˖ ࣪⭑ under the hot floridan sun ˖ ࣪⭑
summary ᰋ in a small attempt to fact check your words, el ends up seeing a little too much
includes ꕀ billy hargrove ﾒ hopper!fem!reader. established relationship. walking in on others. they're still in their swimwear so they're naked naked.
"ARE YOU WEARING PERFUME?"
Max asked. The cabin smells like waffles and pine cleaner and whatever perfume El's wearing. "Yeah, it’s my sister's," El admits. You always allow the girl to raid your things — infact you even bring El some of your jewellery or whatever you see in shops that you'd think would suit the younger girl.
After years of being an only child, mourning the relationship you couldn't have with sara — you found the same sisterly relationship with El. You couldn't help but spoil the kid ever since your father found her in the forest.
"Speaking of her, where is she?" Max asks, hoping onto your bed. Even though you lived in the old house you and hopper lived in before the arrival of El, hopper still ended up making a single bed for you in the cabin owing to the multiple times he caught you and El sharing a bed. "Florida, with Nancy. You know when we grow up we should also do a road trip like them," the kid mused.
"Wait, wait, like hell yeah we would go on multiple road trips but what do you mean she's in Florida?" Max sat up straight. "My brother's in florida too!" Max explained when El gave her a puzzled look.
"Coincidence?" El muttered. "She used to tutor my brother when we first transferred here and I swear ever since his car smelled like her. Not only that I saw her sitting on the bonnet of his Camaro! He would never let anyone treat his beloved car like that!"
El wasn’t new to you lying to hopper; white lies as you called it, the halloween incident last year proved it. But surely you wouldn’t date someone who's an asshole like Billy, right? You’re you — insanely kind, gracious, and forgiving and Billy. . . , as max puts it, is a dickhead. "No wonder he's been kinder to me. Your sister's probably scolding him." You, ofcourse, weren’t new to Max.
You always took her side when Billy bothered her, you even gave Max your walkman! ( and then scolded Billy when he snatched it from Max to return it you. At the end, the walkman ended in Max's possession anyway ). Max remembers very vividly when Billy's father was yelling at Susan she was so scared and ran to Billy's room, knowing you were home to tutor Billy. She was so scared she didn't remember why you were lying on his bed but she remembers storming into your arm and crying her eyes till she slept.
That day, you didn’t move until it was late and Billy carried the redhead to her room. And now that things were falling in place, Max finally figured out why Billy's room doesn't smell like a bloody ash tray anymore and why he keeps his door open more. "Fuck off," Billy barked at her when she made a comment about his open door. Max made sure to flip him off before she left with her skateboard.
"Wanna have some fun?" Max asked to El, a mischievous and evil grin spread across her face. Next thing they knew they were sitting on El's bed, a blindfold over El's eyes.
The world drains away as it does.
The rooftop dissolves into wooden slats beneath her feet, hot and uneven. Salt hangs heavy in the air. The waves are louder now. The sky is stretched wide. Wind slides past her ears, carrying the faraway sound of waves. Two figures are near the edge. For one sharp second, El's heart jumps. She leans forward, careful, cautious, knees to the gound and toes gripping the surface like it might vanish. She whispers your name. The taller figure laughs. The sound is wrong. Too low. Too familiar in the wrong way.
The sun hangs high, casting it's scorching heat across the beach as you and Billy head to the outdoor shower tucked away from prying eyes. Salt crusts your skin from the day's chaos in the waves, and the humid air clings like a second skin. You're both stripped down to essentials—your bikini bottoms hugging your hips, his swim trunks slung low on his waist—evidence of the wild afternoon where he dragged you into the surf with that cocky grin of his.
The water rinses the sand away, but it amps up the electricity humming between you, every accidental brush of limbs igniting sparks.
Billy's eyes rake over you, unapologetic and hungry, tracing the rivulets sliding down your neck, pooling at the edge of your damp top. He crowds your space without asking, his broad frame blocking the breeze.
You snatch the conditioner bottle from the ledge, squirting some into your hand. "Hold still, you brute," you tease, voice light but challenging, as you pivot to face him.
Billy smirks, that signature asshole tilt to his lips, but he tilts his head anyway, submitting in a way he'd never admit to anyone else. You rise on your toes to lather the conditioner in his sandy hair while his calloused hands gripping your hip possessively. The touch is firm, almost demanding, but his thumb strokes a gentle arc against your skin, betraying the asshole facade he wears for the world. Water drums around you, sealing off the world, just the two of you in this hazy bubble.
Your fingers weave into his tangled hair, working the conditioner in with deliberate strokes. He doesn't wait long — true to form — he surges forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that's all rough edges— teeth grazing, hands clamping your waist to yank you flush against him. It tastes of the sea and his unfiltered want, pulling you under like a riptide.
You break away with a breathless laugh, shoving at his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make your point. "Hey, I'm not done here," you protest, though heat blooms low in your belly from the contact.
He groans playfully, undeterred, his hands roaming up your sides, thumbs hooking under the straps of your top just to toy with you. "Screw the hair. I want this," he says, voice gravelly and insistent, eyes locked on yours with that piercing intensity that could unravel anyone else—but with you, it's wrapped in velvet. He dives in again, lips brushing your jaw, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.
You twist his head back with your wet fingers, forcing him to behave. "You're gonna get that stupid conditioner in my mouth," you mumur, rinsing the conditioner free. He shakes it off roughly, droplets flying, and you yelp, swatting his arm as you press closer in retaliation.
The push and pull dances on — his rough advances met with your dodging laughs, his fingers digging into your hips one moment, then soothing with slow caresses the next.
As the last suds vanish down the drain, you give in, hands framing his neck to draw him close. The kiss unfolds languidly this time, water sheeting over you both, his hold turning protective rather than possessive. Tongues tangle with lazy heat, bodies aligning in the spray, the beach's murmur fading to nothing but your shared rhythm.
El comes back too fast.
The cabin slams into place around her — wood, light, noise — and she stumbles, hands flying out to undo her blindfold. Her breathing is sharp, uneven, like she ran instead of thought.
Max is already sitting up. "So what did you see?" El doesn’t answer. She presses her palms to her eyes. Hard. Like maybe pressure will erase images. Like maybe she can physically push them back into the void where they belong.
"No," she says. Then again, quieter. "No, no, no." "That bad?" Max blinks, confused. "She lied," El says immediately. Voice small, offended. "She said Nancy. Not Billy,” Eleven blurts. "Ew, ew, ew, ew." Max freezes, "… define ew." El lowers her hands just enough to glare at the floor, cheeks burning. "I think they were showering together or something in their swimwear. All kissing and too close — ah ew just gross!" Max looks horrified at the answer.
Catching your sibling showering ( albeit in their swimwear ) & making out with their significant other is never a pleasant look. Max scrambles closer. "But Billy and—" Before she could continue El makes a distressed noise that is somewhere between a groan and a whine. "I don't want to remember it!"
That’s the part that breaks her.
You're kind. You're gentle. You forgives too easily, lies softly, calls them white lies like they’re harmless and clean. You hold El’s hands when she’s overwhelmed and never asks her to explain. Billy is… Billy.
