face coming into view after a few attempts.
“Did you hear me?” He asks.
“No,” You say, shaking you head. “Fuck, sorry. What?”
“Can’t reach the humerus with the IO,” He says. “Proximal tibia?”
“Yeah, yeah, decent choice,” You say, stepping up again, resuming your assessment of the femur. “This needs to be fixed in an OR right away, or he’ll lose the leg. He might’ve already thrown a fat embolism.”
“Agreed,” Langdon says. A loud beeping fills the space, making you squint for a moment, looking around to try and find the source of the noise. “Whatever that is can you please shut it off? I can’t hear myself think!”
You look back at Langdon, watching him drill in the IO as Samira gets ready to intubate.
“I’ll stick around, go up to the OR with him,” You say, keeping everyone updated on your plan. “Work on the femur while gen surg deals with the gunshot wound.”
“You can operate on that by yourself?” Langdon asks, and Samira goes to flick on the light on the laryngoscope, frowning.
“Shit,” She says. “Light’s out, must be dead.”
You quickly reach for the bin of them, turning a few of them on, shaking your head. “These ones are too. Hey, anyone have a laryngoscope with a light that works?”
“We will check,” Robby says.
“Check quickly, this guys paralytics are wearing off,” Langdon says. Robby looks up from where he is, coming over, and you once again step back to give them room. Langdon manages to look at you for a second, raising an eyebrow, showing you that his question is still on the table.
“Yes, I’m a fully licensed orthopedic surgeon,” You say, quickly. “I can operate by myself. You guys need Park down here anyway.”
He nods, a slight, impressed smile on his face as he puts his focus back on the intubation, watching Robby do it without a laryngoscope. The tube slides in, but Mateo speaks up, killing the brief moment of success.
“No pulse, start compressions?” He asks.
“Got it,” You say, putting your knee up onto the gurney, positioning yourself over the chest and pressing down.
“Try to get him back with two litres, it’s all we can give,” Robby says. “You got it.”
Robby walks off, and Langdon follows him, leaving you with Samira and Mateo. Samira calls after him, but he just responds with ‘keep squeezing,’ making you look at the resident, giving her a nod.
“We’ve got this,” You say, still pushing into his now broken sternum. “Just keep going.”
You only stop compressions when Langdon comes back, getting access in his chest, then you swap out with a different nurse, your arms starting to get sore. You step back onto the floor, taking the bag of blood, squeezing it tightly with both hands, letting Langdon and Samira focus on other things.
“We’ll be ready for a second unit in under a minute,” Langdon says, tilting his head to the side, looking directly at you. “Boom.”
You smile, shaking your head at him, the familiarity of the action obvious to Samira. She raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t have time to think about it.
The second unit is enough to bring him back, and you go straight up to the OR with him, casting a glance back as you make it to the elevator. Langdon watches you go, giving an almost imperceptible nod, one that you return just as the doors slide closed.
**********************************
The world continues to buzz despite the crisis that unfolded over the past few hours.
The night air is cold as you step out into the ambulance bay, hitting your skin despite the sweater you’re now wearing, trying to hide the blood that’s since dried to your scrubs. You take a few steps away from the doors, uncrossing your arms, letting them hang at your sides. You freeze when you hear the sound of sarcastic laughter, lifting your head up, having expected mostly silence once you escaped the chaos of the department. Robby and Frank stand a little ways away, and judging by their body language, whatever conversation they’re having is not pleasant.
“You are so full of shit!” Robby exclaims. “You let me down. You let everybody down!”
He starts walking away from Frank before continuing. “Especially yourself.”
You feel that hit you.
Because you know he’s probably right, and Frank certainly does, too.
“Someone saw you in pedes,” Frank counters, making Robby stop in his tracks, moments before he would’ve seen you standing by the door.
“Who, Whitaker?” Robby asks. You wonder if you should just go back inside, not supposed to hear any of this.
Frank turns around to face him again. “No. A nightshift nurse saw you on the floor, said it looked like…”
Robby walks back over to him, stopping when he’s no more than a foot away from his face. “Looked like what?”
You flinch when he repeats the sentence, raising his voice. Frank doesn’t respond, simply looking away from his mentor.
“This job will fuck you up if you let it,” Robby adds. “You let it.”
“Yeah?” Frank says, talking to Robby’s back as he actually walks away this time. “I wasn’t the one talking to cartoon animals in pedes.”
“Fuck you!” Robby yells, lifting his fists above his head as he finally makes it to the doors, seeing you standing there, completely still, eyes a little wide. He sighs, shaking his head, saying your last name before disappearing back into the hospital. Frank whips around, and you move away from the wall, putting yourself in his line of sight.
He huffs, his neck flushing, setting his face in his hands as you walk over to him.
“That sounded fun,” You say.
A sharp exhale comes from his nose. “Yeah. He’s in a great mood tonight.”
“I’ve gathered,” You say. “He always like that?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
A beat of silence stretches out, almost dragging too long, then he clips it.
“I shouldn’t have pushed back that hard,” He says.
You sigh, shivering when a gust of wind brushes past, blowing the fragments of hair that have fallen out of the now chaotic updo it’s in across your face.
“It was a bit of a low blow,” You agree. “But we’ve all said shitty things when we get backed into a corner.”
He sniffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, the hairs on his arm raising from being exposed in his scrub top. “Yeah. Some more than others.”
You smile a little, leaning over, nudging him with your shoulder. He looks down at you, smiling back, trying desperately to ignore the way butterflies erupt in his stomach at the brief contact.
“Is that…an apology?” You ask, your tone completely teasing. He scoffs, laughing, nodding a few times.
“I guess it is,” He says. “I’ve done some really shitty things to you. To a lot of people, honestly.”
“Maybe,” You say. “But I actually came out here to say thank you.”
“For what?” He asks.
You almost laugh. “For putting yourself between me and a loaded gun a few hours ago?”
“Oh,” He says. “Right, yeah, that feels like forever ago—I almost forgot about it.”
“Well, thank you,” You say. “I don’t know if it was just instinct, but…it’s comforting to know that you wouldn’t let me die via bullet.”
“I’d like it if you didn’t die via anything,” He says. “At least not anytime soon.”
Pain shatters over your ribcage. Your brain thrums with a single thought, one you have to actively force away so you can figure out a normal thing to say in response:
I still love you.
“I feel the same way about you,” You say instead, kicking at a rock with your foot, dragging it along the concrete for a second to give yourself time to figure out what to say. “You’ve been using again, hey?”
He takes his lower lip between his teeth, but he doesn’t answer.
“That’s why you got sent home?” You ask.
He inhales, breathing out slowly. He shakes his head, pulling his hands out of his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest and mirroring your posture.
“Not exactly,” He says. “I got sent home…because I stole drugs from the hospital.”
Your eyes widen before you can stop them, but you’re quick to get your expression under control.
“Oh,” You say.
He braces himself for whatever bigger reaction is coming. Anger, disappointment, judgement. He tries to convince himself that it won’t hurt any worse than it already has coming from Abby, but a part of him knows that he might not survive letting you down like this again.
Instead, your arms wrap around his torso, catching him off guard. He steps backwards, making you falter, already moving to pull away when he hugs you back. His arms move around your shoulders, tears catching in his throat as he wipes a hand down his face.
“Are you safe?” You ask.
He clears his throat, brushing away a few stray tears. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
You slowly pull back, holding his biceps, your eyes filled with the same concern he’s seen hundreds of times.
“I’m serious, Frank,” You say. “What are you taking?”
“Benzos,” He says, putting his right hand on top of your left, keeping you in place. “I—I went to a doctor to…fuck.”
He closes his eyes. You put the pieces together, nodding.
“For the withdrawals,” You finish. “They gave you benzos for it.”
He nods. You breathe out, lifting your right hand up, putting it on his cheek. He opens his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tensing when he sees the look on your face.
“You were looking for help,” You continue. “You trusted your doctor, you—you did what you thought was best.”
You drop your hand. He flinches, looking away from you.
“I should’ve known better,” He says. “I’m not fucking blameless, here.”
“I’m not saying you are,” You say. “But you’re not some kind of villain, Frank.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Does Abby know?” You ask.
“Yeah,” He says, a new wave of shame flooding over his senses, his ears ringing. “She does.”
“And?”
“She’s pissed,” He says. “We—we’re taking some time, actually.”
Your mind immediately shifts to logistics. “Where have you been staying?”
He shrugs, sniffing again, quickly swiping his hand under his eyes to brush away more tears. “At a hotel.”
“For how long?”
“Jesus, why do you care?” He asks, his tone shifting, more angry now. “You—you’ve spent enough time worrying about me, I don’t need your help.”
That’s not what he wanted to say.
But he can’t tell you how terrified he is to let you back in, to accept any morsel of help that you might be willing to give, to repeat the past.
“I didn’t offer any,” You say, stepping back from him, shivering again as another gust of wind blows by. You brush a strand of hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear.
“Good,” He says, biting the inside of his cheek, picking at the cuticle of his thumb, dragging the skin away from the nail. “You shouldn’t have even been out here.”
“Why not?” You ask.
He shakes his head, pressing his knuckles against his eyes. “I just—I don’t fucking want you here.”
It lands awkwardly, to the point where you almost flinch. It’s obvious he doesn’t mean it, and even if you couldn’t tell by the way it tumbled from his lips, you do still know him. Despite how much you’d deny it if anyone asked.
You don’t save him. You let him sit in the silence for a second, giving him time to walk it back.
“I mean…” He starts, exhaling frustratedly. “I don’t wanna’ drag you into this again.”
“Frank, I’m a big kid,” You say. “You don’t need to make any decisions for me.”
He looks up from his shoes, but you’re not looking at him. You’re staring off into nothingness, the sound of an incoming ambulance in the background, shifting on your feet before you continue.
“You don’t have to push me away because you think I’ll leave on my own.”
“Won’t you, though?” He asks. “I mean, we’ve been here a million times, and that’s always how it ended.”
Your breath stutters, your mind freezing, because despite how unfair that summarization is—it’s true.
“I’m not your girlfriend this time,” You counter. “I’m just…a concerned colleague who wants to make sure you’re safe before she can finally fucking go home after a shift from hell.”
“You make it sound pretty simple,” He says.
“It’s not simple,” You counter. “I don’t think it ever will be, but that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer.”
“I’d deserve it.”
“So what?” You say, a little incredulous, tossing your arms out to the side. “Does this not feel a little like rock bottom to you? Seems like you’re already suffering enough.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Losing your wife, your kids, your job?” You say. “Maybe even your fucking license?”
“Robby wouldn’t do that to me,” He counters.
“Okay, so, everything’s fine as long as you can practice medicine, yeah?” You ask. “Nothing else matters?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue behind his teeth. He reaches out, patting your shoulder, a toothless smile on his face. Your face flickers with something unknown as you try to process whatever the fuck is happening here.
“It was good to see you, kid,” He says, pulling his hand away. “I would say see you tomorrow, but, uh, I don’t think I’ll be here.”
He turns away from you, walking back towards the bay doors, hands once again shoved into his pockets.
“Don’t,” You say, your voice muffled by the wind and the now much louder sirens. “Don’t make this another fucking goodbye.”
He stops walking, but he doesn’t fully turn around. He glances at you over his shoulder, tears obvious as they streak down his cheeks.
“We’re not done dealing with this,” You say. “I just want you to be okay. Remember?”
You think he might not respond at first, but then he nods, slowly.
Summary: Pope finds out you’re pregnant and Smurf gets out of jail.
Warnings: Warnings: *SPOILERS* 18+ MDNI. Explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering oral sex m receiving and f receiving, unprotected pinv, cream pie, semi public sex, drug use, alcohol consumption, soft dom pope if you squint, Sub Pope if you squint,brief religion mentions, feminine reader with blonde hair briefly mentioned, physical violence, physical and verbal abuse, canon Smurf behaviour, pregnancy and discussion of pregnancy (I will apologize in advance if I missed anything I am new to this)
Notes: Hey friends!!! So this part was a labour of love for me unfortunately we are now getting into the heavier parts of Animal Kingdom. I figure this series will probably be about 8 parts long so we are nearing the end. Anyways I hope you enjoy and as always leave me some love be kind!
Word count: 4.3K
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A little while later you and Pope are sitting in Derans office with the positive test between you. Neither of you have said a word but you can see a muscle in Popes jaw ticking.
“Please say something” you whisper desperately.
Pope looks up at you his gaze unreadable. “I don’t know what to say” he mumbles and shakes his head “We’re having a baby?” He whispers incredulously.
You feel the tears burning in your throat again as you nod. “Yeah we are”
His eyes begin to glisten with unshed tears “Are you sure about this?”
You furrow your brow confused “What do you mean?”
He swallows harshly “Having a kid with me” he says roughly. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
Your heartbreaks in that moment. That he thinks so little of himself that you wouldn’t want to have his child. “Andy I want this baby” you tell him softly.
He swallows again blinking back tears “Baz told me once” he starts before breaking off and taking a shaky breath “Baz told me once that no one would want to have kids with me. Ever.”
You get up crossing to sit in his lap wrapping your arms around his neck. “I do, Andy” you tell him softly “I want to have this baby because it’s me and you”
He looks up at you in awe the tears finally spilling over as he settles his hand over your stomach “You’re having my baby”
You put your hand over his on your stomach and nod your own tears spilling down your cheeks “Yah I am” you tell him a smile breaking out on your face.
He lets a watery smile come over his face as he pulls you in for a soft kiss. He pulls you into his chest and the two of you hold each other in a moment of pure bliss.
You feel Popes phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls out his phone to check it and there is a message from J with two words that wipes the smiles from both of your faces. “Smurfs home”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Craig and J are already sitting at the table watching Smurf with guarded expressions. The tension was thick and you could feel the nausea from earlier churning in your stomach. Pope was the first one to break the silence “How did you get out?” He asks in a gravelly voice.
She gives him a sharp smile “They dropped the charges baby, aren’t you happy I’m home?”
Pope glares at her not saying a word just taking your hand and dragging you to the backyard. As soon as you were alone he turns to you speaking lowly “She can’t know about the baby”
You swallow a lump in your throat nodding “I know”
He cups your face in his hands “I’ll take care of both of you” he promises “even if that means leaving”
Your eyes widen “Pope we can’t leave them they’re our family” you whisper.
Pope clenches his jaw “I know, I don’t want to leave my brothers but I will not let Smurf poison our child”
You look into his intense eyes knowing he’s right. If you stay, you’ll have no choice but to continue this life dragging your child into this life with you. Whoever this child was going to be, they deserved better than that. You take a shaky breath “You’re right”.
Pope pulls you into his arms holding you tight. He looks over your head back into the kitchen and he can see Smurf watching the two of you. He knew he needed to start making an escape plan for the two of you and Lena and he had to do it soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day you were sitting on the porch reading a book while Lena played out front. Pope was inside doing his usual cleaning routine to calm his mind. For once to any on lookers you might look like a normal family.
Until the black suv and police car showed up.
A woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun gets out of the suv and you get up to meet her at the steps. “Can I help you?” You ask crossing your arms across your chest.
The woman barely spares you a glance looking behind you as Pope steps out the front door. “We are here to collect Lena Blackwell, we understand her Father has recently passed and her mother is no longer in the picture and that makes her a ward of the state”
Your mouth drops open. Someone had called DCFS. They were going to take Lena. Pope rushes down the steps “Wait!” He calls out “You can’t just take her” he gets in between Lena and the woman and you can see the police officers start to inch closer.
You rush forward grabbing Pope “Baby we don’t have a choice” you tell him “we will fight this but we have to do it the right way”
He looks at you eyes wide with panic. He looks back at Lena dropping to his knees in front of her wrapping her in a hug “I love you” he says in a broken voice “and I am going to get you back ok?”
You hug her next tears running down your cheeks “we’re gonna fix this Lena I promise” she nods sadly following the woman.