There's a silence that follows, both girls horrified at the thought of their siblings being together — in love ( Max could just puke at the thought of it ). "I want to forget," El says desperately. "I want to bleach my eyes. Wash my brain. I want—" She gestures vaguely at her head? "Delete." Max nods like this is a completely rational response. "Yeah. Valid."
El curls in on herself, hugging her knees. "He does not deserve her." "No, he doesn't," Max exhales through her nose, conflicted. They sit there in shared outrage and secondhand trauma, the cabin buzzing softly around them. After a moment, Max smirks despite herself. "Hopper is gonna lose his mind." "She was putting conditioner in his hair!" El groans and buries her face again.
"Oh my god, you really saw too much," Max laughs, then clamps a hand over her mouth. "I want to go back," Eleven mutters. "Before." Max slings an arm around her shoulders. "Too late. Welcome to Knowing Things You Can Never Unknow."
El sighs, long and suffering. Somewhere far away, a song about hating love keeps playing, and El decides she hates it too.
Summary: Billy watches as you braid his sister's hair.
Warnings: all the fluff, billy's not a douchebag in this
WC: 1.5K
Read on ao3!
A/N: dedicated to my fellow Billy lover @fandom-princess-forevermore
Billy’s legs were stretched out on your bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, though you’d already given him The Look for lighting it inside.
“Seriously, ash on my comforter and I’m throwing you out the window,” you’d muttered.
He just grinned, half-lidded and smug, watching you reorganize your bookshelf for the third time that week. It wasn’t even really about books anymore. You just liked when he was there, watching you like you were something worth staring at.
“Y’know,” Billy drawled, “You could come lie down and entertain me instead of alphabetizing Stephen King.”
You rolled your eyes but were already about to respond when the door creaked open and a small voice cut through.
“Y/N?” Max poked her head in, her expression a little sheepish.
Billy groaned instinctively. “Jesus, what now—”
“Billy,” you warned quietly, and then turned to Max, your voice warm and open. “What’s up, Max?”
Max stepped in holding a brush and a few scrunchies in mismatched colors. “Can you braid my hair?” she asked, cheeks a little pink like maybe she thought she was interrupting something.
Your face lit up. “Of course I can, come here.”
Billy scoffed, but not as harshly this time. He sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows as Max climbed onto the bed beside you. You gently pulled her hair over her shoulder and started brushing through the red strands, careful, slow.
Max closed her eyes and relaxed into the motions, the room going quiet except for the soft tug of the brush and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.
Billy watched.
He meant to look away—meant to keep up the whole too-cool-for-this act—but something about the way you handled Max made his chest feel too full.
You were so damn patient. Fingertips gentle. Voice soft. You talked to Max the whole time, asking about her day, what book she was reading, if she wanted one braid or two. She laughed once, and it was the kind of sound Billy rarely got to hear from her.
And just like that, the annoyance ebbed.
He stubbed out the cigarette, not wanting the smell to ruin the moment.
Max caught his eye and blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t know you liked being babied.”
Max opened her mouth to snap back, but you pinched Billy’s leg without even looking.
“Don’t be mean. She’s allowed to want a braid and some peace.”
Billy glanced down at you, your fingers now moving through Max’s hair in practiced rhythm, and something warm curled under his ribs.
“…Looks good,” he muttered finally.
You smiled.
“She’s a good canvas.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re good at that.”
“At braids?” you teased.
He shook his head, eyes soft now, unguarded in the way only you ever got to see. “Nah. At takin’ care of people.”
-
Max had gone home not long after, walking away with her braid swinging over her shoulder and a handful of your leftover gummy worms in her hoodie pocket. She’d muttered a half-hearted “Thanks” to Billy on her way out, which—for her—was practically a warm hug.
Now, the room was quiet again. The kind of calm that settled thick in the summer air after a small storm of laughter and kid sister energy.
You were back on your bed, curled near Billy, a book propped open but forgotten in your lap. He’d been silent for a while. Not in a moody way—more like he was turning something over in his head, and you knew better than to poke at it too soon.
“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low.
You looked over. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the now-empty space where Max had been. “So, uh… could you show me how to do that?”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“The braid thing.” He shifted, suddenly way too interested in a rip on your blanket. “Not sayin’ I wanna do it all the time or anything. Just… maybe she’d let me do it for her. One day. If she wanted.”
The corners of your mouth tugged up, but you didn’t smile just yet—not because you weren’t delighted, but because you knew if you gushed, he’d retreat into a defensive shrug and a grumble about how it was “no big deal.”
So you nodded slowly, gently. “Yeah. I can show you.”
Billy looked relieved. “Cool. Like… now?”
“Sure.” You shifted to sit in front of him, grabbing the brush and a long strand of ribbon you’d left nearby. “You’re practicing on me, though. I’m not giving you a mannequin.”
He gave you a look that was half-scoff, half-smile. “Guess I can deal with that.”
You sat between his legs, your back to his chest, and handed him the brush.
“Start by brushing through a section. No yanking, or I’ll kick you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his touch was gentler than you expected.
As he worked, you felt the shift happen—the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame, replaced by quiet focus. You guided him step by step: dividing the hair into three parts, showing him how to cross them, how to keep the tension even. His fingers were clumsy at first, rough from years of fights and fixing up his car, but he was trying. Really trying.
“Like that?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Almost. Hold this piece tighter—yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”
He snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”
You laughed and leaned back into his chest just a little, letting yourself relax fully into the moment. “You’re sweet, Billy.”
He paused, hands still tangled gently in your hair.
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
Silence settled again. Then, in a rare, unguarded whisper:
“I just… want her to know I care. Even if I suck at saying it.”
You closed your eyes, fingers curling around his where they rested near your shoulder.
“She’ll know. Especially if you do her hair. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about showing up. That’s what you’re doing.”
Billy pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, just once.
“…Thanks,” he said.
And you smiled, eyes still closed, braid a little uneven but perfect in every way that counted.
-
You were in the kitchen when it happened—rooting around in the fridge for something snack-worthy and debating whether string cheese counted as a real meal—when you heard it.
A very familiar voice from the living room.
“Okay, hold still. Jesus, your head’s like… slippery.”
You peeked around the corner.
Max was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a comic book resting in her lap, expression unreadable. Billy stood behind her, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on twisting sections of her red hair into something vaguely resembling a braid.
It was lumpy. Uneven. Too loose at the top and way too tight by the bottom. But it was unmistakably a braid.
You leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart about ready to melt right through your ribs.
Max finally spoke, dry as ever. “You’re bad at this.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t ask me.”
“I did not,” she shot back.
“You walked in here and dropped a hair tie in my lap.”
“That was not asking.”
“Felt like it.”
Max was silent for a beat. Then:
“…It’s not the worst braid ever.”
Billy blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”
You stifled a laugh, watching as he tied off the end of her braid with the bright blue scrunchie Max had tossed at him earlier. He stepped back, surveying his handiwork like a mechanic judging his own engine fix.
Max craned her neck to get a look in the mirror across the room. “It’s a little jacked.”
Billy threw a cushion at her. She dodged it easily, grinning.
But she didn’t undo the braid.
She didn’t even touch it.
You stepped in then, casual. “Looks cute,” you said, brushing a bit of hair off Max’s shoulder as you passed.
Billy gave you a look—half sheepish, half smug, like see, told you I could do it.
You raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a first time.”
“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, bumping your hip as you passed.
Max looked between you two, clearly suspicious of whatever thing was happening but too cool to comment on it.
Instead, she said, “Next time, you’re learning fishtail braids.”
Billy groaned dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for a salon.”
You just laughed, grabbing a bag of chips and flopping down next to Max. She leaned her head on your shoulder, still wearing that uneven braid like it was a crown.
And Billy?
He sat down beside you both, close but casual, arm thrown across the back of the couch—watching his sister with something new in his eyes.
Billy Hargrove never imagined himself as a father. But when you overhear him whispering to your newborn son in the middle of the night, you realize he's already determined to give him everything he never had.
The house was unusually quiet.
Not the unsettling kind of quiet—just the peaceful stillness that only seemed to exist in the early hours of the morning, before the rest of the world had woken up.
You blinked sleep from your eyes as you reached across the bed.
Empty.
Billy's side of the mattress had already gone cool.
You frowned, pulling one of his old T-shirts tighter around yourself before padding down the hallway, following the faint glow spilling from the nursery.
The door was cracked open.
You stopped just outside, your hand resting lightly against the frame.
Billy stood beside the rocking chair, your son tucked carefully against his chest.
Your beautiful baby boy was impossibly tiny in his father's arms, his little fingers curled around one of Billy's larger ones while he slept peacefully, completely unaware of the world around him.
Billy looked terrified to move.
Not because he was uncomfortable.
Because he was afraid of disturbing him.
Your heart melted.
Billy's head was bowed as he watched the baby breathe, a softness in his expression you'd never seen before. The cocky grin, the guarded walls, the sharp remarks he always had ready—they were all gone.
There was only love.
"So..." Billy whispered, barely louder than the creak of the rocking chair. "You're gonna grow up hearing all kinds of stories about me."
The baby made a tiny sleepy sound.
Billy smiled.
"Some of 'em are probably true."
He let out a quiet laugh.
"I wasn't exactly the easiest guy to like."
You leaned against the doorway, smiling to yourself.
"I made a lot of mistakes."
His thumb gently brushed over your son's tiny back.
"But then your mom walked into my life."
He glanced down at the sleeping infant, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile.
"I still don't know how I got that lucky."
Your eyes stung.
Billy continued, his voice so gentle it barely carried through the room.
"And then..." He looked at the baby again. "Then you showed up."
He swallowed.
"You have no idea what you did to me, little man."
His eyes shimmered in the dim light.
"I spent most of my life wondering if I'd ever be good enough."
A pause.
"I didn't really have much to go on."
He sighed quietly.
"But the first time I held you..."
His smile trembled.
"I knew."
"I knew I'd spend the rest of my life trying to be the dad you deserve."
Your son shifted in his sleep, letting out the tiniest sigh.
Billy instinctively rocked him a little closer.
"I'll teach you how to drive someday."
He chuckled.
"Your mom's gonna hate that."
You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.
"I'll teach you to throw a baseball."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Or... if you end up hating sports, that's okay too."
Another tiny smile.
"I'll embarrass you with terrible jokes."
"I'll probably worry too much."
"I'll definitely scare off anyone who tries to date you."
Billy laughed under his breath.
"Sorry, kid. Comes with the job."
His smile slowly faded into something more emotional.
"But I promise you this..."
His voice cracked.
"You'll never spend a single day wondering if you're loved."
"You'll never have to earn it."
"You'll never have to be afraid to come home."
The room fell silent.
Billy pressed the softest kiss against your son's forehead.
"I've got you."
"Always."
"And your mom..."
He smiled again.
"She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us."
Unable to stay hidden any longer, you quietly pushed the nursery door open.
Billy looked up.
The moment his eyes met yours, his expression shifted from surprise to sheepish embarrassment.
"How long have you been standing there?"
You crossed the room, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now.
"Long enough."
Billy rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.
"I wasn't... I mean..."
"You don't have to explain."
You reached them, resting your hand against your son's tiny back before cupping Billy's cheek.
"I've never loved you more than I do right now."
Billy's eyes softened.
"You sure?" he asked with a crooked grin. "Even with the terrible jokes?"
You laughed through your tears.
"Especially with the terrible jokes."
He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead while your son slept peacefully between the two of you.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
You simply stood together, wrapped around the little life you'd created.
And for the first time in a long time, Billy looked completely at peace.
If you'd like, this could also be written with a more emotional edge, where Billy quietly confides in the baby about wanting to break the cycle of the family he grew up in, making the scene even more poignant.
Summary: It was supposed to be a one-hour job tops. Buy some food for Eddie, deliver it, then meet up with the crew at the Creel house. But Jason and his goons showed up at the worst of times and now she has a bloody nose and a black eye. And unfortunately for Jason, her boyfriend isn’t known for taking ‘accidents’ too well, especially when it comes to the person he loves the most... OR: The very very stereotypical ‘who did this to you?’ trope with Billy Hargrove because I said so.
Notes: English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistakes I may have made while I wrote this short story.
This is my first time writing for Stranger Things so please be kind :)
Warnings: Billy lives AU! (because let’s be honest, Jason wouldn’t have gotten a chance in S04 if he was alive), the reader and Eddie are besties (because the writer aka me loves him too much to let him go), some very vague very hidden character study, mentioned and/or referenced violence and murder, the writer did her very best to not make the characters ooc, (I wrote this instead of studying for my upcoming exams)
●●●
"Oh my fucking God..." she groaned as she put the stolen metal flask of booze against her skin, right under her left eye. The area was still burning like Hell, even after the unwanted late night swim and hours long journey to the Skull Rock with Eddie. "Be honest Munson, how bad is it?"
She pulled the flask away as she turned toward Eddie who seemed visibly shaken after their escape from the boat house. But then again, she thought, this was his first ever rodeo dealing with the Upside Down. So she couldn’t really blame him for reacting so human-like – she still remembered the first time she herself had seen a Demogorgon for the first time and God she was freaked the fuck out. Then her life took a very interesting turn, because she felt like a veteran at this point in her life.
Eddie hissed as he looked at the left side of her face.
"What? Is it that bad?" she asked.
"Well, sweetheart, let's just say it won't be 'freak hunting season' anymore after Hargrove takes a look at that black eye."
She let out a laugh as she put the flask back to its place – under her eye.
"Yeah, you're right." she said. "For some reason I have this strange gut feeling that Billy won't take it too well."
Eddie joined in on the laugh. "Really? I wonder why."
"Oh, I don't know. Really, I have no idea."
Yeah, it’s not like she witnessed her boyfriend’s overprotective nature or jealousy firsthand…
Billy might’ve changed a lot since the Starcourt incident – hence why the two of them got together in the first place –, but there were times when his old habits came back like a strange force and destroyed everything what was in its way. And if there was one thing which brought the old Billy back, then it was assholes who dared to mess with the person he loved the most: his girlfriend.