You and Pope watch them drive off with Lena. You feel a wave of nausea run over you, you rush over to the trash can beside the house heaving the contents of your stomach. Pope comes up quietly behind you rubbing your back and holding your hair.
He takes you back in the house laying you on the couch with a blanket and some tea. He kneels in front of you “I’m going to fix this” he says solemnly.
You feel the tears welling up again “How?”
He rubs his hand over your hair softly “Let me worry about” he says “the stress isn’t good for you and the baby”
You reach out taking his hand in yours “we’re in this together Andy” you tell him in a thick voice. “We’ll go down to the office first thing in the morning”
He nods placing a kiss on your forehead. He would do anything to get Lena back. He knew what that might possibly mean and he didn’t want to worry you with it right now didn’t want any extra stress on you at all. So instead he continues to stroke his hand down your hair lulling you softly to sleep
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What started as you fully intending to go with Pope to the DCFS Office in the morning turned into Pope going alone. The stress of the day before brought on the worst bought of morning sickness you’d had yet.
Neither one of you had slept much and you had spent much of the early morning hours hunched over the toilet. Pope had been hesitant to leave you alone so he recruited Deran to come stay with you while he was gone.
You were currently curled up on the couch praying to whatever god that might be listening to make the nausea go away. Deran knocks on the door lightly pushing it open. He peeks in seeing you on the couch and comes to sit beside you carrying grocery bags. “I come bearing gifts” he says reaching into the bags. He pulls out a two litre of ginger ale and a box of saltines holding them up like a prize smiling.
You smile back at him taking them from him. “Thank you, apparently my body doesn’t know the difference between a baby and an alien virus.” You say dryly.
He gives you a small smile “how are you holding up?”
You shrug “I don’t know, I have no idea how to handle this”
He nods “I don’t think any of us do. How is Pope doing with all of this?”
“How do you think?” You ask him sarcastically.
He winces “He had bad experiences with foster care when we were growing up. He’s scared for Lena he doesn’t want her to go through the same thing he did”
You swallow roughly “I know”
Hours go by and neither of you hear from Pope. You drift in and out of sleep as the nausea passes. It’s late in the afternoon when Pope finally walks back through the front door.
You sit up quickly as Deran leans forward beside you. “How did it go?” You ask him quietly.
His eyes are sad as he looks between the two of you. “They won’t tell me anything” he croaks. You nod silently, You expected as much. “I went to Smurf” he tells you not looking at you.
Your eyes widen in shock and Deran shoots up and starts pacing “You did what?” He growls.
“I have to know where she is” Pope explains miserably. “Smurf has connections she can find out where she is and if she’s ok” he then looks over at you tears welling in his eyes “She knows about the baby” he rasps “I’m so fucking sorry”
You shoot up from the couch sprinting to the bathroom heaving violently as tears sprung to your ears. You could feel a presence behind you as Deran gathered your hair away from your face. You barely heard Popes foot steps as he followed behind “Don’t!” Barked Deran as he spun pinning Pope with a glare “You’ve done enough”
Pope backed away slowly tears streaming down his face. He loved you. He loved your child. And yet he hadn’t protected either one of you today. Instead he put you both directly into Smurfs warpath.
He sat on the porch with his head in his hands. He had failed again. He kept failing everyone he loved. Julia. Cath. Baz. Lena. And now you. His shoulders shook as he sobbed silently. He was so lost in his own thoughts he didn’t hear you sit down beside him.
“We’re gonna be ok” you tell him quietly, putting your hand on his shoulder.
He looks at you through his tears “I ruined everything. I’m so fucking sorry” he cries.
You shake your head “No Andy, she would have found out eventually” you shrug “telling her early might be smart it will make her feel involved” you try to reason.
“You could go” he blurts out.
You look at him shocked “What?”
“You and the baby will never be safe with me because of her so you could go and I promise I won’t look for you.” He says to you roughly.
“No” you say firmly “no you don’t get to do that Andrew Cody you don’t get to be a martyr and send me away” you get up and stand in front of him “We are doing this together no matter what happens, no matter what Smurf does this baby will be protected because it has both of us”
“What about its favourite uncle do I count?” Deran says dryly leaning against the doorway.
You give him a thankful smile and then look back at Pope “See?” You tell him “We have two parents who will love them and their favourite uncle to look after them. What could go wrong?” You smile at him ruefully.
Pope looks between the two of you the corners of his lips lifting slightly. “Yah” he says “What could go wrong?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night you’re fast asleep in your bed and Deran is passed out on the couch. Pope checks on you quietly and kisses your head softly closing the door behind him.
He’s careful not to wake Deran as he walks out the front door to the car waiting for him. Inside he can see Smurf sitting in the drivers seat. He reluctantly climbs in the car “Where are we going?” He asks Smurf lowly.
“Trust me baby, you’ll be happy you came with me” she tells him with a smirk.
They drive for a while going deeper into Oceanside in a richer residential neighborhood. Smurf pulls up in front of a two story craftsman home with a big backyard and parks. “What are we doing here Smurf?” Pope asks gruffly.
She gives him a sly look “Lena is in there” she tells him “They’re a nice couple with another little girl living with them. Now you know where she is”
He looks at her for the first time since entering the vehicle. He knew the information he was given was going to cost him. But he would let Smurf drag him to hell with her before he let it touch you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A couple of days later Smurf called Andrew over to the house. You insisted on going with him, you knew you would have to face Smurf sooner or later.
You walked into the house to find Smurf in Derans old room. She’d had completely painted it in pink, there was a child’s bed with floral bedding. Smurf was hanging up new pink clothing in the closet, you could see Lena’s name on the closet door.
“What’s going on?” Pope asks her gruffly.
Smurf turns giving you both a sickly sweet smile “Lena’s coming home baby, they’re giving me custody”
Pope glances at you shock painting his face. He turns back to Smurf confusion lacing his tone “What? When?”
Smurf continues hanging the ridiculous amount of pink clothing “They’re dropping her off this afternoon, and we’re gonna have a party to welcome her home” she tells him. She then turns to you “And we will also need to start planning a baby shower for my newest grandbaby” she says to you with a sharp smile.
You numbly look back at her “I haven’t even had my first ultrasound yet…”
“Well” Smurf claps her hands together “We need to get that booked, I won’t miss hearing that babies heartbeat”
“Right….” You croak out your heart beating in your ears “Excuse me I need some air” you say bolting for the back door.
Smurf looks at Pope fake sympathy on her face “Poor thing, first pregnancies are so hard”
Pope gives Smurf a hard look “The first ultrasound will just be the two of us” he tells her calmly.
“Well baby I just want to be involved” she pouts.
“You can plan the damn baby shower buy all the baby shit you want but the doctors appointments will be me and Scout alone” Pope says in a stern tone.
Smurf gives him a calculating look “Ok baby, whatever you want” and then she turns back to organizing the closet.
Pope leaves to find you in the backyard and finds you sitting next to Craig at the pool. Craig looks up as Pope approaches “Why is this the first I’m finding out you’re gonna be a Dad?” He asks Pope grabbing him in a bear hug.
Pope shoves Craig away “We weren’t telling anyone yet”
Craig looks at the two of you with the biggest smile “I am really happy for you guys, you’re gonna be the sickest parents”
Pope comes to sit beside you putting a hand softly on your stomach “How are you feeling? Any nausea?”
You give him a small smile shaking your head “No I just had to get away from her before my head exploded”
Craig speaks up then “Yeah about that, you’re not actually going to let Smurf into your ultrasound appointment are you?”
Pope gives him a withering glare “No. I told her she can plan the baby shower and buy all the baby shit she wants but the doctors appointments will just be the two of us”
You let out a relieved breath taking his hand in yours “Thank you” you say giving him a light kiss on the lips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pope takes you home after that. Giving Smurf the excuse that your morning sickness had gotten worse so you would be missing the party but would by to see Lena later.
As you walk in the door you rub your neck stretching it trying to release the tension. “I think I need to take a shower after that” you say “something about being there made me feel dirty”
Pope grunts a laugh kissing your temple. He pulls you into his arms tucking your head underneath his chin.
You wrap your arms around him inhaling his scent. You hadn’t done enough of this lately. Between the morning sickness and the stress the two of you really hadn’t made the time for it. You lean back to catch his lips with yours. He kisses you back immediately his arms tightening around you. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth and he groans sliding his tongue into your mouth.
You moan sliding your hands under his shirt feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms. You reach up shoving his jacket off his shoulders. He pulls back only long enough to pull your tshirt over your head, he then trails his lips up your neck sucking at the tender spot behind your ear.
You mewl at the sensation palming his erection through his jeans. He groans at the contact and walks the two of you backwards towards the couch. He sits on the couch pulling you into his lap so you are straddling him. You work the buttons on his shirt desperate to have him naked beneath you.
He shrugs his shirt off and pulls your mouth back to his. He unclasps your bra throwing it somewhere across the room. You gasp as he ducks his head sucking a nipple into his mouth flicking it with his tongue. You roll your hips over the bulge in his jeans desperate for any kind of friction as your cunt pulses.
“Andy please….” you beg breathlessly.
He lifts you off his lap and drops to his knees in front of you undoing your jeans, pulling them down your legs and helping you step out of them. He then does the same with your soaked panties. Pope presses his face into your bare cunt licking a broad stripe through your folds and you let out a loud moan “Fuck baby you taste good” he groans.
He stands crashing his lips to yours shoving his tongue into your mouth so you can taste yourself and you let a pathetic sound. You grab at his belt buckle undoing his jeans. You shove them down his legs with his boxers and push him back to sit on the couch as you crawl over him to straddle him again.
He takes his hard length rubbing it through your soaked folds “God you’re so fucking wet for me baby” he whispers in a gravelly voice.
“Please baby please I need you in me so fucking bad” you whine.
Pope groans “I know sweet girl, I know I’m gonna take care of you” he lines himself up with your entrance slowly pushing himself in an inch at a time.
You’re so pent up at this point you don’t want to wait. You push yourself down spearing yourself on him as you both let out a loud moan. You hold onto his shoulders as you begin to roll your hips. It hits that sweet spot inside of you so perfectly you’re fighting for air “Fuck” you squeak out.
Pope grabs onto your hips guiding your movements “That’s it baby use my cock to make yourself cum”
You begin moving faster feeling the roughness of the hair at his pubic bone rubbing your clit bringing you closer to your climax. Pope keeps whispering to you “Good girl, just like that” and you can feel that familiar coil tightening. Pope sucks a nipple into his mouth and the coil snaps and you cry out his name.
He takes over the pace as you ride out your orgasm fucking into your harder and faster holding you close. You crush your lips to his sucking his tongue into your mouth and he comes undone emptying himself into you as he groans into your mouth.
You break apart both of you breathing heavily. He looks up at you his eyes heavy “Are you ok?”
You give him a shy smile “yah I’m good”
He nods picking you up and carrying you to the shower. He washes you gently getting on his knees to clean the mess he made between your thighs. You run your fingers through his curls and he presses a soft kiss to your stomach and says softly “I love you”
You smile and ask “are you talking to me or the baby?”
He looks up at you a shy smile on his face “Both”
Tears prick the back of your eyes and you pull him to his feet and wrap your arms around him. “We love you too” you say softly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After your shower he makes sure you’re comfortable on the couch before he leaves to go back to Smurfs. He gives you a soft kiss before heading out the door. “Tell Lena I can’t wait to see her” you tell him.
He smiles at you and nods over his shoulder. You stay on the couch for a while just mindlessly watching a nature documentary. It’s barely an hour later when Pope comes back through the door with Lena in tow.
Your eyes widen in shock as you take her in. “What’s going on?” You ask. Lena runs over to you giving you a hug and you squeeze her tight. “I missed you so much Lena Bena” you tell her.
Pope gives a small smile at the exchange and looks at Lena “Go pack a bag we’re gonna go on a trip for a while” he tells her.
You spin looking at Pope “What are you talking about?” You ask. You realize this had been his plan along. He had planned for the three of you to run. You start to shake your head “Andy….” You say softly.
“Where will I go to school?” Lena asks.
He looks at her and shrugs “We’ll figure it out when we get there”
Lena looks at him sadly “But what about Bella?”
“Bella?” He asks her confused.
“We lived there together we were gonna be sisters” she explains.
Your heart breaks. She wanted to go back. You meet Popes eyes over her head a silent exchange going between you. He swallows roughly “We’re your family” he tells her.
“But I make you sad” she says in a small voice.
“I’m not sad” he scoffs. You give him a knowing look and he meets your eyes his shoulders drooping.
You look at Lena “Lena do you want to live with your foster family?” You ask her softly.
She looks at you tentatively and gives you a small nod. You feel the tears burning your eyes as you look at Pope. He nods sadly and the three of you head to the truck to take her back to her new family.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leaving Lena had been horrible. You cried. Pope cried. But the foster family was so grateful to have her back it almost made it worth it.
Pope pulled over to the side of the road holding onto the steering wheel with white knuckles. “How am I supposed to be a Father when I couldn’t look after her?” He asks roughly tears running down his cheeks.
You place a hand softly on his arm “You did exactly what a good Father would do” you tell him your voice breaking “you did what was best for her no matter how much it hurt you”
He nods sniffling. “Do you really think I can be a good dad?” He asks quietly.
You give him a watery smile “Andy you are you going to be the best Dad”
He takes a deep shaky breath “I love you so fucking much you know that right?” He asks you.
You nod “I do. And I love you so fucking much too and I’m so proud of you Andy”
Pope pulls the truck back onto the road and you drive back to Smurfs. The two of you walk into the house and there are people milling about everywhere.
Smurf finds the two of you quickly. “Where’s Lena?” She asks.
Pope gives her an even look “we took her back to her foster family that’s where she belongs”
Smurf sneers at the two of you “And what is to stop me from going and getting her right now?”
Pope freezes and you panic. You know she has that power and all you want for Lena is for her to have a good peaceful life. “What do you want Smurf?” You ask her softly.
She gives you a poisonous smile “I think the two of you should move back into the house. You’ll need help once that baby comes along don’t you think?”
You swallow harshly “If we do that will you leave her alone?”
She looks at you triumphantly “I’ll forget she ever existed” she shrugs.
You look at Pope and you can see the rage bubbling under the surface. “Fine” he grunts out.
She gives him a sickly sweet smile coming forward and pressing a kiss against his cheek. You feel bile climb the back of your throat at the action.
The two of you walk away from her going into your old room and sitting on the bed. Neither one of you says a word. You look around the room where so many things had taken place over the years. Late nights you had spent talking to Pope when he had first found you and you couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares. The bad nights when Pope would quietly climb in behind you because Smurf had made him do something he didn’t want to do. The first time Pope had made love to you and the many nights you had spent tangled up in each other after that. You felt the tears running down your face as the realization sank in that the room that had once held so many memories had now become a guilded cage.
Warnings: mentions of murder, mental health issues, depression, suicidal ideation?, being in love with a criminal lmao. If I forgot anything, let me know.
**I will continue this probably and maybe even write the ending of the series in my own way and it will probably HURT LIKE HELL.**
Neither you or Pope knew how long it had been happening. He had been so busy running jobs with his brothers and getting the skate park off the ground he hadn’t notied anything was wrong.
Not until the power went out.
He’d come home, tossed his keys on the counter, and headed for the microwave to heat up some food. Instead, the dark display blinked bakc at him, the clock flashing an unfamiliar time.
Then there was the cereal box.
It was turned the wrong way.
He was particular when it came to keeping things clean and orderly. Some people might’ve called it obsessive, but to him, it was simply the wya things were supposed to be. After parties at Smurf’s, while everyone else slept off hangovers, Pope would be outside picking up beer bottles, sweeping the patio, and taking trash to the curb.
Nothing was ever out of place.
Until now.
And now, he was spiraling.
“Can you relax?” you asked, stepping up behind him and rubbing your hands over his tense shoulders.
A heavy sigh escaped him.
Pope glanced toward the sliding glass doors before dragging a hand over his face. “A cop’s tailing me.”