She still remembered when she was dropping Max off at school with Billy, and the stupid Hawkins Tigers decided to ask Eddie about his freak girlfriend. Nothing would’ve come from it really if they didn’t choose to explain whom they meant by ‘freak girlfriend’. It was safe to say that Billy was out of the car in seconds and she’d lie if she said that blood wasn’t flowing from the Tigers’ face. And afterwards, well, no one dared to look at her the wrong way or mess with her favorite kids in all of Hawkins – meaning the Hellfire Club finally had a few weeks of peace and quiet. And Eddie – Eddie finally approved her relationship with that ‘piece of shit Hargrove’.
"Well, I won't be the most wanted man in Hawkins anymore at least." Eddie added as he grabbed the stolen walkie from the side of his belt and playfully threw it up in the air and caught it. "It'll be kinda funny. Them hunting us as Hargrove hunts them."
She snorted, which made her nose hurt. She just hoped it wasn't broken.
"I wonder if Jason has a place to hide from him."
"From Hargrove? No way. I don't think a place like that exists yet."
She laughed again and this time it made her bruised left side sting.
Eddie gave her a look. A look she understood well, since she had time to learn how to read him like a book since the beginning of high school. She understood the reason for the attempt to make her laugh as well. And though she appreciated it, they had things to worry about.
"Have you tried contacting them yet?" she pointed at the walkie in his hands.
"I was about to." he said as he stopped playing with it and took a serious look at it. "I might as well tell them to bring us a six pack on their way here. I could really use one of those."
She handed him the metal flask with a smile. "I think this might have something stronger. And I don't know about you, but I could really use something stronger after that night."
"I like the way you think."
She smiled although it turned into an accidental frown.
God she really hoped her nose wasn't broken because then Eddie won't be the only one wanted for murder in Hawkins. But then again – Billy might go on a murder spree anyways. This was strike two for the Hawkins Tigers in his book. Who is she kidding – she already knew this would end bloody for all those dumb jocks.
●●●
She’d never forget the look on Billy’s face. The look of silent relief that she’s alive, that he’s finally standing in front of her – then, that look turned into something else. It changed entirely as soon as he noticed the dark, angry spot under her eye and the dried blood under her nose.
A storm was building in Billy’s eyes. She could see it, and she swore she could feel it too. His muscles stiffened, especially the ones in and around his shoulders. He seemed sharp, ready to jump on someone as soon as she mentioned a damn name. And she was thankful that Eddie was smart enough to take a few steps back and welcome Dustin, because there was always a slim possibility that the person Billy would jump will be Eddie himself.
It only took Billy a few seconds to contain that wrath in himself, a trait he learned for her, then he was all over her: hands holding onto her so fiercely she felt like couldn’t move – not like she wanted to at all –, fingers combed through her hair as she pressed the uninjured side of her face into his chest. She breathed in his cologne and God did she miss it even if it was once again mixed with the cigarettes he must’ve smoked. When he pressed a rough kiss on the top of her head, she felt lighter – then she frowned at the realization that in comparison to his cologne, she probably smelled like damp clothes and fish.
I missed you, she thought. I really missed you. Yet she knew that the moment when they’ll really show any kind of ‘emotional’ emotion, will be when they are alone – especially when Harrington isn’t around.
Billy pulled away first, his hands landing on her jaw. His fingers shook from anger as he tried to hold her as if she was a piece of glass. Her eyes met his as he took a close look at her injuries.
“Jesus Christ…” Steve exclaimed as he finally managed to take a good look at her. “What the Hell happened to you?”
Every pair of eyes turned toward her, looking at the angry area on her face with a shocked expression. It was Max and Steve who eyed Billy nervously, waiting for something – the something they all collectively knew would happen.
“You see, Harrington, that’s what I’d like to know as well…” Billy’s voice had a strange, dangerous undertone as he talked. Eddie sent an ‘I told you so’ look her way.
She just smiled shyly. “A paddle happened.”
Billy raised an eyebrow as his thumb touched the dark purple area under her eye.
Robin, probably from the stress of the situation or from the sight of the dried blood under her nose, started to tell a story from her childhood, about how she accidentally hit herself with a paddle when she was very young. But Steve stopped her before she could really get into the rambling.
She found it kinda funny and overly cute how every single one of her friends was worried about a tiny little blood and black eye, when they had much bigger things to worry about. Hell, even Steve looked like he was ready for war. Even though it wasn’t the right time, she appreciated their worry.
“A paddle happened, you say?” Billy asked, and Eddie decided it was right time to give some context.
“More like Jason Carver and his goons – with a paddle.” he explained.
Billy’s fingers stiffened under her jaw – right, just like she thought: this was strike two for the Tigers and judging by his reaction, the very last strike they’d have in life.
Maybe Billy would’ve taken it more… lightly – if it wasn’t for the fact that his girlfriend has gone missing for a full day. She left the Wheelers’ basement yesterday, not long after noon to make sure Eddie wouldn’t starve in that boathouse. And Billy stopped her multiple times. She thought it was just his protective side showing again, but thinking back at it, it must’ve been this strong feeling in his guts, a feeling she herself knew too well, to stop her because something bad would happen. And that something bad did happen.
He must’ve been full of worry, which meant he got angry and frustrated – probably, most likely. He must’ve given Steve Hell until they arrived, and Max must’ve been tired of always having her brother around.
Yeah, they were all collectively pissed at Jason Carver. He chose the wrong people at the wrong time.
“Well would someone finally tell me, what the fuck he did to my girlfriend?” Billy’s words came out harsh – and she understood that they were meant for Eddie.
But she gently wrapped her hands around his wrists – she gave them a small squeeze as she did so – and pulled them away from her face.
“So, I left to bring Eddie some food, right?” the others nodded all at once as if they were somehow synchronized. “Well – that part went quite swiftly actually. I brought the food, we ate and then Jason showed up with his goons.” Billy seemed like someone who couldn’t wait for the story to be over, so he could finally go and break some noses as revenge. “They had these bats and everything, and they looked through Rick’s house… And they stayed. We couldn’t leave without being spotted. My car was out front anyways either way. Then Jason noticed the boathouse, so we tried to leave with the boat. But the motor went to shit so we had to paddle and those fucking idiots decided to swim after us. Anyways, Jason grabbed my paddle, and I really didn’t want to let go, and that’s how he gave me this--” she pointed at her eye and nose. “--with that stupid paddle.”
All heads turned to look at Billy again – and judging by his eyes and tight muscles, he must’ve heard enough and was ready to be charged for attempted murder. She really didn’t think it mattered that her getting hurt was most likely an accident. Accidents didn’t happen to her in Billy’s book.
Dustin really chose the best moment to avert his gaze and find his compass much more interesting.
“I’ll kill them.” him saying that – it sounded like a plan. “They are so fucking dead.”
Eddie hissed as he took a quick sip from that metal flask. “Yeah – well one of them is.”
Billy seemed to like the verdict the guy has gotten.
“Right – we saw the cops around Rick’s house.” Nancy added.
“Yeah, after Carver’s amazing attempt to stop us, we fell in the lake and this – this guy, Patrick, I think – just got up in the air and his bones—” Eddie swallowed. “He went out like Chrissy.”
She still felt the cold run through her at the memory. Jesus Christ – to go out like that. It seemed worse than getting eaten by a Demogorgon. And she swore to God, she’d never ever let it happen to Max. She was one of her kids and nothing bad will happen to her as long as she’s alive.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Steve asked with a slight scolding undertone – and desperate times called for desperate things, because the look on Billy’s face meant that he agreed with Harrington. “We could’ve gotten here hours ago.”
She held onto Billy’s arm as she felt the tension in him getting very close to snapping.
“Yes, well we swam to the shore and we tried, we tried for a long time, but the walkie was busted.”
“So – we did the thing I always do now, apparently – we ran.” Eddie added with a nervous smile.
She frowned – it’s not like they had any choice. The two of them are wanted criminals, since Jason has seen the both of them in that boat. Yet she knew Eddie felt guilty – he felt horrible about what happened to Chrissy. But nothing could’ve been done differently. The Upside Down can’t really be messed with – Billy was proof of that, and she shuddered at the thought of her boyfriend barely making it out alive.
The others didn’t notice it – they started to collect all the information they had, they started to piece things together as Dustin was still examining his compass. They didn’t notice it, but Billy did. He always noticed everything.
His hands were on her again in mere seconds once again – an occurrence which wasn’t foreign at all. Billy wasn’t shy at all to show any kind of physical affection – well, he wasn’t afraid to show the hugging, kissing, hand-holding and borderline groping kind – the emotional kind was for her eyes only. Really, the only time she had seen Billy being hesitant about showing his love for her in public was at the beginning of their relationship, when he was still in and out of hospitals or when he was quite stressed about being back out in public – especially without his shirt on around the pool because of the long scars which ran along his waist.
Billy’s thumb ran along the left side of her face as Eddie thew his busted watch at Nancy. She could read the silent question in his gaze which still had an angry undertone: ‘Are you okay?’
“I was just worried about you is all.” she said, knowing the question in front of an audience would come out easily.
His lips trembled as he tried to hold back a smile – or a smirk, but his signature affectionate one.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“It fucking stings.” she laughed. “But I’ll live.”
He cupped her jaw, his fingers settling against her neck. He pulled her slightly upwards to make sure she’d look him in the eyes.
“Carver fucking won’t when I get my hands on him.” he didn’t have to use the words ‘I swear’ to say that he meant it. “He thinks he’s some kind of king now – now that I’m gone. He’s always licking the soles of my fucking shoes when he has an upcoming match to get the crowd’s respect, but behind my fucking back he lets his idiot friend group talk shit about my girlfriend – and he himself decides to hurt my girlfriend...”
“Billy…” she began as she held onto his wrists gently, to try and get through to him – gentle touches always seemed to work on Billy, not like she minded, because she liked giving them. “I don’t care about him or his stupid team…”
“Well I do!” he pushed on. “He almost broke your nose—” he suddenly stopped and held onto her face a little tighter to take a better look at her face. “Did he break your nose?”
“Billy.” she tried again. “I don’t care. I’m fine, okay? We have other things to worry about – bigger things – but I promise you that after we deal with those, you can do whatever the Hell you want to him. And I’ll watch from the first row.”
She wouldn’t let her – no way. She’ll make sure Billy and the Tigers won’t ever meet again. She’ll do her very best to keep her boyfriend out of jail. But until then he doesn’t have to know that.
His lips finally curled upwards – and she loved the moments when it happened, God damn her but she lived for those… When he wasn’t playing pretend, when it was an honest to God smile and his eyes lit up with the force of it as well. How he showed his teeth as he playfully licked his upper lip – an act she was sure he did unknowingly as a reflex, yet a thing she found extremely hot, but he didn’t need to know that either.
“Boom!” Dustin shouted out of nowhere and she jumped a little – so did the others – except Billy, who just chuckled.
He leaned in as Steve and Dustin started to argue – a usual occurrence she liked to laugh at – and pressed a long and careful kiss to her forehead.
“Billy…” she began again with a warning undertone. “Promise me.”
“Promise what, dollface?”
“That you won’t bury him six feet under until all of this is over.” she explained. “Promise me, Hargrove.”
His smile turned into a full-on smirk, and she knew his true answer – he won’t try at all.
“I’ll try.” he said instead.
His momentary anger was gone. She knew him well enough to see that. The need for revenge took its place. Her boyfriend was out for blood and there was no way anyone could stop him hunt the Tigers down – or Jason at the very least.
Billy was about to lean to try and shut her up about whatever smart-ass remark she’s got for that, she could already feel breath on his breath on her lips, when Steve Harrington out of all people ruined the moment.
“Hey, lovebirds!” Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington, don’t you have a will to live? “You coming or what? Henderson has this amazing theory to prove me wrong and—”
“We’re coming!” she shouted back before either Dustin or Billy could get into a heated discussion with him. “Let’s go, we have work to do.” she smiled.
Billy groaned as he pressed his forehead against hers and she had the nerve to let out a giggle.
He missed her too, the thought made her smile. Yeah, he missed her a whole lot.
“They are so damn annoying together, those two…” he complained with a barely audible whine.
“Please tell me you didn’t pick on them too much while I was gone.” she laughed as she pulled on his arms to get going – his right one immediately finding her waist. His hand landed on the curve of her midsection, keeping a firm hold on her as if to not let her disappear like that again.
Billy didn’t answer – he just gave her a look, a look which explained everything, and pressed his fingers into her skin, holding onto her arms when she tried to hit him for how ticklish it was.
But she asked Max about it. And yes, Billy gave them Hell, all of them. Steve might’ve been threatened a few times, Eddie was cursed to Hell and back, Max and Lucas didn’t get a single break, but… It was—oddly endearing.
Yes, according to Max Billy was a mess. And judging by her voice she didn’t mind. At least her idiot brother cared for her, like really cared for her, and was much less of an asshole than he used to be.
And surprisingly Billy was able to keep his focus on the mission ahead – finding that gate Dustin theorized about, getting out of the Upside Down, taking down Vecna…
That is, until she ran into Jason at War Zone… Until the jock decided to mess with the shotgun she wanted to buy… Until Billy appeared behind her and without a single word slammed his stupid face into the counter…
●●●
I love the thought of this AU so much it’s insane – forgive me…
word count: 3336 / masterlist | inbox (please request ! ) | WIP list
summary: max starts breaking out and needs to develop a skincare routine. billy's girlfriend y/n steps up to the role of older sister and walks her through each step. billy lingers by the bathroom doorway, putting himself in the position of the perfect model.
Contents/Warnings: afab!fem!reader
A/N:...sorry i haven't posted in like. years. i lowkey kinda fell off of stranger things!! i still liked it but I wasn't watching it and I found it hard to write without the inspiration. but I'm back! I can't guarantee it'll be for forever but I'm gonna milk it for all it's worth right now. And I can finally cross something off of my wip list YAYYYY :D send me some requests to kickstart my writing again!