“Let’s make sure first, okay?” you said softly. “No spiraling until then.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek.
If you were being honest, the thought of Pope ending up back behind the bars terrified you.
Baz was gone. Smurf was gone.
That only left Pope, Craig, Deran, and J.
And if Pope went back to jail—prison this time, more likely—you had a feeling he wouldn’t be coming home for a very long time.
The worst part is you knew exactly what he was capable of.
You knew what happened to his sister-in-law.
You knew Smurf had put the idea in his head, twisting and manipulating until he couldn’t tell where her voice ended and his began. Somehow, she always found a way to get inside his head, to convince him that whatever she wanted was the only choice he had.
Smurf might have been dead, but the damange she’d done to Pope was still very much alive.
“What if they know I killed Cath?”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But until we know what this is, you’re not going to sit here and convince yourself it’s already over.”
“There was this woman,” he said quietly. “She told me she was looking for Taylor. I spent half the day driving her around town, helping her look for him.”
A bitter laugh escaped him as he looked away.
“I should’ve known she was a fucking cop.”
“Andrew.” You said his name firmly, waiting until his eyes found yours. “Stop.”
He held your gaze for a moment before giving a small nod. “Okay.”
Little did you know, he barely slept that night.
He spent most of it lying awake.
Sometimes he turned away from you, staring out through the blinds. Other times he lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. And when neither of those helped quiet his mind, he turned toward you and watched you sleep soundly beside him.
Sleep never came easy when he had this much to lose.
The next day, Pope headed straight for the skate park.
The moment he spotted Taylor, he made a beeline for him.
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” he demanded.
Taylor barely had time to react before Pope was in his face, his patience already gone. Every sleepless hour from the night before had only made him more agitated.
“Because if you’re keeping something from me,” Pope warned. “you’re gonna start talking. Right now.”
Eventually, Taylor cracked.
He admitted he’d been talking to a cop—a detective who had been pretending to be his mother the entire time.
Worse, he confessed that she had broken into the Cody house herself. The power outage. The things being moved around. Every little detail had been carefully orchestrated to get inside Pope’s head and make him paranoid.
It had worked.
Pope didn’t tell you any of it, but by the time he left the skate park, he’d already decided to take matters into his own hands.
Unfortunately for him, the detective was one step ahead.
When Pope finally confronted her, she made it clear she knew exactly what he’d done to Catherine.
The words hit him like a freight train.
For a moment, everything around him started to fall away. The noise. The anger. The plan he’d spent all night obsessing over.
Gone.
His entire world shattered with a single confession.
That’s when Pope finally came clean to his brothers and nephew.
He told his brothers, Deran and Craig, as well as J, the truth about what happened to Catherine.
The confession landed exactly how you’d expect.
J took the news better than anyone else, remaining surprisingly calm as Pope explained everything. Craig, on the other hand, was so shaken that he got up and left. Deran didn’t say much at all. Instead, he closed the bar down early and crashed there.
That was the moment it felt like the family started to come apart at the seams.
In the days that followed, J reached out to an attorney for advice. After hearing the situation, the attorney told them the best thing Pope could do was turn himself in for the assault chargers involving Taylor.
If he was going to be investigated, cooperation would work in his favor.
At least, that was the hope.
Both you and Deran went with Pope to the police department the day he turned himself in. The attorney was already waiting when you arrived.
The entire walk inside felt surreal, as if you were watching someone else’s life unfold instead of your own. No one said much. There wasn’t anything left to say.
When the officers moved to handcuff him, Pope turned and looked at you.
Just looked at you.
The sight of those handcuffs around his wrists felt like a punch to the chest.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
You watched as the officers began reading him his Miranda rights, but the words barely registered. Their voices faded into the background, becoming nothing mroe than distant noise. Your mind drifted somewhere far away, disconnecting from the reality unfolding in front of you.
Because if you let yourself fully process what was happening, you weren’t sure you’d survive it.
Deran stepped closer and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a gentle side hug.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmyred, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “This isn’t forever.”
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to.
But as you watched Pope disappear further into the police station, it felt impossible. The officers continued speaking to him, explaining his rights and the next steps. Pope listened quietly, his expression unreadable.
He knew the drill.
He’d been through this before.
The moment they tried asking questions, he gave them the only answer they getting.
“I want my attorney.”
And that was that.
No explanations. No excuses. No conversation.
Just silence and a lawyer.
The way he’d learned long ago.
But everything changed when the detective managed to get him alone. As soon as they placed Pope in the interrogation room, she started pushing. She laid photographs across the table. Photographs of Catherine.
Or what was left of her.
Years had passed since her death. The woman in the pictures was gone, reduced to little more than skeletal remains.
Pope tried not to look. Tried not to react.
The detective noticed. And she pressed harder.
She told him that if the case went to trial, Lena could end up being involved. That one day she might have to hear every detail of what happened to her mother.
Worse, she implied Lena could be forced to see the photographs.
The thought alone made him sick.
She claimed she knew you had known about Catherine’s death all along. That you helped keep the secret. That she could charge you as an accessory.
It was a bluff.
At least, Pope hoped it was.
But sititng there, staring at those photographs while the detective threatened the two people he cared about most, certainty became a lot harder to hold onto.
For the first time since turning himself in, he felt the walls beginning to close in.
And he confessed.
After evwerything—the attorney, the warnings, the promises to keep his mouth shut—he admitted to killing Catherine.
You didn’t know what had happened inside that room.
You only knew something was wrong the moment the detective walked back out.
She was smiling.
The sight of it made your stomach drop.
Beside you, Deran immediately straightened.
“When is he coming home?” he asked.
The detective’s smile never faltered. “Oh, he’ll be spending the night with us.”
A knot formed in yourt throat.
“Why?” Deran demanded.
The detective glanced between the two of you.
“Because he confessed to murdering Catherine Belen.”
The words hit like a ton of bricks. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt beneath your feet.
No.
No, no, no.
Pope wasn’t supposed to talk.
He knew better than that.
You could barly hear anything over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his attorney’s expression darken. Furious didn’t even begin to cover it. Without another word, he stormed past the detective and disappeared down the hallway to speak with Pope. Leaving you and Deran standing there in stunned silence.
On the way home, you let go.
It didn’t happen all at once, but slowly—like something inside you finally gave out.
Deran kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching over as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or leave you alone.
“Hey,” he said quietly, trying to pull you back from wherever you’d gone. “We’re gonna figure this out.”
You didn’t respond immediately.
Not because you didn’t hear him.
But because you weren’t sure you believed him.
You didn’t remember pulling into the Cody driveway. You didn’t rememeber the car coming to a stop or Deran helping you out of your seat.
One moment you were staring blankly out the window, and the next you were standing outside on the patio.
Everything in between was a blur.
The second you stepped ont he patio, J was on his feet.
His expression tightened as he looked past you, as if expecting Pope to come behind you.
“Where’s Pope?” he asked.
Deran’s eyes found yours first.
When it became clear you weren’t going to speak, he let out a quiet sigh and explained everything to J.
For the rest of the night, Deran did everything he could to make sure you were okay.
He brought you food at one point, setting the plate down beside you and gently encouraging you to eat. You never touched it.
Mostly, you sat alone in the bedroom.
Sometimes you stared at the wall. Sometimes at the empty space beside you on the bed.
Everytime you looked at it, your chest tightened.
Pope was supposed to be there.
Instead, he was sitting in a jail cell.
Eventually, you crawled beneath the covers and curled into his side of the bed, clutching one of his pillows to your chest.
It still smelled like him.
That was your breaking point.
The tears came harder than before, and sometime during the early hours of the morning, you cried yourself to sleep.
At least, what little sleep your aching heart allowed.
You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, you stopped caring whether the sun rose and the day began.
Life was beginning to lose its purpose.
Without Pope, everything felt meaningless.
The days blurred together. The house felt too quiet. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t have him in it.
Deran grew so concerned about you that after a few days, he started dragging you to the bar with him. He claimed he needed the extra help, but you both knew that wasn’t the real reason. He just didn’t want you sitting home alone.
Deran and J wasted no time making arrangements. Whatever favors needed to be called in were called. Whatever money needed to change hands did.
One way or another, they were going to make sure Pope was taken care of on the inside.
The morning of the visit, you almost backed out.
You’d spent days barely holding yourself together, and now you were expected to sit across from Pope and see him like this.
Behind glass.
Like a stranger.
Like a criminal.
Deran noticed your hesitation the second you walked into the kitchen.
“You ready?” he asked.
No.
Not even clsoe.
Still, you nodded.
The drive to the jail passed in a blur. Deran tried making conversation a few times, but neither of you had much to say.
The reality of where you were going sat heavily between you.
By the time you arrived, your stomach was in knots.
The correctional officer led you through a series of locked doors before stopping in front of a visitation room.
Rows of thick glass divided the room in half.
Telephones hung from the walls on either side.
Your chest tightened.
This was real.
Pope was really here.
The officer directed you and Deran toward a pair of chairs. “Wait here.”
You sat down.
Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Minutes ticked by. Then the door on the opposite side opened.
You breath caught.
Pope stepped into the room.
For a moment, nobody moved.
He still looked good. Hair still dark and curly. He might have been a little thinner.
But something was missing from his eyes.
Something defeated.
The sight of him nearly broke you.
Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair across from you. The glass separating you felt a thousand miles thick. You stared at each other. Neither of you knowing where to begin.
Eventially, Pope reached for the phone.
You did the same.
The second his voice came through the receiver, your eyes filled with tears.
“Hey.”
His voice was rough. Like he hadn’t used it much.
You swallowed hard. “Hey.”
A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Neither of you spoke for several seconds. You were too busy looking at him. Memorizing him. Trying to convince yourself he was actually sitting there.
Pope glanced down at the floor.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were barely audible.
Your throat tightened.
“Andrew—”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
You felt tears spill down your cheeks.
On the other side of the glass, Pope looked just as miserable.
He lifted a hand and placed it against the glass barrier.
Instinctively, you mirrored the gesture. Your palm pressed against the glass directly across from his.
So close.
Yet completely unable to touch him.
The reality of it shattered whatever composure you had left.
“I miss you,” you whispered.
Pope closed his eyes.
For a second, he looked like the words physically hurt him.
When he opened them again, they were glassy.
“I miss you too.”
Behind you, Deran quietly looked away, giving the two of you whatever privacy he could. Because for the first time since Pope had been arrested, you were finally together.
And somehow, the glass between you made his absene hurt even more.
Pope looked away first, his jaw tightening as he stared down at the phone in his hand.
"How's Lena?"
The question came softer than everything else, like it cost him something just to ask.
You swallowed before answering.
"She's okay."
Pope's eyes searched yours immediately.
"Yeah?"
You nodded.
"She's still with the foster family."
A flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"They take good care of her, Andrew. She's got friends there. She's doing well in school."
Pope listened quietly.
You knew how hard that decision had been for him.
"I went to see her last week," you continued gently. "She's happy."
For a moment, he looked down at the phone in his hand.
Then he nodded.
A small, sad smile touched his lips.
"Good."
His voice was rough.
"That's good."
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.
"She shouldn't have to deal with this," he muttered.
"Andrew—"
"She already lost her dad." His voice cracked. "She lost her mom. Smurf. Now this."
He swallowed hard, struggling to hold himself together.
"I don't want her dragged through court."
Your chest tightened.
"They told me what the detective said," you whispered.
Pope let out a humorless breath. "Yeah."
His eyes finally lifted to yours.
"They would've brought Lena into it. Put her on a stand. Made her hear everything."
A tear slipped down your cheek.
"Andrew—"
"I can't do that to her."
The words were final. Unshakable.
"I won't."
Silence settled between you, heavy and suffocating.
Then his gaze shifted, sharper now.
"Same goes for you."
Your breath caught. "What?"
"They were already talking about you," he said, grip tightening on the phone. "Saying you knew. Saying they could charge you."
"It doesn't matter," you said quickly.
"It matters to me."
That was the first real crack in his voice.
"It matters."
His eyes shone now, held too much in them.
"I already ruined enough lives."
"No," you said immediately.
"Yes."
The word came out rough.
"Lena," he said quietly.
"J. Craig. Deran."
Then, almost barely audible—
"You."
Your heart broke at that.
You leaned closer to the glass.
"Look at me."
He didn't move at first.
"Andrew."
Slowly, his eyes lifted.
And when they met yours, you felt everything inside you tighten.
"I love you," you said softly.
The words hung in the space between you, heavy and absolute.
Pope's breath hitched.
His eyes closed for a second, like it physically hurt to hear it.
When he opened them again, they were glassy.
"I don't deserve that," he whispered.
"That's not your choice," you said.
Your hand pressed harder against the glass.
"And I'm not going anywhere."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
You swallowed hard, voice shaking but steady enough to hold him.
"I love you, Andrew."
This time, he didn't argue.
He just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the sound of it.
Like it was something he might lose again the second he blinked.
Slowly, he lifted his hand and pressed it to the glass over yours.
And for the first time since he'd been locked inside those walls, he didn't look completely alone.
I'd appreciate if you could leave out the stoma since I don't have one. I actually just had my infusion appointment and it didn't go so well (I sometimes pass out and/or have seizures when needles or IVs are involved, not sure why) and that happened today. Was a little scary, if I'm being honest :(
I'd love to specifically request a fic where Jack comforts reader after a situation like what happened to me. Maybe he's in the room while reader has a seizure or passes out and he goes full on doctor mode but also like comforting and stuff. Maybe friends to lovers or something. I'm gonna let you decide!
Have a nice day 🩷
initial request here
hiii my darling i'm sorry to hear that it didn't go well :(
I hope this gives you some comfort, sending you lots of love <333
tw: medical settings, needles, seizure, fainting
word count: 2k-ish
Comfort
"Are you avoiding me?" Jack found you one evening hiding in a quiet room.
"No" yes.
"Liar" he smirked. "What's up?"
"What's up, with you?" you attempted to occupy yourself with something so you didn't have to look him in the eye.
"Hey" he said softly as he held your hands "talk to me"
"I don't know what you want me to say"
"Why are you avoiding me?"
"Because Jack.." you choked up "I can't be what you want me to be"
"My girlfriend?" he said quietly
You nodded.
"So... you agree to do on multiple dates with me, then tell me you like me too..." Jack stated, "but then when I make it official, you say no?"
You looked at the floor and mumbled "exactly"
Jack chuckled to himself, "you don't even sound convinced yourself!"
"I'm not"
He rested his forehead on yours. "You usually tell me everything, so why not now?"
"Jack do you know how it feels like to date someone with a chronic illness?"
"No really but-"
"It's difficult, it's different and... it's exhausting"
"But I knew all of what when I asked you out"
"You can't be a doctor, you- you have to not be... a doctor"
"A boyfriend, yes I know" Jack smiled. "And i'm prepared for that."
You let go of his hand and stepped back, "I don't know if I am, i'm sorry"
Jack watched you walk away from him, but he wasn't disappointed that you did. He wasn't the kind of man who gave up that easily, especially when it came to love.
And Jack had always been a winner.
He knew why you hesitated whenever the idea of dating him 'officially' came up. You saw your chronic illness as a burden, something you believed you had to carry alone. You had convinced yourself that no one would willingly walk that difficult path with you.
But you were wrong.
And Jack wanted to do everything in his power to prove it.
A text came through from Jack the morning of your infusion.
Good luck today
You took a deep breath in, counted to five, then slowly let a shaky breath out. "shit, shit, shit"
You will do great. I believe in you.
"No, I won't!" you yelled to yourself.
The phone buzzed again, but you didn't even look at it. You were far too anxious for the long day ahead, and weren't too sure if you would be able to go ahead with it or not.
Maybe you could cancel the infusion. Maybe you could go back to immunosuppressant tablets. Gosh you'd even take suppositories or the granules that taste like absolute garbage. There were a million maybes, but only one thing for definite - you needed to try out the infusion for 'a better quality of life' as many, many doctors told you.