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
Billy’s surprised, pleasantly so, when you show up at his door with a… big metal box? He’s not sure what’s in it, but it looks important, there’s a lock on it and you’re holding the key. The situation gets less pleasant when you remain stony faced, unreactive to his grin at your presence, and shoulder past him.
“Sorry Billy,” You march through the house, down the hallway and to the bathroom, “Urgent matters to attend to.”
He doesn’t even get to finish latching the door shut when the bathroom door starts to close, and he rushes after you to catch it.
“Hey!” He reaches you just in time, stopping it from slamming with a large, rough hand that thumps against the wood, “What the hell? Why are you holing up in my bathroom with a safe?”
“My bathroom, dickhead.” Max sneers, seated on the lid of the toilet, “You like to use the empty beer cans under your bed.”
“Someone’s bitchy today,” He gripes, leaning against the frame, “Period?”
“Billy,” You scold, unlocking the latch on the box and flipping it open, “Be nice! This is girl time, you’re intruding.”
His eyes widen, and he scoffs, “Unbelievable! So they put me in charge, then my girlfriend comes over into the house that I’m responsible for, storms off without even a hello, and tries locking herself away in the bathroom with the middle schooler, yet I’m the problem here!”
“Yes,” Max insists, eyes icy as she shoves down the lid of the box so that Billy can’t see the contents, “Just get out!”
“No.” He crosses his arms, glaring her down, “I wanna know what you’re doing.”
“I told you,” You try placating him, voice smooth and sweet, “Girl talk. It’s private.”
“What, is it about periods? I already know all that shit,” He scoffs, and you and Max share an amused, side-eyed grin, “I took health in freshman year. My girlfriend is here and I’m going to spend time with her while she is.”
His chest heaves slightly with the force of his insistence, and you sigh, glancing over at Max. You communicate silently, your eyes holding the words you can’t say in front of him, then you turn back to flash him a single pointer finger.
“One minute,” You promise, “C’mere, Max.”
She huddles closer to you, and you cup your hand over her ear, whispering into it. Billy doesn’t appreciate even more secrets, huffing and puffing at your display of dramatics. After a few nods, a smirk, and a giggle are released, you separate, and turn back to him with an eager smile.
“Okay, Billy,” You start, grin wicked, “We’re creating a skincare routine for Max. If you want to stay and be part of the fun, be my guest. But you’ll have to be our model.”
“Skincare?” He narrows his eyes, “Just wash your fucking face, Max.”
“That’s not how it works,” You groan, “She needs a multi-step routine, and that’s what we’re going to work out today, with this.” You pull up on the case’s latch, and Max doesn’t stop you this time. Inside are individual packages, what Billy identifies as face masks, bottles, tubes, wipes, cotton pads; he’s honestly surprised there’s not a beauty technician stored in there, too.
“If you’re so insistent on spending time with me,” You bargain, and there’s a sweet smile on your face as you say it that lets him know you’re not really as annoyed with him as you tease, “Then you’ll let me demonstrate on you.”
“No way.” He stands tall, shoulders stiff, “I’m not letting you put that shit on my face.”
“You could use it,” Max mumbles under her breath, and the only reason Billy doesn’t gripe back is because he thinks you’ll scold him for it. Instead, he watches as you take out a bottle, showcasing the greenish gel inside.
“Soap,” You inform him, “That’s all it is, Billy, is soap. Would you just wash your face for us?”
“Soap..” He narrows his eyes at the suspicious bottle, “That shit’s just soap?”
“Just soap,” You promise again, “Please?”
He doesn’t need to look into your eyes to know they’re shiny, and he won’t admit defeat because of them. So he succumbs on his own terms, sighing heavily and reaching for the bottle, “Gimme the damn soap.”
The tap water is cool, and he relishes the feeling against his burning cheeks. He can feel his hair getting wet, and some of the longer strands threaten to dip into the water and become completely soaked, ruining his curls. He’s not happy to be giving in so easily, but those damn eyes of yours, that sweet ‘please?’, and he’s a sucker. A sucker who smears green gel soap over his face, scrubbing extra hard at his cheeks like it’ll wash away the pink stains there.
“Okay, gentle,” You chide him, pulling at his elbows, “Max, don’t scrub this hard. You want to lather it in but you don’t want to damage your skin in the process.”
“Unbelievable,” Billy blubbers, bubbles encroaching on the gap of his lips, “I’m being your life sized beauty doll and you’re telling me I’m doing everything wrong.”
This time, you don’t hold back the unamused glare that you and Max share.
“No, Billy.” You placate him, smoothing a hand down his back while he rinses his face, biting back a smirk as Max lets one fall over her face, “We’re not telling you you’re doing everything wrong. I just want you to be nicer to your skin.”
“There,” Billy drawls, smoothing over his bubble-free face with a damp washcloth and staring down his nose at you, a few unfortunately drowned strands of hair sticking to his cheeks, “That it?”
“Uh,” You falter, eyeing the kit you brought, “Not quite. Just a few more steps.”
His face falls, “A few? I washed my face with soap, it’s clean. What more do I need?”
“Well, when you wash your hair with shampoo but you don’t condition it, it gets really dry, right?”
“Yeah,” Billy nods cautiously, eyes narrow, “So?”
“So your skin’s the same way,” You reach for a foil-lined packet in the case, hot pink silhouettes of Barbie littering its surface, “And you need to moisturize it.”
When you draw the package from the confines of the box, BIlly’s eyes go empty. It’s like he’s trying to fathom how he’s gotten there, how he’s in a bathroom with a freshly-washed face surrounded by people who want to stick Barbie all over his cheeks.
“It’s just a face mask,” You try calming him before he can even get started, “It helps moisturize your skin so that it’s not so dry after washing. It’s just a little sheet that you lay over your face, you’ve seen me wear them before.”
“Yeah, and you walk around looking like you fell asleep next to a toddler with a marker.”
“If you’re going to be antagonistic, you can leave,” You finally snap, brows lowering in a condemning glare, “This is supposed to be me pampering your sister because she’s struggling with being a teenager, I will not let you ruin this for her with your shitty attitude.”
Billy’s own brows, impeccably groomed and slit on one side, nearly reach his hairline, one now obscured by a damp curl that hangs down over his forehead.
“Okay, okay.” His gruff voice concedes, the wind successfully taken from his sails, “Barbie me, baby.”
The sheet mask leaves a thick, gelatinous layer of product on your fingers as you unfold it, and the chill of it nearly sends a shiver up your spine. Billy shrinks away from you as you hold it up towards his face, but true to his word he lets you stick it to his skin and smooth away the wrinkles.
The sheet mask intrudes on the seam of his lips so he can’t complain- at least not until you readjust it. You consider not doing so at all, and ensuring that you won’t be hearing any bitching and moaning out of him, but you take pity on him and tuck the mask into place around his mouth.
His stunted groans turn into a panted protest, “This shit feels disgusting.”