Thank you, Jack. I don't know how I'm going to get through it.
You put on practical clothing: joggers for comfort, a tank top so they'd have different access points to your veins, and a cardigan. The hospital was far too cold, and the doctor had already warned you that the infusion would make you incredibly chilly.
You packed your bag, let out another shaky breath, tried not to vomit and stepped out of the apartment to hail down a taxi.
But someone was already outside waiting.
Jack leaned against his car, arms crossed over his chest as he smiled at you.
You smiled the second you saw him. "What are you doing here!"
"It's infusion day" he said casually. "You thought I was going to let you take a taxi there? or go on your own?"
You threw your arms over him and he pulled you in for a tight hug. "Thank you, you're the absolute best"
The drive over to the clinic was quiet, because despite your excitement of Jack accompanying you, you were still far too nervous.
Jack also surprised you with a blanket that he had packed because he 'looked up the side effects' and he knew you'd be cold. And he also brought over a lot of snacks, but you felt too bad about telling him that you were too nauseous to eat.
You tapped your pen on the clipboard, leg bouncing up and down so he gently put one hand over your thigh.
"It's just... I hate this" you said quietly, "i don't know what to expect and what they'll do and if it's going to hurt and-"
"hey, hey, breathe" Jack shifted over and cupped your face. "One step at a time. If it hurts, or the side effects are too severe, then we'll ask them to stop it. It's as simple as that"
"It's not... though"
"Sorry, that's the doctor in me talking." he smiled "There might not be a cure to all problems, but there is always a temporary fix. And I can help you find that temporary fix, alright?"
You nodded and felt yourself choke up as they called out your name.
The nurse explained how the infusion would work, a total of two hours, given there are no complications. They'd given you antihistamines beforehand to prevent an allergic reaction. "You might feel sleepy for a bit, but there is a recliner chair you can lie on" she said, and you nodded nervously.
Jack noticed how you instantly tensed up as you sat in the cold, infusion chair. You squeezed your fingers into a fist and closed your eyes, feeling the nausea kick in again.
"Hey, do you mind giving us a minute?" Jack said quietly to the nurse.
"Sweetheart" Jack said as he sat on the edge of the chair "Look at me"
"I can't" you sniffed back tears
"Okay, that's okay. I'm gonna hold your hand and we're gonna slow your breathing down okay?"
You nodded, feeling the anxiety choking you up slowly.
"Pay attention to my hands, just focus on what i'm doing"
He held your hand carefully, resting it in his palm as his fingers moved in slow, soothing circles across your skin. "Don't focus on anything else; just think of what I'm doing"
You nodded again.
"I want you to take a deep breath for me, very slowly are you ready?"
You rasped, "no"
Jack let out a small chuckle, "okay let's just... breathe in normally. One... two...three..."
You did exactly as he said, "good, that's really good. One more you can do it."
"Shit" you muttered, "i've had a panic attack and i've not even started yet"
"Do you want to call it a day? we can leave, get out of here, and pretend that today is a fuck it day."
"A fuck it day?" you raised a surprised eyebrow.
"Maybe... once you get the infusion, we can have a fuck it day. We can do anything and everything we want."
The nurse had now come back and with a soft whisper, she asked if you were ready.
You looked at Jack who smiled and nodded in reassurance.
"Let's do this" you said shakily.
"May I ask who's accompanying you today?"
"Uh.. my boyfriend." You said, eyes glancing between her and Jack.
Jack instantly grinned, like he had just won the lottery.
"He's a doctor so excuse him if he... gets all medical"
You saw how his cheeks blushed as he bit down on his bottom lip in excitement. The nurse took your observations, and then got your arm ready for the infusion.
"Are you usually okay with needles?"
"Uh... sometimes I faint. Haven't in a while." You said nervously. "I'm not scared of them though... it just happens."
"Okay we can adjust the chair if that happens" she said. "Sharp scratch?"
You held onto Jack’s hand with your free hand and looked at him instead of the nurse.
Jack asked, attempting to distract you, "What do you want to do on fuck it day?"
"Uh..." you tapped your fingers nervously, "I've always wanted to get multiple takeouts in one night and just have a bit of everything."
"Like an at home buffet?"
You winced as the nurse adjusted the cannula. "Something like that"
"That can be easily arranged" he smiled, "anything else?"
"I.." you shook your head, feeling yourself get incredibly hot despite the cold room, "i want to-"
"Keep your eyes on me" Jack said as he saw you starting to shake.
But you couldn't see anything because your head tipped back, eyes rolling back as your body started to seize.
"Shit" Jack pushed off his stool. He barked at the nurse, "adjust the chair"
"Huh?" She was confused by his sudden authoritative voice but did as he asked.
"Time it" Jack hovered over your body as it seized, careful to keep you from hitting anything. "She has no history of seizures so this is most likely a convulsive syncope." He looked at another nurse who walked over to help. "Get your attending in please just in case"
Once the seizing stopped, the nurse attached all the monitors back on you. Meanwhile, Jack, felt your strong and steady pulse, sighing in relief. He then pushed your legs up in the air, attempting to increase blood circulation to bring your blood pressure back up.
"BP is 80/60" she said. "HR 45, oxygen 100%"
You opened your eyes slowly, immediately wincing as the bright lights overhead burned against your vision. Jack hovered his hand over your eyes to shield them. "Hey sweetheart, I bet you're feeling dizzy?"
"You can say that" you said faintly "I heard everything but it was all dark"
"Does that usually happens when you faint?"
You nodded.
"You had a seiz-" the nurse said but Jack put his hand out to stop her.
"A few people are going to rush in here, but I don't want you to panic"
"Why?"
"Sometimes when people faint... they seize. But it's harmless. It's scary as fuck though"
"I did, didn't i?"
Jack nodded.
"My legs hurt"
"That would be the muscles seizing up, but it usually goes away pretty quickly"
The attending arrived, a million minutes later, and he explained what Jack had already said. He insisted you'd reschedule the infusion but you looked at Jack waiting for him to say something.
He understood that look you had in your eyes. The look that said i'm too tired to keep making decisions.
"How's the blood pressure doing?" Jack asked.
"Back to normal" the nurse replied.
"Any implications if she does go ahead with the infusion?"
"No... but she probably needs to rest"
"What do you want to do?" Jack asked.
"I want to get it over with."
"Then let's get it over with." Jack said firmly as he turned back to the attending.
He nodded and did as you wanted.
Jack wrapped the blanket over you, and set up an iPad next to your chair. "I pre-downloaded some stuff" he said casually.
You lay back in the chair, watching Jack instead of the movie, admiring everything he had done so far for you.
"Hey Jack?" you asked, "What does dating something with a chronic illness mean to you?"
"It means... the same as dating anyone else who doesn't have a chronic illness but also different." He spoke softly, " it means that I'm not going to treat you any differently than if you didn't have a chronic illness... but I might throw in some extra marshmallows to the hot chocolate."
You chuckled as you said, "what?"
"Okay, say you're making a hot chocolate. Hot chocolate being... dating" he murmured and you just laughed at him. "I'd still make it to perfection but... for someone like you, I'd probably add extra marshmallows. Maybe some extra whipped cream. But I wouldn't tell you that I've done that."
"Can I ask why... you wouldn't tell me about the extra marshmallows?" you smirked as you said it, in disbelief at the silly but wonderful terminology he had come up with.
"Because by treating someone differently based on their illness, that might... sometimes... make them feel like a burden. And I know you already feel that sometimes. You're not a burden, you will never be one. So take the extra marshmallows, and ask for the hot chocolates every day if you want to. I'll happily make you one"
"You would do that for me?"
"Gosh i would do so much more if you let me"
You shifted off the chair slowly and reached for him. "So when's our next date?'
"I thought it's happening.. as we speak?"
"You thought this was a date!" you squealed.
"This was just the appetiser, just wait for the dessert" he smirked as he kissed you.
The drive home felt lighter than the journey to the clinic. You felt accomplished with a huge sense of relief.
The anxiety lingered in the back of your mind, though, as you thought of the next infusion. But knowing that Jack would be by your side might make it a little bit easier.
Extra marshmallows you reminded yourself. And whipped cream.
"Jack, why are there six takeout bags at my front door?" You said as you stepped out of the elevator.
"it's a little taster, for fuck it day" he smiled as he picked up the bags.
You were too stunned to say anything as you followed him into your apartment.
"Would you like me to present?"
Your jaw was wide open in surprise as you nodded.
"Drum roll please..." he said, and so you tapped your hands on the counter.
"A classic..” Jack presented the first bag. "America's favourite. The leading cause of obesity and heart disease. It's a.... McDonald's!"
You tipped your head back and laughed at him.
"Next up is another classic, but probably more in Japan than here. We have multiple platters of sushi!"
He presented the third, fourth and so on.
Jack took care of you that night, and every other night.
He, as you predicted, may have jumped into doctor mode once or twice. But he always made you hot chocolate, and your cup certainly overflowed with marshmallows.
-
note: writing about chronic illness is always so difficult but yet it's my favourite to write about. i have a huge admiration for anyone going through it.
it's unpredictable, it's ugly (i'm not sugar coating shit here), it's difficult. But don't let it define your life. You can define your life however you choose to. chronic illness is a diagnosis on a piece of paper. your diagnosis is a piece of you, but it's not all of you. sometimes it feels like your illness may be dictating your day, but on days when it isn't, don't forget to let that bitch know who's boss ;)
sending lots of love to the chronic illness baddies out there <3
{Learning the House - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}
Sorry for not posting for a few days, I have just been doing a lot of planning for this series moving forward. This is not ending anytime soon.
Andrew woke before the house did.
For a few seconds, he did not move.
He did not know where he was.
That had happened twice in the night already. Once when a car passed outside and threw a pale stripe of headlights across the ceiling. Once when the pipes clicked somewhere in the walls and his body jolted awake before his mind could understand that the sound was not a door, not a lock, not someone coming to count him.
Now the room was dim and blue with early morning.
Quiet.
Not prison quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that waited with teeth.
House quiet.
A radiator ticking softly. A bird somewhere outside. Your breathing beside him, slow and warm, your face half-buried in the pillow, one hand tucked under your cheek. His shirt was twisted around your body, worn soft from years of belonging to both of you. One of your bare legs was tangled with his beneath the sheets.
Andrew stared at the ceiling.
Then at you.
Then at the ceiling again.
Home.
The word still felt too large to fit inside his chest.
He had said it last night.
In the hallway, with Andie in his arms.
In the nursery, after the duck book.
In this bed, after the lights went off and the house settled around the three of you like it had been waiting to exhale.
But saying it and surviving the first night inside it were different.
He turned his head carefully toward you.
You were asleep.
Really asleep.
Not the shallow kind of sleep from prison visiting-room nights, when you had called him too late and tried to pretend your voice wasn't fraying. Not the exhausted newborn sleep where you could wake at the smallest sound of Andie's breath changing through the monitor. This was deep, heavy, unguarded sleep.
He had missed watching you sleep.
That was a strange thing to miss.
Maybe a creepy thing, if he said it wrong.
But he had.
He had missed the proof of you resting. The ordinary miracle of your body trusting a room enough to let go.
His hand rested lightly at your waist.
It had been there when he woke.
He did not remember putting it there.
For two years, his hands had learned rules.
Hands visible.
Hands to yourself.
Hands behind your back.
Hands off the glass.
Hands returning his daughter before a guard could tell him to.
Last night, his hands had learned something else again.
Your skin.
Your hair.
The soft give of your waist beneath his palm.
The way you had said his name in the dark like you were returning it to him.
It had been nearly two years since he had been allowed to want you without a guard outside the door. Without a phone line thinning your voice. Without a clock deciding when his hands had to let go.
So the night had not been rushed.
It had been careful.
Almost disbelieving.
Andrew had kissed you like he was still waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell him time was up.
No one had.
He had stopped twice to ask if you were sure.
Then a third time, because his body could believe in touch faster than his mind could believe in permission.
You had taken his face in both hands, eyes wet and steady in the dark.
"Yes," you had whispered. "I'm sure."
His forehead had dropped against yours.
"You can say no."
"I know."
"You can tell me to stop."
"I know."
"You don't have to—"
"Andrew."
He had gone still.
You had brushed your thumb under his eye.
"I want my husband," you had said, so softly it nearly broke him. "I want you. And you're home. And no one is coming to take this away."
That was when he had finally understood.
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to kiss you again.
Enough to let his hand settle at your hip.
Enough to follow your body's familiar map slowly, carefully, like someone returning to a place he had been afraid he would never be allowed to enter again.
After, you had cried.
So had he.
Neither of you had made a thing of it.
You had lain tangled together under the sheets, his face pressed to your hair, your hand over his heart, both of you breathing like you had run a very long way and only just realized you had stopped.
At some point, you had fallen asleep against him.
Andrew had stayed awake longer.
Not because he wanted to.
Because no one told him when to sleep anymore.
Because the door was not locked.
Because the room smelled like you and laundry detergent and home.
Because his daughter was sleeping down the hall.
Because his wife was in his arms.
Because he had spent two years surviving the idea of this and now that he had it, his body did not know how to believe it quietly.
You shifted in your sleep.
His hand tightened at your waist before he could stop it.
You made a soft sound and settled again.
Andrew let out a slow breath.
Then, down the hall, Andie screamed.
"Mama!"
Your eyes opened immediately.
Not fully.
Just enough for your body to start moving before your brain arrived.
Andrew felt it happen.
The automatic shift.
The half-asleep reach toward the edge of the bed.
The reflex of fourteen months of being the first answer to every cry.
His hand held you gently in place.
"I've got her," he whispered.
You blinked.
Turned your head.
For a second, you looked at him like you had forgotten he could say that from the same bed.
Then your face softened.
"You sure?"
No.
He was not sure about anything.
His daughter was calling from the green room. His daughter, who knew his voice and his photo and his arms in special visits, but not this. Not morning. Not him opening her curtains and lifting her from the cot and knowing whether she liked to be held immediately or given a second to complain.
He knew prison schedules.
He knew visiting-room rules.
He knew the approved book list.
He knew the exact sound of the automated call connecting.
He did not know breakfast.
He did not know where the wipes were without thinking.
He did not know whether Andie's morning cry meant hungry, wet, angry, lonely, or simply offended by being awake.
But she was calling.
And for the first time, he was there to answer.
"Yeah," he said. "I've got her."
You searched his face.
Then you nodded and sank back into the pillow like your whole body had been waiting fourteen months to be told it could.
"If she has the duck pyjamas on, check the left leg," you mumbled.
Andrew paused with one foot on the floor.
"What?"
"She gets it twisted."
"The duck pyjamas?"
"Mhm."
"Why just the left leg?"
"No one knows."
Your eyes were already closing.
Andrew stared at you.
Then Andie shouted again.
"Mama!"
He stood.
The floor was cold under his feet.
That surprised him too.
Everything did.
The door being open.
The hallway dim and soft.
The framed picture on the landing wall of you heavily pregnant in the green nursery, his shirt stretched over your stomach. The photo of him holding Andie at her first birthday, yellow frosting over his heart.
He passed them slowly.
Too slowly, probably.
Andie made an outraged sound from the nursery.
Right.
Daughter first.
Existential crisis later.
He pushed the nursery door open.
The green room was pale with morning.
Andie stood in her cot, both hands wrapped around the rail, hair wild, cheeks pink, one foot somehow bare despite the sleep sack you had zipped her into last night.
Andrew stopped in the doorway.
She stopped yelling.
For one second, they stared at each other.
Her brow furrowed.
His frown.
Always his frown.
Then her face changed.
Not the huge birthday grin.
Not yet.
Something smaller.
Sleepy recognition.
Confusion and delight trying to exist at the same time.
"Dada?"
Andrew's chest gave out.
Not visibly.
He stayed standing.
Barely.
"Hey, baby girl."
Andie bounced once, gripping the cot rail.
"Da."
"Yeah." He stepped closer. "I'm here."
She looked past him toward the hallway.
"Mama?"
"She's sleeping."
Andie frowned.
Andrew nodded. "I know. Weird."
She stared at him like she agreed.
He lowered the cot rail. Slowly. Carefully. It took him a second to figure out the latch, and Andie waited with the impatience of someone who had never respected a learning curve.
"Hold on," he murmured.
"No," Andie said.
He looked at her.
"That's fair."
The latch gave.
He lifted her out.
Awkwardly at first.
She was heavier than she had been yesterday.
Which made no sense.
And also made perfect sense.
Every time he held her, she felt bigger than the last time. More person. More herself. Less imagined. More impossible to put down.
Andie came against his chest warm and squirmy, her sleep sack bunching between them, one hand going immediately to his neck.
She patted him twice.
Then grabbed his shirt.
"Dada."
Andrew closed his eyes for half a second.
"Yeah."
She leaned back to look at him.
Her hair stuck out in three directions.
There was a crease on one cheek from the sheet.
One sock was gone. The other was half off.
He had never seen anything better in his life.
"You lose a sock?" he asked.
Andie pointed vaguely at nothing.
"Da."
"You blaming me?"
She patted his cheek.
"Okay."
He looked around the nursery.
Wipes on the dresser.
Nappies in the basket.
Sleep sack zipper.
Duck pyjamas.
Left leg twisted.
Of course.
He sat carefully in the rocking chair with her on his lap and tried to fix the sleep sack.
Andie immediately attempted to escape.
"No."
"I'm helping."
"No."
"You got your leg wrong."
"No."
"You're very sure."
She shoved one hand against his chest.
Andrew looked at her solemnly.
"You know, your mom warned me about this."
At the word mom, Andie looked toward the door.
"Mama."
"She's sleeping," Andrew said.
Then, because the words felt strange and good in his mouth, he added, "I've got you."
Andie considered this.
Then yawned directly in his face.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Rude."
She smiled.
The sock fell off.
Andrew stared at her bare foot.
"How?"
By the time you came downstairs forty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene committed by breakfast foods.
Andie was in the highchair wearing only one sock, a clean jumper, and an expression of triumph.
There were banana pieces on the tray.
Banana pieces on the floor.
Banana pieces in her hair.
Toast strips of wildly uneven sizes lay on a plate beside the highchair, some too large, some too small, all clearly cut by a man who had approached toddler breakfast like a tactical operation with incomplete intelligence.
Andrew stood at the counter, holding a tub of yoghurt and reading the back of it with deep suspicion.
You stopped in the doorway.
No one noticed you at first.
Andie slapped the tray.
"Da!"
Andrew looked up immediately. "You have banana."
She slapped harder.
"No."
"You do."
"No."
"Okay."
He looked back at the yoghurt.
You bit your lip.
He had changed clothes. His hair was still messy from sleep. There was a smear of banana on his sleeve. He looked exhausted, overwhelmed, and so intensely focused on the nutritional composition of Greek yoghurt that you nearly started crying.
Again.
Apparently that was still who you were.
"Is she allowed this?" he asked without looking up.
You leaned against the doorway.
"Good morning to you too."
His head snapped up.
His face changed the second he saw you.
Softer.
Wary, too, because he was still Andrew.
His eyes moved over you quickly.
Your face.
Your body.
His T-shirt on you.
The bare legs.
The sleep in your eyes.
The evidence of the night before in the way you stood a little lazily, a little tenderly, like your body had remembered happiness and was still adjusting.
His gaze caught there for half a second.
Your cheeks warmed.
"Good morning," he said, voice lower.
You smiled.
"Hi."
The kitchen went quiet.
Not because there was nothing to say.
Because there was too much.
Andie solved it by throwing banana on the floor.
Andrew looked down.
Then at her.
"Why?"
Andie laughed.
You pushed away from the doorway and crossed the kitchen, stepping around the banana.
"She throws food."
"I see that."
"She does it when she's done, bored, happy, angry, or experimenting with gravity."
"That's all the time."
"Yes."
He looked mildly horrified.
You kissed Andie's sticky hair.
"Morning, chaos goblin."
"Mama."
Your heart melted.
Then you stepped toward Andrew.
His hand came to your waist before you even reached him.
Like it belonged there.
Like he had spent two years not touching you and was now trying, quietly, to make up for every missed second.
You slid your hand over his chest.
"Did you make breakfast?"
"I attempted breakfast."
"You did very well."
He looked at the floor.
"There's banana everywhere."
"That's normal."
"The toast is wrong."
"There is no wrong toast."
His eyebrows lifted.
You looked at the plate.
"Okay, some of those are structurally questionable."
"I didn't know what size."
"It's fine."
"She ate some."
"Great."
"She threw more."
"Also normal."
"She tried to feed me one."
"That means she loves you."
"She put it in my ear."
"She loves you aggressively."
Andrew looked down at you.
His mouth twitched.
You reached up and brushed a bit of banana from his sleeve.
He watched your fingers like the touch had weight.
"Did you sleep?" you asked softly.
"A little."
"Bad?"
"Different."
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"You?"
You smiled.
"Better than I expected."
His eyes searched yours.
You let him.
Then Andie shouted.
"Dada!"
Andrew turned instantly.
You laughed.
"You're being summoned."
He picked up the yoghurt.
"Is she allowed this?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"A spoonful or two."
"What if she wants more?"
"She will."
"What if she throws it?"
"She will."
"Why are we giving it to her?"
"Parenthood."
Andrew stared at you.
You kissed his cheek.
"Welcome home."
He learned the house in fragments.
Not the layout.
He knew the layout.
He had built it in his head from every photo, every phone call, every casual mention you had made without realizing he had stored it away like evidence.
He knew the kitchen drawer stuck if you pulled too quickly.
He knew the living room rug had a corner that curled no matter what you did.
He knew the baby gate was crooked because Craig had installed it and refused to admit it.
He knew the nursery chair creaked.
He knew the wooden duck was on the high shelf.
But living inside the house was different.
He learned that Andie liked to hide spoons under the sofa.
That the washing machine made a clunk on the second spin cycle that sounded alarming but apparently was "just what it did."
That the kettle clicked before it boiled.
That you drank half cups of coffee all morning because Andie interrupted every attempt at finishing one.
That your hands moved constantly.
Wiping the tray.
Catching the cup before it tipped.
Moving a choking hazard.
Picking up socks.
Putting down laundry.
Lifting Andie.
Setting Andie down.
Lifting Andie again because she had changed her mind loudly.
You did not seem to notice the choreography.
Andrew did.
He noticed everything.
You wiped yoghurt from Andie's chin with your thumb while reaching for your mug with the other hand. You put toast in the bin, rinsed a bowl, caught Andie's cup mid-fall, and answered a babbled complaint with, "I know, terrible service," without even looking up.
Andrew stood by the sink and watched.
Not uselessly.
He had tried to help.
He was helping.
But he kept being one second behind the rhythm.
You knew what every noise meant.
He was still learning the language.
Andie grunted and pointed.
You handed her the blue cup.
She pushed it away.
You handed her the yellow one.
She accepted it.
Andrew stared.
"How did you know?"
You looked over. "Know what?"
"The cup."
"She hates blue in the morning."
He blinked.
"What?"
"I don't know why."
He looked at Andie.
She drank from the yellow cup like this was obvious.
Andrew turned back to you.
"She has cup rules?"
"She has many rules."
"She's fourteen months."
"She's very advanced in tyranny."
He huffed softly.
Then went quiet.
You noticed because you noticed him too.
"Andrew?"
He looked at you.
There was something in his face you did not quite like.
Not guilt, exactly.
Something close.
Awe with bruised edges.
"You did all this," he said.
You frowned faintly.
"Made breakfast?"
"No."
His voice was low.
"You did all this."
Your expression shifted.
You glanced around the kitchen as if the answer might be hidden under the banana on the floor.
"I mean, badly some days."
"No."
"Andrew—"
"No." He stepped closer. "Look at me."
You did.
His eyes were wet.
Not crying.
Almost.
"You did this," he said. "Every day."
Your throat tightened.
You looked down.
He caught your hand.
Not hard.
Enough.
"Don't shrug it off."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
Andie babbled in the highchair, unaware that the room had shifted around her.
Andrew looked at you like he was seeing the year in your body. Not just the photos you had sent him. Not just the stories. But the invisible weight of it. The nights. The appointments. The colic. The teething. The lonely mornings. The birthdays. The joy you had carried to him carefully so it did not become only grief.
"I knew," he said. "But I didn't know."
Your eyes filled.
"I didn't do it perfectly."
"I don't care."
"I cried a lot."
"I know."
"I messed up all the time."
"You kept her alive."
You laughed wetly. "That is the baseline."
"You loved her."
Your face crumpled.
"You kept me in it."
That one broke you.
You covered your mouth with your free hand.
Andrew's grip tightened.
"You kept me in it," he said again. "When it would've been easier not to."
You shook your head.
"It wouldn't have been easier."
"No?"
"No." You looked at him through tears. "It would have hurt more."
He absorbed that.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Then Andie smashed both hands into the yoghurt on her tray.
You both turned.
She lifted her hands, delighted.
"No," she said, very proudly.
Andrew stared.
You laughed through tears.
"And there she is."
He looked at you.
Then at Andie.
Then back at you.
"What do we do?"
"Wipe her hands."
He grabbed a cloth immediately.
Andie shrieked like he had insulted her ancestors.
Andrew froze.
You smiled.
"Welcome to the resistance."
By noon, Andrew looked like he had survived something.
To be fair, he had.
Andie had shown him every toy in the living room by handing it to him, taking it back, and shouting "No" when he tried to place it in the basket.
She had crawled halfway into the cupboard under the television.
She had tried to eat a crayon.
She had demanded to be picked up, then immediately demanded to be put down, then cried because she had been put down.
She had called the coffee table Dada.
Andrew had accepted this with more grace than expected.
Now she stood beside the sofa, one hand on the cushion, rubbing her eyes with the other.
You were folding laundry on the floor, because somehow all roads led back to laundry.
Andrew sat beside you, legs stretched out, watching Andie with deep concern.
"She's tired."
"Yes."
"She's rubbing her eyes."
"Yes."
"She keeps falling over."
"Yes."
"Should she nap?"
"Yes."
You did not move.
Andrew looked at you.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Why?"
"Because for fourteen months, I was the only person having this argument with reality."
He looked at Andie.
She tried to sit down, missed slightly, and landed on her bottom with a soft thump.
Then she looked offended.
"Da!"
Andrew immediately started to move.
You put a hand on his arm.
"She's fine."
"She fell."
"She sat dramatically."
Andie glared at the rug.
Andrew looked torn.
You smiled.
"She's fine."
Andie crawled toward him.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
She reached his knee, pulled herself up on his leg, and lifted both arms.
"Dada. Up."
The room went still.
Your hands froze around a tiny shirt.
Andrew looked at Andie.
Then at you.
As if he needed permission.
As if she had not already given it.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"She asked you," you whispered.
His throat moved.
Andie bounced impatiently.
"Up."
Andrew picked her up.
She came willingly, tired and warm, her little body folding against his chest with the boneless trust of a toddler who had made her choice and expected the world to comply.
Andrew's arms closed around her.
Careful.
Always careful.
But sure now.
Andie tucked her face into his neck.
Your heart broke open so quietly you almost missed it.
Andrew did not move.
He looked down at the top of her head.
Then at you.
His eyes were wet.
"She asked me."
"She did."
"For up."
"Yes."
His hand spread over her back.
"She wants me."
Your smile trembled.
"Yes, baby. She wants you."
Andie made a sleepy humming sound against him.
You pressed your lips together.
Andrew closed his eyes.
For a second, the living room held only that.
A father being chosen for something ordinary.
Not a first word.
Not a birthday.
Not a special visit approved by a committee.
Just up.
A tired toddler wanting arms.
His arms.
Andrew swallowed hard.
"What do I do?"
You laughed softly.
"You hold her."
"And?"
"That's mostly it."
"She sleeps like this?"
"Sometimes."
"What if she doesn't?"
"Then she doesn't."
He looked down at her.
"What if I mess up nap?"
"Then she'll be tired and mean until bedtime."
"That sounds bad."
"It is."
His eyes lifted.
You smiled. "But survivable."
Andie yawned against his neck.
Andrew's whole face softened.
"Nap," he murmured.
"Yes."
"You'll show me?"
"Of course."
Nap time was not peaceful.
Andrew had imagined it would be.
That was his first mistake.
Andie was half asleep on his shoulder until the second he carried her into the nursery, at which point she lifted her head and remembered she had opinions.
"No."
Andrew paused in the doorway.
You stood behind him, trying very hard not to laugh.
"She says that a lot."
"I noticed."
"No," Andie repeated, with more conviction.
Andrew looked at her. "You're tired."
"No."
"You rubbed your eyes."
"No."
"You asked for up."
"No."
"You're arguing with facts."
"She does that."
"Like you."
You pressed a hand to your chest. "Me?"
He glanced at you.
"Do not start something you can't finish, Cody."
His mouth twitched.
That small tease felt like sunlight through a window.
He carried Andie to the changing table.
She immediately tried to roll.
Andrew put both hands out, panicked.
You stepped closer.
"Hand on her tummy. There. Not too hard. Just enough."
He followed your instruction exactly.
Andie grabbed the clean nappy and threw it.
Andrew stared as it sailed across the room.
You nodded. "Classic."
"She weaponizes supplies?"
"Constantly."
He retrieved the nappy.
She laughed.
He looked at you.
"She thinks this is funny."
"It is a bit funny."
"It's not."
"It is when it isn't you."
He gave you a look.
You smiled sweetly.
Eventually, through teamwork, negotiation, and one emotional rendition of the duck book from memory, Andie was changed, sleepy, and furious about it.
Andrew sat in the rocking chair with her and opened the actual duck book.
She pushed it away.
"No."
He looked at you.
You whispered, "Moon."
He switched books.
Andie accepted this with the regal air of someone granting mercy.
Andrew began reading.
His voice was low and careful.
The same voice from every recording.
But there was tension in it now.
Not fear of the book.
Fear of failing the ritual.
You leaned against the wall and listened.
Andie squirmed.
Andrew kept reading.
She reached for the book.
He let her touch the page.
She tried to turn three pages at once.
He looked alarmed.
"She skipped."
"She does that."
"But the story—"
"She is fourteen months old."
"She'll miss the middle."
"She does not respect narrative structure yet."
Andrew looked personally wounded.
You bit back a laugh.
He kept going.
By the last page, Andie's head had settled against his chest.
Her eyes were heavy.
Andrew looked at you like he needed help.
You mouthed, cot.
He nodded.
Very slowly, he stood.
The chair creaked.
Andie's eyes opened.
Both of you froze.
She stared at him.
He stared back.
You did not breathe.
Then she closed her eyes again.
Andrew looked like he had just survived a bomb.
He lowered her into the cot with the careful precision of a man handling glass.
Too slow.
You could tell immediately.
Babies sensed hesitation like sharks sensed blood.
Andie's eyes opened.
"No."
Andrew froze.
You winced.
She stood up in the cot.
"No."
Andrew turned to you with panic in his eyes.
You stepped beside him and touched his arm.
"It's okay."
"She's up."
"I see."
"She was asleep."
"She tricked you."
Andie held out both arms.
"Dada."
Andrew nearly collapsed emotionally.
"No," you whispered before he could reach.
His eyes snapped to yours.
"She asked."
"I know."
"She wants—"
"She wants not to nap."
His face twisted.
"She said Dada."
"Yeah. She's very good."
"This feels wrong."
"It does."
"She's crying."
"She is complaining."
Andie's lower lip trembled.
Andrew looked like you had asked him to abandon her in the wilderness.
You softened.
"We're not leaving her alone to scream," you said quietly. "We're just giving her a chance to settle."
He swallowed.
"She'll think I left."
Your heart cracked.