“Beauty is pain,” You recite, “Or in this case, mild discomfort for ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Fifteen minutes.” You tilt your head downwards, glaring through your eyelashes at him, “Got a problem with that, Barbie?”
“No.” Billy grumbles, “No problems.”
Max snickers, and now Billy has a problem.
“You don’t need to use one of these every day,” You peer at Max, “The more you do it the more you’ll understand your skin. If you need to do one every day, that’s one thing. But most people usually only use them once a week, or a few times a month. And that’s if you have them on hand. If your allowance runs out,” You watch Billy try and fail to itch a patch on his cheek by jabbing his nail into the gooey mask, “You can go without them. It’s an extra moisturizing step, but it’s not essential.”
“Then why the hell is it on my face?” Billy drawls, his voice grating and rough, “I thought you said it was just gonna be a few steps, not the whole tour.”
“This is the only extra step I’m adding,” You turn towards Max to roll your eyes, exaggerating the movement so that she snickers into the palm of her hand, “Just sit down and relax for fifteen minutes! Better yet-” You point towards the open doorway, “Go lay down. Take a little nap,” You suggest, “I can use the time to go over the rest of the process with Max.”
“Don’t get slime on your pillow,” Max grins wickedly at her step-brother, and you honestly think he might have complied were it not for the sibling rivalry. Instead, he plants his ass firmly on the lid of the toilet, resting his ankle on his opposite knee and subsequently kicking Max with the toe of his socked foot.
“Ew!” She jerks away, her back hitting the shower door and rattling it in place, “Y/N, he kicked me with his gross socks.”
“Billy,” You scold, reaching out to tug at a curl that hangs over his shoulder, “Be nice.”
He glares mutinously at you from the eye holes of the pink face mask, but it’s not as lethal as it would be if you weren’t his girlfriend. Although, you suppose, he wouldn’t have put the face mask on if you weren’t his girlfriend, so you drop your hand to his shoulder and rub comfortingly between the blades.
He grunts in response to the impromptu massage, apparently helpless to the comfort despite the mortifying situation he finds himself in. You keep your fingers working diligently against his clenched muscles until he loosens them, “It’ll dry out a bit in the air, but the serum is gonna soak in. After the timer is up, we’ll peel it off, and he’ll rub the rest of it into his skin. Then, toner,” You hold up the bottle, “And moisturizer. Eventually,” You sift through the rest of the bottles in your case, “You may need specific products like undereye serum, or additional creams that do one thing over another. But for right now, I think three steps will be perfect for you. And I’ll leave you with some of these,” You gesture to the numerous packs of face masks you’ve acquired over years of convenience store runs, “So that you don’t have to buy more for a while.”
“Thanks,” Max breathes, her expression breaking into a grin that bunches her cheeks up. It’s genuine, which is something you don’t always see from the oft-sarcastic girl, but it suits her beautifully, and you use your free hand to tug affectionately at one of her braids.
Fifteen minutes eventually passes, but you damn near have to restrain Billy for the amount of times he tries peeling it off before his timer is up. Once the kitchen clock buzzes on the counter his hands fly to his face, but he’s not accounted for the way that the mask has partially dried against his skin, still sticky and gooey but much less dripping.
“Ew,” He twitches, the pads of his fingers now glistening, “Get it off of me.”
“Say please.” You gripe, and you can hear his teeth clacking together in his mouth.
“Please get this shit off of me.”
You acquiesce instead of further tormenting the man, peeling the sheet mask off of him with practiced ease. He grimaces at the way that it clings to his face, but blinks when it’s off of him, like he hadn’t been able to see properly beneath it despite the eye holes.
“Finally.” He grunts, and you bring your hands to his face, gently smoothing the remaining substance into his skin. His eyes, previously scrunched shut, fly open when your hands meet his face, and he locks his gorgeous blue eyes with yours as you rub your fingers over his cheeks.
You share unashamedly back, briefly lost in the moment. He’s got such pretty eyes, and they’re framed by lashes that might be better than your own, resentfully. It’s easy to find yourself suspended in time, and you stroke along the ridges of his cheekbones with a reverence that your thumbs easily sway with. The solution is long gone, but you continue kneading your hands over his face the way you’d eased the sore muscles of his perpetually-tensed shoulders.
You’re not sure how long you stand there, pinned between his knees where you’re standing at the toilet. He’s completely relaxed despite all of his earlier grumblings, limbs loose and resting in his lap. Your fingers rove easily, adoringly over his features, and you honestly forget there’s anyone else there besides the two of you until Max clears her throat, and you glance backwards over your shoulder to see her leaning against the wall, legs and arms crossed. She’s got a flat, unimpressed expression on her face, and you try stepping out from between Billy’s legs until you realize he’s trapped you there.
“Do I have to stare longingly at myself in the mirror when I do it?” Max asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Or- should I get Lucas in here to do it for me? Do we have to stand like that,” She glances at Billy’s large hands now slung around your waist, “Like we’re trying to fit two people into a dressing room at JC Penny?”
“Okay, okay.” You wrestle your way out of Billy’s hold, fighting against his hands that try desperately to drag you back between his legs, “I get it. Sorry. I got distracted.”
Max’s lip curls into a sneer, clearly disbelieving that her step-brother is anything to be distracted by, “Whatever. So you rub it in, then what?”
“Toner.” You secure a cotton pad, dabbing the liquid onto it with two fingers pressed tight against the back, “Don’t use it if you’ve just popped a pimple. Don’t pop any pimples anyways,” You level a stern glare at her, “But if you do, don’t put this on broken skin. It stings.”
Billy’s eyes darken, and he jerks his head away when you try smearing the pad against his face.
“It’s fine.” You assure him, “It won’t hurt. You don’t have any cuts on your face, right?”
“Baby,” Max snickers, and you have to redirect Billy’s chin towards you when he shoots Max a glare over your shoulder.
“It won’t hurt.” You repeat, taking his face in your hands again to begin smoothing it over his skin. It picks up any excess moisture you’d left behind while staring dreamily into his eyes, but it picks up a layer of dirt that he hadn’t managed to scrub away with the soap, and you show off the stained pad with pride.
“See? That’s why you need toner. It gets rid of everything, and it leaves your skin ready for the moisturizer.”
Max wrinkles her nose again at the sight of the dirtied cotton pad, but Billy doesn’t seem perturbed. He watches carelessly as you toss it into the bin, and pick up your bottle of moisturizer. You pump the nozzle once, twice, thrice until there’s a sizeable amount on your palm, showing Max the size of the portion.
“No more than this,” You tell her, “You’ll go through it too fast and it won’t absorb properly.”
She watches dutifully as you spread the moisturizer over your hands, then rub it into Billy’s face. It’s excessive, because the face mask has already soaked into his skin, but he’ll simply be extra moisturized tonight, and you’re looking forward to cupping his face under cover of darkness in his bedroom tonight. You can be the softest and sweetest when there’s no one else around, and even though Max was understandably uncomfortable witnessing it, you long to continue worshipping your boy.
“There.” You step back, admiring your handiwork, “That’s it. We’re done.”