There it was.
Not about nap.
Not really.
You reached for his hand.
"No," you said. "She won't."
Andie grumbled in the cot.
Not crying.
Not really.
Just deeply dissatisfied.
"You're right here," you said.
Andrew looked at the cot.
"She can see you. She can hear you. You're not disappearing."
His jaw worked.
You squeezed his hand.
"Sit beside the cot. Talk to her."
He nodded once.
Then sat on the rug beside the cot, back against the wall, his fingers resting through the bars.
Andie immediately grabbed one.
"Da."
"I'm here," he said.
His voice shook.
You stood in the doorway, hand over your mouth.
"I'm here," he repeated.
Andie held his finger.
Then sat down.
Then lay down badly, her legs folded under her at a strange angle.
Andrew looked at you in alarm.
You nodded.
"She's okay."
"She looks broken."
"She sleeps like a folded chair sometimes."
"That's not okay."
"It is baby okay."
He looked unconvinced.
But he stayed.
He talked quietly.
Not reading now.
Just telling her nonsense.
That the moon book had better pacing than the rabbit book. That the duck was on the shelf and still not for eating. That Craig's baby gate was crooked but respectable. That her mother was probably laughing at him silently in the hallway.
You were.
Andie's grip on his finger loosened.
Her breathing evened.
Andrew stopped talking.
Then started again, quieter.
"Dada's here."
Your eyes filled.
Andie slept.
Finally.
Andrew sat there for another five minutes because he was afraid to move.
Then another three because he wanted to.
When he eventually came downstairs, he looked exhausted.
You were in the kitchen making coffee.
He stepped into the doorway.
"She's asleep."
You turned.
He looked like a man returning from a war that involved board books and emotional manipulation.
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
"Congratulations."
"She's dangerous."
"She is."
"She says Dada and I lose judgment."
"I noticed."
"That's bad."
"It's manageable."
He crossed the kitchen and leaned both hands on the counter.
You set a mug beside him.
He stared at it.
"What?"
"Coffee."
"For me?"
"Yes."
He looked at the mug like it was a kindness he did not know how to hold.
You stepped between his arms, leaning back against the counter.
His hands came to your waist automatically.
There.
Again.
The touch.
The no glass.
The no countdown.
You slid your hands up his chest.
"How was your first nap time?"
"Bad."
You laughed.
"I thought coming home would feel like the end of something," he said.
Your smile softened.
You looked up at him.
"And?"
His eyes searched yours.
"Feels harder."
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"I wanted it."
"I know."
"I still want it."
"I know."
"But it's..." He looked toward the ceiling, where Andie slept above you. "It's a lot."
"It is."
"I don't know the rules."
"There are no rules."
"That's the problem."
You smiled sadly.
"Beginnings usually are harder than endings."
He looked back at you.
"Is that what this is?"
"A beginning?"
He nodded.
You slid one hand to the side of his neck.
"I think so."
His forehead lowered to yours.
He breathed you in.
You felt some of the tension leave his body.
Not all.
Enough.
"I missed you," he said.
"I was right here."
"No." His thumb moved over your waist. "Like this."
Your throat tightened.
"Me too."
He kissed you.
Slow.
Not desperate like yesterday.
Not stolen like the contact room.
A kitchen kiss.
A home kiss.
Coffee cooling beside you, banana on the floor, your daughter sleeping upstairs because he had helped her get there.
You smiled against his mouth.
He pulled back slightly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're smiling."
"I'm happy."
He went still.
The words seemed to land somewhere he had not expected.
Then his face softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He swallowed.
"Good."
You touched his cheek.
"You're allowed to be too."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He was quiet.
Then, "I'm trying it out."
You laughed softly.
"How does it feel?"
He looked around the kitchen.
At the highchair.
The abandoned cloth.
The crooked baby gate visible through the doorway.
Your hands on him.
His mug beside yours.
Then he looked back at you.
"Scary."
You smiled.
"Yeah."
"But good."
You kissed him again.
"Good."
The baby monitor crackled.
Both of you froze.
A rustle.
A tiny grunt.
Then, clear as anything through the speaker:
"Dada!"
Andrew lifted his head.
His eyes went wide.
You grinned.
"You're on."
"She just went down."
"She knows what she wants."
"She needs sleep."
"She needs Dada, apparently."
The monitor crackled again.
"Da!"
Andrew stared at it like the device had personally challenged him.
Then he looked at you.
You nodded toward the stairs.
"Go on."
He was already moving.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and looked back.
You stood in the kitchen, coffee in hand, hair messy, wearing his shirt, smiling like your heart was too full for your body.
"What?" you asked.
Andrew shook his head.
"Nothing."
But it was not nothing.
It was the house.
It was you.
It was his daughter calling him from upstairs.
It was the fact that nobody else had to answer first.
For more than a year, Andrew's voice had lived in the house by recording, by phone, by memory.
Now it moved through the walls on its own, answering their daughter when she called.
He went upstairs.
You stayed in the kitchen and listened.
The nursery door creaked softly.
Andie babbled.
Andrew's voice came low and warm through the ceiling.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. unprotected pinv, really sappy sex
main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist
You don’t mention the kiss the next day. Or the next. Or for the next three months after. You and Jack return to just co-parents, and continue on like nothing ever happened.
Meanwhile, it feels like Gwen is becoming more and more her own proper human every single day. Now seven months, she's curious about everything. If people are talking, she wants to be in the middle of it. If someone walks out of the room, she cranes her neck to watch where they're going. She grabs at anything she can reach and somehow always manages to find the one thing she isn't supposed to have.
She discovers her voice by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around, and what starts as mere babbling quickly turns into a language only the three of you can understand.
Jack especially can’t get enough of chatting to her. A firm hater of the baby-voice, he speaks to her like any other person - sometimes Gwen gets more levity than the likes of Robby. One of your favourite things to come home to is Jack running her bedtime routine on days where you have late classes.
Sometimes, you’ll hover in the hallway, listening to their little chats. Tonight, the topic appears to be the latest volume of the American Journal of Emergency Medicine.
He has her perched on his knee, one hand spreading the pages of the journal, the other at the wheel of his wheelchair, pushing them back and forth softly. She’s always loved the rhythm of the wheelchair - to the point where the rocking chair in her nursery has been replaced by one of Jack’s backups.
It’s a sure way to have her asleep within half an hour.
Jack loves that he’s the only one that can do it with her. Even if you try and sit in the chair, replicate his movements exactly, she’ll just start to fuss for her daddy.
“I see what you’re saying,” comes Jack’s voice, low and playful. “But it’s all about the politics, Gwenny. You can’t just decide on a uniform protocol for something like that - every doctor has their own preferences.”
Gwen responds in babbles, and you find yourself leaning against the wall to listen in, fighting a smile.
“Well, now you’re just being ridiculous. Sounding too much like your Uncle Robby for your own good, huh? We’ve got to think about the funding, Gwendoline. How are we going to pay for that?”
A small pause, before Jack pretends to gasp. “My credit card? And here I thought we had a few more years before you became a teenager.”
Only when Gwen erupts into a flurry of giggles do you finally enter, dropping your bag down in the doorway. “Are you trying to indoctrinate our daughter into medicine already?”
“Well, she clearly has the knack for it already, honey - even if her spending habits leave something to be desired.”
“Hm, I don’t know. I still think she’s got a novel or two in her. With the way she loves books and stories.”
“Why make her choose? She can be the world’s best doctor, and write books on the side to supplement. Make sure she can support us in our old age.”
The smile he shoots you is easy, and you find yourself leaning down to press a kiss to Gwen’s head. When you pull back from the wheelchair, Jack pouts. “Nothing for me?”
You roll your eyes dramatically, but there’s no heat behind the action, and you press a soft kiss to Jack’s cheek. “Happy now?”
“Very.”
*****
Now in April, Gwen is pulling herself up on every piece of furniture she can find. Her favourite target is the low coffee table, where Jack accidentally leaves his mug one evening. You catch her just as her stubby fingers wrap around the ceramic handle, her tongue sticking out in pure, concentrated determination.
"Gotcha," you breathe, lifting her away just in time.
"Good catch," Jack says, walking into the room with a stack of fresh diapers. His eyes drop to your mouth, just a flicker, before he blinks and looks down at the baby in your arms. "She’s getting too fast for us.”
“I’m sure we’ll blink and she’ll be twenty.”
“Don’t say that,” Jack groans. “She’s not allowed to ever get any older than she is right now.”
You laugh as Gwen immediately twists in your arms, reaching back toward the coffee table like she has unfinished business there.
“Oh, really? Because two months ago you were begging for her to sit up on her own.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because sitting up is cute.” He points at Gwen. “This?” He gestures as she lunges for absolutely nothing in particular. “This is the beginning of the end.”
“The end of what?”
“Our peace.” You snort, while Jack drops the stack of diapers onto the sofa before holding his hands out. “Come here, kiddo.”
Gwen practically throws herself toward him. The betrayal is immediate. “Wow,” you say. “Nice to know where her loyalties lie. Guess if she likes you so much, you can take bedtime duty tonight.”
Jack’s head immediately snaps to yours. “What? I did it last night!”
“Are you seriously turning your daughter down?” You ask. It’s cruel, really, playing him by using Gwen. But after a full day of classes, you’re not sure you can face three rounds of The Hungry Cateroillar.
You pass her over, and Gwen rests her head briefly against Jack's shoulder. The sight catches you off guard, even though you’ve seen it on a daily basis for the past however many months. It’s just a startling reminder that she is, in fact, growing up. Slowly but surely, and yet somehow all too fast. These little flashes where she seems less like a baby and more like a tiny person with preferences and routines and opinions.
A tiny person who absolutely prefers Jack's left shoulder over his right.
A tiny person who laughs whenever you sneeze.
A tiny person who somehow knows exactly where forbidden objects are located at all times.
“You look sentimental,” Jack comments, and you snap out of your daze, realising you were staring. “All weepy like you’re the one who doesn’t want her to grow up.”
“Sorry. Uh, just thinking.”
“Yeah? About what?”
Suddenly slightly concerned you’re about to cry, you decide to dodge the topic altogether. “About how you should do bath and bedtime tonight?”
“Hm, you’re lucky I love you both.”
*****
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to warm your toes under the heavy duvet, when you hear it.
A muffled, choked sound comes from the bedroom down the hall. Far too low to be Gwen. You check the baby monitor, just to be safe, and see her sound asleep in her crib. A few seconds later, it happens again - a low, fractured groan that twists into a sharp, desperate gasp for air. It isn't the sound of someone snoring.
It sounds like somebody in pain.
Kicking off the covers, you slip out of bed. The hardwood floor is ice-cold against your bare feet as you creep down the dark hallway, bypassing Gwen’s room, and stop outside Jack’s cracked door.
The pale moonlight cuts through his blinds, casting sharp shadows across the room. Jack is thrashing under his sheets, his large frame tangled in the blankets. His head turns violently from side to side, his jaw locked tight.
"No," he chokes out, his voice thin and entirely stripped of his usual assurances. "No, wait. Don't go.”
"Jack," you whisper, stepping into the room.
He doesn't wake. He lets out another ragged, breathless sob that makes your chest ache. You cross the room and sit on the edge of the mattress - reach ping out to place a firm, steady hand on his bare shoulder. He’s burning hot and slick with sweat.
"Jack, wake up. You're dreaming," You murmur a little louder, shaking him gently.
He bolts upright with a violent gasp, his eyes wide and blank, staring straight through you. His chest heaves as he fights for oxygen, his hands instantly clawing at the sheets. He is entirely unmoored, trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality.
"Hey, look at me," you insist, shifting closer and placing both of your hands on the sides of his face, forcing his frantic gaze to anchor on yours. “You were just dreaming. You’re fine. It’s okay, Jack.”
It takes another second for his eyes to refocus, and only when you reach out to take a hand do his shoulders start to relax. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” You murmur. “Want to talk about it?”
He nods, but there’s no words don’t come, and instead he leans into your touch.
Your fingers gently smooth the hair at the back of his neck. "Was it the army? Or your mom?"
He stays still for a long moment, his forehead pressed hard against your shoulder as his breathing slowly hitches. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his face is wet, his expression completely raw.
"No," he whispers, his voice cracking. "It wasn't them. It was you."
You blink, caught entirely off guard. "Me?”
“I dreamt I was losing you. That I’d already lost you. A-and we didn’t even have Gwen, and it was so awful, and-“
He cuts off in the horrible realisation that you both lived that dream almost eighteen months ago. "Jack, I'm right here," you say softly, your voice steady against the howling wind outside. "I'm not going anywhere.”
A single tear leaks down his cheek, and you pull him into your arms, until you can wrap them round his entire body. “C-Can you stay the night? I-If you don’t want to, that’s fine-“
He’s never sounded more vulnerable, and it breaks your heart. “Of course I can stay, Jackie.”
“You and Gwen are the best things in my life - you know that right?”
“You prove it to us every day.”
Almost tentatively, you draw him down towards the pillows, slipping under the duvet beside him. Jack turns onto his side, facing you, and pulls you tightly against his chest. His arm tucks securely under your head, anchoring you to him, while his other hand rests flat against your waist. You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck, letting your heartbeat match his.
You stay awake for a while, listening to his breathing smooth out into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
*****
Jack knows he’s being unreasonable. Insane, even. You’re only thirty minutes late from when you said you’d be home, and he can feel himself spiralling.
By minute thirty, his hands are shaking so badly he can barely scoop the formula into Gwen’s bedtime bottle. He has paced the living room until his leg aches, Gwen tracking his frantic movements from his arms. Every time he looks at the clock, the knots in his stomach tighten. He calls your phone for the sixth time. Straight to voicemail. The flat, automated tone triggers a sharp spike of adrenaline in his chest. His mind immediately bypasses every logical explanation and constructs a worst-case scenario: a car accident on the slick March roads, a breakdown on a dark shoulder, something terrible.
He cannot fathom how you possibly did this alone.
He cannot fathom doing any of it on his own.
"Come on, sweet girl, let's get you down," Jack mutters, his voice thick with a panic he is desperately trying to hide from the baby. Gwen responds with a sleepy little noise and presses her face into his shoulder. His left shoulder.
At least one of them is calm.
Jack glances at the clock again. Thirty-two minutes late. He swallows heavily, and begins to get Gwen changed into her pyjamas with hands that won't stop trembling. She watches him with wide eyes while he fumbles with snaps he's fastened a hundred times before.
"Sorry," He murmurs when he misses one. As if his eight-month-old daughter cares.
Normally, bedtime is his favourite part of the day, but tonight he can hardly focus, and when the front door lock finally clicks at fifty-seven minutes past the hour, Jack is waiting right there in the shadows of the hall.
You walk in, balancing your bag and a stack of papers, looking tired but entirely fine. "I am so sorry," you start immediately, kicking off your shoes. "One of my students needed help with an essay rewrite, and then my phone died on the way out, and I couldn't-"
You stop because Jack has crossed the carpet in two strides. He doesn't wait for you to finish. He drops his forehead against your shoulder, his hands gripping the heavy fabric of your winter coat so tightly his knuckles turn white. He is trembling, as he pulls you into the tightest hug of your life.
"Jack?" you ask, the papers slipping slightly in your grip. "What's wrong? Is Gwen okay?"
"Gwen is fine. She's asleep," He croaks, his voice thick and rough against your neck. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes bloodshot and frantic, searching your face as if verifying you are actually here. Here and okay. "Your phone was dead. You didn't text. I thought... I thought you were in a ditch somewhere. I thought someone hurt you."
"Jack, I'm less than an hour late," You say gently, shocked by the sheer terror radiating off him.
"I know that's not a long time. I know normal people don't immediately assume the worst because somebody's fifty minutes late."
"Jack-"
"I called you fourteen times."
You blink. "What?"
"Fourteen." His voice is flat with embarrassment now, and he runs a shaking hand over his face, his skin pale under the hallway light. "I started picturing the highway near the campus, thinking about how slick the roads get when the ice melts. Then I started thinking about someone cornering you in the parking lot after dark. I couldn't stop it. O-Or some kind of accident on the freeway-”
"Hey," you whisper gently, dropping your bag and the stack of papers onto the bench by the door. They slide and scatter slightly, but neither of you moves. You wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself tight against his solid frame. "Look at me. I'm right here. I'm safe. I'm completely okay. And I’m sorry. I should’ve charged it in the car.”
He’s shaking his head. “You don’t have to apologise.”
"Come on," You murmur, sliding your hands up his back, feeling the tense, knotted muscles of his shoulders begin to give way under your touch. "Let’s go sit down.”
Steering him gently, you guide him into the dimly lit living room, pulling him down beside you on the sofa
One hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the back of his head, while the other settles firmly at his back.
For months, he's been trying to be everything for everyone. Strong for Gwen. Strong for you. You know him well enough to catch the signs. He still feels guilty for missing out, so he’ll run himself ragged in order to look after you both.
You haven’t seen a single bill in almost four months. Neither of you have ever had to want for anything. You can work whatever classes you want, because Jack will rearrange his own schedule to look after Gwen when needed.
Your fingers continue moving through his curls. Slow. Steady. The same way you soothe Gwen when she's upset - rubbing soft circles into her scalp.
Eventually, his shoulders begin to loosen, and he gently catches one of your hands, his thumb tracing over your knuckles - though he can't quite hold your gaze. "I'm so sorry for everything I did to you. I was just... I was so low after my mom died. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I was angry and exhausted and grieving, and somewhere along the way I convinced myself I didn't deserve to be happy."
“We don’t have to get into this again, Jackie.”
Finally, he looks up at you. “We do. I-I don’t feel like I’ll ever be able to apologise enough for leaving.”
“You’ve given both of us the best life - if I could go back and change the way I handled things, I would, but I really need you to stop feeling so guilty. And stop imagining a ditch.”
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “Not just one ditch." You stare at him, and Jack sighs heavily. "There were several ditches."
A surprised laugh escapes you, and the tension breaks for half a second. “You’re insane-“
“I love you,” he bursts out, and you freeze.
“What?”
"I love you," he chokes out. "God, I love you so much, and the thought of losing you just destroyed me. I kept telling myself I didn't want to get married again. That I wasn't built for it anymore. That I'd already done it once and couldn't go through all of that a second time."
He lapses into a pause, and you wonder if you should speak. Before you can, he stumbles on, shaking his head again.
"But that wasn't the whole truth. The truth is I was scared." He looks away again, jaw tense. "After Marisol died, I felt guilty for everything. For laughing. For having good days. For even thinking about a future that didn't include her. Part of me got stuck there. In that hospital room. And every time things got serious with you, it felt like I was being forced to choose between holding on to her and moving forward. I thought if I let myself love someone else the way I loved her, it meant I was leaving her behind.”
“Marisol belonged to that specific time in my life. A-And I still love her, and miss her every day. But this? What I feel for you? It’s all-consuming. It’s this constant, heavy pull in my chest that I can't shake, no matter how hard I try. You’re just everywhere in my head now. And the thing is, I don't even want to fight it anymore.”
You have no idea how to sum up decades of history. Instead, you simply nudge his shoulder with your own, and mumble, "You had an entire collection of ditches."
"We’re still on that?” The words are murmured, and he finally leans sideways and lets his head fall against you.
"I'm sorry I scared you."
He lets out a long breath. "I wasn't scared."
You raise an eyebrow. "Jack."
"I was absolutely terrified." He swallows heavily, “I think I’ve always loved you a little bit. Since we were kids. But I’ve been the biggest fucking idiot on the planet, and I’d understand if you didn’t want anything to do with me like that. This house is as much yours as it is mine, and I-I don’t want you to feel like you can’t live here in peace.”
Unable to take it anymore, you shift angle, and press your lips to his.
Jack’s right. All-consuming is the only word for it. A desperation permeates into his every movement. One hand cups your face, so gently as if he’s terrified you’re about to disappear, while the other wraps around your waist, holding you as tightly to him as possible.
“Missed you so much, sweet girl,” He mumbles between kisses. “So fucking much.”
It’s teeth and tongue and gasping for breath, until you’re sitting in his lap and feeling like you might die if you don’t get to have him right now. “Bed?” You offer, knowing it’s what’s easiest on his leg.
“We don’t have to-“
You’re interrupting immediately. “But do you want to?”
“More than anything,” he breathes, and you’re back on each other. Your movements are clumsy as you navigate up the stairs, trying to keep quiet so you don’t accidentally wake Gwen - you’re pretty sure there are more apologies tumbling from Jack’s lips as he trails down your skin.
Clothes are discarded in heaps, and soon Jack is seeing your body for the first time since having Gwen. It’s a far different body to the one you used to have, and you’re still working on loving it. Jack Abbot seems to have no such problems. “God, you’re so beautiful, honey. Prettiest girl in the whole world. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
You’re sure that’s not true, but when Jack dips his head to wrap his lips around your nipple, all you can focus on is the feeling of his tongue against you. He’s always been big on foreplay - insisting you get off before he even takes his pants off. Tonight, you just want to be near him. “J-Jack, need you-“
Ever a pleaser, he complies immediately, hand moving to your hip so he can draw you closer to him. He’s hard already, leaking against your thigh, and you’re dizzied by how good it feels to be with him like this again.
“Promise you’re up for this?” He asks, forehead dropping to rest against yours.
You just nod, lip between your teeth. “Don’t leave me again,” You whisper, a few tears leaking from your eyes as he finally pushes in.
“Never,” His reply is instantaneous. “I promise, sweetheart. M’so sorry.”
The rhythm he sets is slow and torturous, nothing like the frenzied kissing as you made your way upstairs. He’s savouring this, moving like he knows this is forever. He knows you have the rest of your lives to relearn each other’s bodies, and make each other happy. The way he should have been this entire time.
Six months later.
The September sun warms the secluded little clearing in the botanical gardens, filtering through the trees in patches of gold.
There’s just a simple wooden altar, ten chairs arranged on the grass for your closest friends, Jack, and a walking, fourteen-month-old Gwen in a tiny linen dress. Normally, the bride and groom are supposed to remain separated until the ceremony.
Given you've done everything else out of order, you don’t pay much attention to tradition. Last night, you and Jack put Gwen to bed together, before falling asleep in each other's arms. There's nowhere you'd rather have spent your last night as a single woman.
You stand in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing down the front of your wedding dress. The fabric is cool against your skin, flattering in all the right places. The baby weight still isn't gone entirely, but it's been nice having your boobs back to yourself with Gwen stopping breastfeeding.
A soft, hesitant knock sounds at the door.
Before you can answer, the handle turns, and the door creaks open. Jack steps into the room, holding Gwen against his hip. "I told her we should wait a little, but Gwenny wanted to see Mommy in her pretty dress-"
His voice trails off as you turn, finally getting the full view of it. Keeping the wedding dress secret had been one of the few traditions you'd actually subscribed to.
Gwen, entirely oblivious to the weight of the moment, breaks the silence. She lets out a loud, cheerful babble and reaches her chubby arms out toward you, her fingers curling and uncurling as she recognises your face. "Mama!"
The sound breaks Jack out of his trance. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes never leaving yours as he finally walks into the room. He closes the distance in a few slow strides, stopping just inches away from you. "Doesn't Mama look beautiful?"
"Boo-tifull!" Gwen echoes, giggling.
"God," He whispers, his voice low and incredibly thick with emotion. He shifts Gwen slightly on his hip so he can reach out, resting his palm against your waist. "You look... you look absolutely beautiful. I knew you would, but seeing you standing there like that… can't believe how lucky I am."
"You look pretty incredible yourself," you say softly, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes as you look up at him.
Jack leans down, pressing his forehead gently against yours. The scent of his cologne washes over you, warm and familiar, anchoring you instantly. He closes his eyes, just breathing you in for a long, quiet second, his grip on your waist tightening as he holds his girls close.
"I love you so much," he murmurs against your skin.
Gwen chimes in again, smacking her tiny hands against Jack’s shoulder and demanding to be part of the huddle. You both laugh, the remaining nerves melting away entirely. You reach out, letting your fingers intertwine with Jack’s free hand, while your other hand gently strokes Gwen’s hair. "What do you say, Gwenny? Want to help Mommy and Daddy get married?"
A/N - thank you so much for reading!! hope you enjoyed this lil family <3
the more you look, the more you find its all around you all the time
a/n: building this brick by brick but I promise we're going somewhere. listening to this while writing, love be some deano!! also i'm really happy you guys are into this!!
The automatic voice overhead announces your location for what you feel like is the seventh time. Maybe it was the fifth and you're just being dramatic. Waiting isn't your strong suit. Especially when you have a cast on one hand and a duffle bag slung over your shoulder.
Abbot is supposed to be picking you up from the airport. He practically begged as much when he heard that you were going home for a few days sue to injury. Said he wanted his best to get the best. Which somehow meant him picking you up.
Sure it is nice to be picked up by a friend rather than sit in the back of a cab or uber and have to make polite small talk. Also his ride is free. So, you'll have to stand outside and bear it because you're not about to order an uber at an airport during rush hour.
You're definitely not going to turn down seeing Abbot's handsome face.
Yeah you've found out that you have enough space to still think Jack is hot and have a crush on Park. Crush. It feels like your back in school or something. Next thing you know, you'll be passing him notes underneath his office door.
Crap you must be thinking of him too much.
You swear you saw his Mercedes drive by. Your eyes try to follow the traffic of red and blue cars. As you keep scanning the cars, you pick it up. A silver Mercedes double parked a few cars up.
No, that can't be him.
Jack is picking you up. He texted you the past few days to remind you, the man wouldn't let you forget it.
Your eyes move toward movement. A man with shade on is waving his hand in your direction. You look over your shoulder to see if anyone is waving back at him, but there's nothing. You turn back.
He's closer now.
And that is definitely Brendon Park.
Dressed in a tight gray t-shirt and jeans. Brendon Park wears jeans! You roll your shoulders back and begin trudging through the crowd of people. Making sure not to get body checked and twist your other hand.
Once you're at arm's length, he carefully and smoothly takes the duffle bag from you. He holds it in one hand even though you know its heavy and filled with shit. Trinkets. Extra clothes. Cookies from the place you like back home.
"Damn, Pinkie you packed for like a month." he comments.
"I can carry it!" you argue.
"No way," he starts then he puts his hand on the small of your back, "lets go before I get a ticket."
You pick up the pace to keep up with him as he walks over to his car. Thinking his hand was full, you reached for the door handle. He gently pulled you back by the loop in your pants. Then he opened the door for you.
With a playful scoff and a shake of your head, you sit down in the low seat. You reach for the bag to put it in your lap but he gives you a pointed look. He closes the door.
You watch him through the mirror as he pops the trunk open and puts your bag there. The trunk shuts closed and he jogs around to the driver's side door. He gets in and presses the start button.
Thinking he's about to pull off, you reach over for the seat belt. Once you click it into place you realize that he doesn't do the same. You know the man doesn't have a death wish, so you look over at him to see what else is on his agenda.
He holds out his hand, "Let me get a look."
You put your casted hand in his. It doesn't hurt anymore. And its more itchy than anything. You couldn't wait to get back to Pittsburg and get the damn thing off.
He turns your hand over to the left and then the right. With the cast on you're not able to bend your wrist so it doesn't hurt to move it. You're not even sure what he's actually checking.
"Doesn't even hurt anymore." you admit.
He flips it over one more time. You see how his thumb moves underneath the bottom of the cast. Back and forth. You can't even feel it.
"Good. Means you're healing properly. I did my job."
"So you are an Ortho god." you joke.
He lets go of your hand. Then he reaches behind him for his seatbelt. Clicks it on. You think you might've said something to ruin the moment or something wrong. Hence the silence.
His hand reaches for the shift. He puts it in drive and pulls off from the curb. You watch as the other cars still double parked become smaller and smaller as you move out of the airport.
"I haven't felt nervous for a simple surgery like that in forever." he admits.
Park? Nervous? It was just a simple correction to fix an over extended muscle. Not sure why he would be all to nervous about that. He probably hands off those surgeries to residents all the time.
"Thought you'd forget the steps?" you ask.
He shakes his head, "Yeah. Cuz it was your hand."
Your ears notice the special emphasis he makes on the word your. And your heart does the thing. It leaps in your chest. Things like this keep happening with him.
It has to be leading somewhere...right? Your program ends in a few weeks. Pretty soon you won't be his underling. It won't be inappropriate to cross that line. If he wants that too.
You swallow the lump in your throat away. Thinking like this is useless when he's your boss. He doesn't strike you as the type to start something with a resident. Thinking like this is actually a bit grounded when you're sitting in his car, and he wasn't the one who was supposed to pick you up.
"How'd you know where to find me?" you ask.
He flips his turn signal on and shifts into the next lane.
"Just knew it."
You chortle at that, "Right, you just happened to know what terminal and what time I'd be there."
"Jack texted me, said something came up. You needed a ride."
You would bet that nothing came up for Jack besides maybe wanting to stay in bed with his secret girlfriend at his place. He's the one who told you that uber prices spike during rush hour and airport rates practically double. He drilled it into your head.
Only to sneakily set you up. That sly fox. He probably told Park where you live too, seeing as you didn't speak a word of your address to him and he hasn't asked yet.
"Well, thank you for picking me up. I can't wait to get home and finally take this stupid thing off." you say as you reach into your cast and try to itch at the skin there.
"Woah, what? Are you kidding? You can't do that alone."
"I'm a doctor. I'm pretty sure this is what I've trained for."
"I'm not letting you cut off your cast alone."
"Do you want to watch me do it?" you half-ask.
Because you don't honestly think he will answer the way he does. You have known this man for months. He does things by the book. He hardly ever bends the rules. You thought he would say something about swinging by the hospital to get it off the right way.
Hiii! Omg ok I love your reader x shark drabbles!! So freaking good. I have a request if you are up for it!! Basically age gap of course but reader is trying to be an influencer and Park is just really supportive!!! No this has nothing to do with me and my real life circumstances. How could you guess that?! Ok omg!! Thanks!!
OKAY SO- ive never written an age gap so this is fun to try out!! also- bruh- i relate SO HARD to trying to be an inlfuencer- that shit is hard, man. i just- i tried it twice (both times for work) and both times it was fucking exhausting because the content creating and editing life is NOT for me- but GOOD LUCK TO YOUUUUUU!!!!! <3333 anyway- for this fic, reader is trying to become a food/recipe influencer and thank you so much for reading!!!! <333
Brendon was exhausted. There had been back to back surgeries and consults and he hadn't even gotten time to have a proper lunch. Just an old, stale protein bar carried him through the day.
"Sweetheart?" He called out softly, taking his shoes off by the door.
He pulled off his clothes as he walked into the house, wanting to toss away the hospital from his skin. His hands were on his jeans when he saw the state of the kitchen.
"Hey, honey. Productive day?" He chuckled, pulling off his pants and walking to the laundry room to put the clothes in the hamper.
You smiled at him and nodded. "You can say so." You hummed, "Go shower. I've got a whole platter for you today."
"Lucky, lucky me." He winked and went to the bathroom.
You and Brendon had a routine. He always took off his clothes and went for a shower as soon as he got home. He never liked his lingering hospital smell to ever touch you. You were too good for that.
You were cleaning up the kitchen, the dishes piled up when he came back out. His arms wrapping tightly around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, a gentle kiss to your cheek.
"How was your day?" He asked softly.
"Good. Got a ton of good footage." You hummed, moving around, plating food for you both and he stayed stuck on your back.
"What did you make?" He asked between little kisses to your neck and shoulder.
"I started with dessert. It's in the fridge. Tried making the chocolate cake from Matilda but turned it into cupcakes." You explained, "Turned out really good." He hummed in acknowledgement, "And then I figured, since you have the weekend off- I make extra food so I don't have to film over the weekend."
"Sounds good, baby." He smiled against your skin. "How many followers you got now?"
"Not that many- Around 6 thousand." You shrugged.
"Only two months ago you were at 2 thousand, remember? You just gotta keep at it, yeah?" He encouraged, turning you around in his arms.
"Yeah but-" You sighed with a pout, "I feel like I'm not doing more. You take care of everything and-"
"And I come home every day with exceptionally delicious food." He pointed out. "Before you, I was living only on microwave dinners. You changed my life for the better, sweetheart. So what if I pay a couple of bills here and there, hm?"
"What if this food blog thing doesn't work out?" You frowned, melting in his arms.
"Then nothing. You try another angle." He said it so simply.
"And if that doesn't work too?" You teased and he smiled.
"Then you try another angle-" He said it again. "Trust me, sweetheart. You're made for the screen."
Summary: After being honourably discharged from the Army, you arrive in Pittsburgh with a half-finished residency, a body you are still learning how to live in, and a past you have no intention of unpacking. Dr. Jack Abbot is supposed to be a professional contact, nothing more. But he notices too much, understands things he should not understand, and carries himself with a familiarity you cannot quite place. What begins as professional tension slowly becomes something harder to ignore.
Warnings: age gap (reader is 28, Jack is 49) · mentor/mentee dynamic · medical trauma · military trauma · PTSD symptoms · grief · spouse death · widowhood · amputation · prosthetic limb adjustment · survivor’s guilt · emotional repression · panic and nightmare episodes · captivity and torture references (non-graphic) · violence · blood and injury · medical procedures · slow burn · eventual smut · swearing · alcohol · smoking
About this fic: This is a slow burn. The emotional groundwork is being laid carefully and nothing is being rushed. If you’re here for the long game, welcome. Updates are not on a fixed schedule but I am actively writing.
Author’s Note: Hi :) This is my first time posting, so please be kind. I am still figuring things out, but this story has been rattling around in my head and I finally decided to start getting it out. I am mostly posting this for myself, but I hope at least one person enjoys it too. I have tried to research the medical and military details as carefully as I can, but I am not an expert in either, so please forgive any inaccuracies. Comments, reblogs, and thoughts are welcome.
the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.
18+ (smut, angst, fluff)
warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!!
a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH
February 17th
You don’t know when you last blinked.
Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.
Spencer said you’d love this movie.
“You okay?”
The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static.
You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months.
It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good.
Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.
Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.
That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not.
The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present.
This is the right thing.
“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses.
Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair.
There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared.
Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making.
“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth.
He’s warm. He keeps you safe.
March 9th
The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes.
Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32.
The ringing silence is killing you.
“Spencer—”
“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”
“I explained it to you—”
“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”
Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts.
“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”
“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying.
I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be.
Why? Why would he do that?
Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him.
But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?
Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.
You feel your throat closing as he stands.
Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me.
March 13th
“Spencer.”
The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone.
“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”
“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand.
The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”
“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes.
“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”
You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily.
“So you’ve told me.”
“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink.
When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days.
“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”
He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”
“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”
“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”
He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things.
In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend.
“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”
The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks.
You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”
He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”
One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no.
Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin.
All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.
It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple.
“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t.
He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone.
March 26th
“Did you mean it?”
You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?
“Did I mean what?”
“When you said you loved me.”
The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?”
It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it.
“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence.
“… Okay what?”
He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing.
“Spencer.”
“What?”
The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing.
“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”
“But you’re obviously upset.”
“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”
The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh.
“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”
Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow.
“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”
Spencer blinks. “Oh.”
“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn.
More buzzing silence.
“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton.
You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist.
“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”
“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”
“So you do remember saying it.”
You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.
“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”
“Noted.”
“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”
“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”
“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back.
Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”
You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered.
April 15th
“That tastes like lawn clippings.”
You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”
“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”
It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey.
“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”
“Not ice cream.”
You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”
“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”
“How?”
“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”
Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”
“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”
“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”
“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face.
“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”
“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”
“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”
“Mm… okay.”
You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon.
“We need to go.”
Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”
“And Kevin,” you agree.
“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”
At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”
A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”
You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”
“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”
We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be.
“I just—I’m not ready for that.”
“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”
“Can we please just drop it?”
You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers.
Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can.
Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains.
Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably.
“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming.
“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”
He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”
“Thanks.”
After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”
The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep.
“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice.
April 29th
“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat.
JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”
You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed.
Later, you corner him by the coffee machine.
“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble.
He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”
The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear.
“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”
The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity.
“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”
The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much.
A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen.
Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”
“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right.
The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased.
Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in.
You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun.
May 3rd
When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die.
After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood.
The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?
Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that.
After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too.
“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”
Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper.
Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you.
-
You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well.
You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”
“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”
You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”
Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”
Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”
A beat. “What?”
“You’re not staying behind for me.”
“I’m—”
“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”
“You just said—”
“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”
“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”
“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”
You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch.
-
Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room.
He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him.
Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp.
“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”
“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”
“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief.
“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”
The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too.
May 20th
Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state.
As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”
“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”
“Anti-inflammatories.”
You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”
Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”
“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt.
After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you.
“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines.
You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”
-
Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth.
“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries.
“What?”
“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”
“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”
You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”
Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”
“Plenty.”
A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”
“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”
Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection.
“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”
“What?”
“A kiss.”
“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”
“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter.
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”
“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand.
“Hey, wait.”
Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”
He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”
After that, it’s hard to feel too bad.
June 6th
“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag.
“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”
“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”
“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet.
“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”
You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall.
“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”
“Stop talking to me.”
“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”
“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”
“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!”
The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders.
“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”
“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”
Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again.
“You need to let go of me,” you whisper.
And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway.
He simply lets you go.
June 11th
The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?
It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent.
“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says.
You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”
“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”
You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”
Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best.
Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into.
“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”
“We are.”
“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”
You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”
“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”
A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival.
June 30th
The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in.
“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”
You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you.
“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”
“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”
That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant.
Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”
The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”
You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”
“Should we go?”
You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”
“So… you wanna wait?”
A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”
And with that, a silent treaty is signed.
“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”
“September 24th.”
You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”
The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity.
“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”
You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”
Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release.
The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin.
“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds.
“Very.”
You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.
“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment.
You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”
July 13th
The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want.
Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue.
“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.
“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth.
“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”
Okay. “Couch?”
Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully.
Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.
Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him.
“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”
“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”
So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you.
“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want.
The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done.
Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry.
Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”
“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”
He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”
It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait.
“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”
Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again.
It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it.
You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.
His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”
There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end.
“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”
“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”
“You’re not ready.”
“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”
Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck.
Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”
For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer.
Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision.
His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name.
You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would.
Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best.
Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you.
Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life.
Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck.
“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay.
For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids.
The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”
There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.
August 3rd
Spencer corners you outside the bathroom.
“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you.
“Who was who?”
“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”
It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”
Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”
“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room.
“Why won’t you answer the question?”
“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”
You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet.
It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles.
When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face.
Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.
You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.
But Spencer is so overreacting.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction.
He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression.
That only pisses you off worse.
You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox.
The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are.
That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke.
Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it.
Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied.
The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross.
Spencer comes out a few minutes later.
“They’re playing your song.”
You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him.
“I can hear.”
It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff.
Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”
What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart?
Pointed?
Surely not.
You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across.
Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him.
“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”
“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”
He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”
You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”
“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”
His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth.
What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you.
Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”
The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works.
Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again.
Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar.
Spencer?
Hm?
What am I to you?
It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could.
Do you actually want me to answer that question?
You’d nodded.
Is the answer going to freak you out?
At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know.
Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment.
You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters.
It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls.
But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.
It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery.
Now, he’s asleep.
You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek.
Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love.
God does not answer.
August 19th
Something is off.
It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield.
Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV.
So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window.
Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong.
It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck.
But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you.
God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?
The last time you broke up, you realize.
That is a sobering thought.
On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ.
There is an old, familiar pang in your chest.
No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this.
He loves me.
But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?
By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong.
Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails.
The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much.
It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic.
You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined.
What is wrong with you?
Why can’t you ever just be alright?
You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell.
Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner.
Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course.
Spencer.
Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart.
Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal.
This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole.
For a few minutes, it works.
Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working.
And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below.
For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers.
You tap lightly at his door.
He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect.
Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens.
Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer.
“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”
Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed.
“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine.”
You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth.
“It was just a panic attack.”
This doesn’t satisfy him.
“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”
“Um… not never.”
Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled.
The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on.
“What triggered it?” He asks.
“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”
“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”
When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine.
It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for.
“Yeah,” is all you say.
A pause.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”
It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist.
“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”
“Overthinking what?”
You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting.
Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV.
“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”
You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me.
But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things.
Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin.
There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”
Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”
“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”
“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”
“Tell me why you’re upset.”
“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”
“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”
Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation.
“No, no—look at me. Come on.”
“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”
Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention.
“I’ll call room service,” he decides.
“I’m really not hungry.”
Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle.
When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking.
Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”
“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”
“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”
“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”
He regards you.
“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”
“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”
Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink.
“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”
You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all.
“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”
You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while.
“Spencer?”
“Hm?”
“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”
The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you.
“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”
“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”
He hums.
“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”
You chew your lip. “Some of them.”
“Which ones?”
He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step.
“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”
“I have a few in mind.”
“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”
“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”
You nod. “And I have a rule.”
He strokes your hair.
“What’s that?”
“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You tilt your chin up. He kisses you.
Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go.
September 1st
“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”
“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”
Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.
“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”
“Or you’re being defensive.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home.
“Am I being accused of something?”
Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards.
“No,” you huff after a weighty moment.
“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”
The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to.
For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter.
It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that.
Fuck.
The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him.
So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood.
Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them.
Which means you need to backtrack.
So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same.
“I’m sorry.”
Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face.
How can you make this go away?
Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between.
Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks.
Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?
“You should go.”
A beat.
This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way.
“What?”
Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way.
“I think you should go home for the weekend.”
“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted.
“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”
“What do you mean, this?”
“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”
It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach.
For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears.
“You are such a fucking asshole.”
The words come out too hurt, too quiet.
Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is.
“Go. Home.”
It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years.
A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again.
But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave.
So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself.
The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision.
You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders.
Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable.
Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out.
-
It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs.
Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything.
It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you.
And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next.
That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit.
You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.
Nothing but stardust, now.
You blow across the silent black ether.
September 5th
You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.
“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight.
“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”
He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process.
“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”
“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”
Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast.
“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.
Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor.
After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”
There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you.
“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”
You grin.
“Too late.”
Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Easy. Six.”
He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”
“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”
“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”
He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”
You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you.
“What?”
It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins.
Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself.
“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”
Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen.
“Why would you joke about that?”
Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”
“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”
Why are you breathing so quickly?
Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water.
“What’s wrong?”
One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”
“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”
And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen.
You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while.
Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold.
“Did something happen?”
The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat.
“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”
Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying.
You watch it wash over him.
The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic.
“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air.
Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left.
But he’s going to.
This is it.
The unforgivable thing.
Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room.
For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.
“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them.
“What did you say?”
His tone bites.
“We weren’t together.”
“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”
“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”
“When?”
You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not.
“Spencer…”
Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath.
“When?”
You try to inhale and choke on it.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”
He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”
A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it.
“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”
Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh.
A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs.
You only shake your head.
Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave.
“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
“Why?”
The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull.
Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember.
But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.
She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters.
“I just can’t.”
The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows.
No solution.
He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come.
So he gets up.
“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”
The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch.
But it gets him to turn around.
He looks exhausted.
The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.
You fucked up so badly.
How much more of you can he handle?
Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good?
“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”
Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.
“I know you’re sorry.”
Your chin wobbles.
There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to.
“You’re gonna leave?”
A beat.
“Yeah.”
“Are you gonna come back?”
It hangs in the air between you for a very long time.
September 12th
When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so.
This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem.
What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking.
In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.
But you have to try, don’t you?
“Spencer—”
He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance.
He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can.
But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”
Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes.
“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches.
“Yes.”
Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent.
“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning.
The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist.
Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it.
“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him.
You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything.
Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it.
All this, with one please.
Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again.
Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin.
All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile.
But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers.
He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore.
Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it.
So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss.
And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.
Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh.
Your mind is screaming, deafening static.
“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to.
Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here.
“You got up pretty quick.”
More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down.
“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”
You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance.
“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands.
Because he knows. He knew the whole time.
He’s not sticking around.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?
You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.
The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer.
“I don’t know.”
Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve.
“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”
“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”
You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs.
“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”
“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”
“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”
“Did I owe you that, too?”
You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more.
Humiliated. Like usual.
Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment.
“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”
“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”
“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be.
“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”
Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet.
Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”
The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts.
“Okay.”
Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.
“What?”
He only shakes his head. Nothing.
Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you.
“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper.
No response. Back and forth.
“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”
“Angel.”
You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it.
“Sorry.”
Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.
“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation.
Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist.
“… I know.”
“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”
This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach.
The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life.
“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”
“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”
“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”
The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would.
“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”
You falter.
“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”
“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”
“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”
Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”
“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”
“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”
“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”
You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him.
“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”
It’s not supposed to feel like this.
You shudder a cry.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”
“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”
And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.
October 29th
It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing.
The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap.
“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”
“It begins,” you mutter.
“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”
Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”
She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”
To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up.
“What about you?” Penelope asks.
Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat.
“What about me?”
“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”
“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”
She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals.
“You didn’t tell me.”
You shrug.
“It wasn’t… official.”
“How long were you seeing him for?”
“It would’ve been a year next month.”
This time, she’s silent for too long.
When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected.
She’s… looking at your feet.
You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem.
Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you.
Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late.
You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair.
Before you can, she speaks.
“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”
You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”
Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside.
“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”
You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny?
“When?”
“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”
“Penelope, it’s fine.”
“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”
You blink. Try to process.
“You didn’t tell anyone else?”
“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”
“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you.
Heat blooms in your cheeks.
“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”
JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go.
“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”
“Pizza!”
Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—
“Nice socks.”
You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on.
“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”
You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”
Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”
He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.
“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”
This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good.
It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama.
It’s sort of a relief.
January 1st
Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends.
An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins.
“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”
You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.
When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”
From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”
You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”
He checks his watch.
“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”
You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”
“Neither?”
“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers.
Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia.
When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”
Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”
A stuttering inhale.
A moment that is just too long.
His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way.
“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back.
“You’re okay.”
A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own.
Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room.
The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips.
Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago.
And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.
But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you.
Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it.
“Spencer?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come here?”
He appears. “What’s up?”
You point at the fan.
“I think somebody put a cup up there.”
Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you.
Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen.
“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh.
“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”
You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”
“Kevin and Penelope?”
The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”
You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you.
“Who’d you hear that from?”
You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you.
“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw.
Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling.
“I did. Two, actually.”
Two dates? With the same person?
“How’s that going?”
He approximates a smile.
“You’re not being very subtle.”
“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”
Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.
“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours.
“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”
Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”
“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”
A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe.
“I’m being supportive.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”
“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”
“Yes!”
Even to you, you sound overly defensive.
“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You didn’t bring anyone either.”
“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”
It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater.
“Why not?”
“Do I need an excuse to be single?”
“Just curious. Is that allowed?”
Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book.
“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended.
“What is?”
“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”
Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath.
“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”
Spencer cracks a dry smile.
“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”
“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”
The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive.
“That’s not what she is, honey.”
Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.
“Then what is she?”
He hums.
“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”
Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails.
Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?
“Spencer…”
“What?”
“That’s… that’s not fair.”
His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”
It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”
“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”
“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because… because we’re not together.”
“When has that ever stopped us?”
All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”
“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”
“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another.
His throat bobs. “Come here.”
So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins.
“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer.
“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder.
“Then we’ll stop.”
Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat.
The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans.
Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose.
It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe.
It’s basically tradition.
spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated
if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!
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