“Finally,” Billy grumbles, but you know from his recent lack of fidgeting that he’s not as put out by the whole thing as he tries appearing. He stands, looming an impressive distance over you and Max. It’s awkward to edge between the two of you in the small space, but he manages to do so without knocking you over, though he does bump into Max harder than he needs to. He pairs it with a lazy, grating, “Now that you know what you’re doing, I’m gonna go ahead and take back my girlfriend. Enjoy your slime,” Billy grabs your hand, tugging you across the tiled floor so forcefully that your socks slide against it, “Don’t get it in your mouth because I’m not calling poison control.”
“I will!” You yelp, as Billy drags you down the hallway to his room, “But- just don’t eat it anyways!”
When Billy’s door shuts with a whoosh of air you whirl on him, almost getting lost in admiring the way that his skin glistens, “You’re mean to her.”
“She’s my sister,” He looks affronted, “I’m supposed to be.”
“You could be nicer.” You insist, your own face hardened into a frown, “She just wanted girl time.”
“I wanted girlfriend time,” He shrugs, “You came to my house, you really thought I wasn’t gonna steal you?”
“It’s good for her to have girl friends,” You hum, still lost in thoughts of Max who’s insanely deprived of a womanly figure in her life. Billy wastes no time getting you into his bed, his jeans stretching tight over his thighs as he pushes you down, then crawls over you. He flips you when you’re both laying down, settling your body weight over his so that you’re laying against his toned chest. You prop your chin up against his pec, peering down at him as he closes his eyes in bliss as your new napping arrangements, “Promise me you’ll let us have one-on-ones every once in a while?”
“Alright, I promise.” Billy grunts, his eyes still firmly shut, “But don’t act like you guys didn’t enjoy tormenting me in there.”
“Your face is so smooth,” You’re certain he can hear the grin in your voice, and you trace against the contours of his face again with your pointer finger. It’s slightly tacky from the excess moisturizer, but it’s smoother than it’s ever been, and you busy yourself with drawing lines down his nose and curves beneath his chin.
“Stop doing that,” He gripes after a few long moments of nothing but your finger against his skin, “I’m gonna fall asleep.”
“We were gonna nap anyways,” You reason, “Just let me admire my handiwork.”
A grunt is your only answer, and Billy’s lips don’t part again as he drops into a hazy, blissful sleep, though they do lazily pinch together to pucker against the pad of your pointer finger when you drag it against them.
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. socially—brendon didn’t have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldn’t stabilize like bones.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14.4 k
part one: find another soldier!
Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there.
Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The ‘drama’ that occurred within departmental staff—some of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol.
Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to him
He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception.
Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.
“She’s doing perfectly on her own.” Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. “I mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.”
“That's not surprising. She’s always been miles above some of the other residents.” Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. “She’s managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.”
“I’m sure she’ll be sad to see you leave,” Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. “But, she’s blossoming here. Before you know it, she’ll be running this place.”
“Dr. Emmick,” Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction.
She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didn’t look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in.
She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a ‘good morning’ or ‘good night.’
The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.
Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, she’d keep the curious questions to herself.
“We’re only a few months shy from graduation again.” Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small ‘excuse me.’ “Do you have anyone in mind for chief residents?”
Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was.
He snorted lightly, shaking his head. “At the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for one resident,” Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital.
Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins.
Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, “And if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, I’d hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.”
“I’m assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.” Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.
She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, “It’s someone we both have worked with extensively.”
When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.
When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.
Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. It’s not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift.
Working under his command and his directive as his resident.
“What about her makes her ideal for the position?” Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.
The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. “You want my professional opinion?”
“Obviously.”
“She is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.” Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didn’t care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. “As a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.”
Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.
“This observation is based on the last three months she’s been on the night shift?” He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.
Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. “As well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.”
“And you're confident in her abilities?”
The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.
No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.
If you had asked him, he’d describe it as running.
“You aren’t?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief.
“I think that in the majority of the three years I’ve witnessed her work, I’ve noticed moments requiring additional correction.” Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.
The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.
“All residents need to be corrected.” Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. “I’m not saying she’s perfect.”
“It was implied strongly by your choice of words.”
“Well, in comparison to some of the other residents, she’s damn near it.” Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest.
Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.
“I thought maybe you might agree.” She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.
Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. “Why is that?”
“Because I like to believe you couldn’t possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.” Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where he’d have to turn and face the issue.
What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all he’d wanted, and most of his residents wouldn’t blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.
“Especially not a resident like her.”
He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. “The residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. It’s not a title handed prematurely.”
“Like Sullivan?” She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair.
Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didn’t bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasn’t to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him.
But, she had a nasty bite.
Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick might’ve argued the two female 4th year residents would’ve made wonderful selections.
“Look, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.” She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration.
When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. “If this is about her moving to night shift, that might’ve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.”
“What do you mean?” He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field.
“I told her I could use a resident with her skill.” She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didn’t hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did.
She shrugged, her smile upside. “I didn’t think she’d want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.”
Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.
All the effort he put in was just him being too “proud” and “arrogant.” He expected more from you, and he didn’t need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate.
“I still stand by the fact she’s exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didn’t even consider her.” She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.
On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to “thank” him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns.
So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him.
Philosophy wasn’t Brendon’s strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospital—as a surgeon—that could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.
‘Your patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they don’t make it.’ was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.
He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.
It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves.
He had put that weight on you.
He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?
You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.
Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.
He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing.
Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.
She’d pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.
These weren’t kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.
He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the “shark” persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.
Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.
Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.
Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.
He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, “Where is that one doctor? She’s the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.”
Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, “Would it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?”
Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. “Her shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once you’re resting up in post-op.”
Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. “Good friend of hers, I assume?”
With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. “Roommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.”
A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. “Reminded of my late wife and I.”
Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis.
He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line.
Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.
“Where is Dr. Emmick?” Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.
Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, “She got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.”
“Alone?” Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head.
He knew exactly who was missing. He didn’t need to specify where his curiosity lied.
“No,” Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, “Dr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she would’ve said no to it.”
“Better her than me.” Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.
“As a fourth-year resident, it should be you.” Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. “How do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute you’re standing over a patient with everything at stake?”
Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. “It was a joke.”
Park didn’t elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.
Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery.
However, Brendon couldn’t help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.
Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, “I heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.”
Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago.
Brendon never embellished the truth—whether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.
“Maybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.” Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. “Do you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?”
Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, “Something tells me you’re going to give it to me regardless.”
Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, “I want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.”
Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasn’t going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. “I don’t want you to think this is some plug just because she’s my roommate or because we’re close.”
Brendon didn’t need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. “She is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.”
“Are you sure she’ll survive without you?” Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasn’t the type of concern Emmick would’ve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t vocalize it yet either.
Sully cocked his head to the side, “I don’t doubt it. The real question is if I’m going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.”
Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didn’t get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection they’d search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat.
It was like they knew you’d throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to ‘figure it out’ on their own like Park would do.
“The lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.” Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.
Sully chuckled, “If she weren’t set on staying, I would drag her over with me.”
Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patient’s leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department.
He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldn’t stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by ‘Park the Shark.’ Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, he’d never advocate on their behalf.
Brendon didn’t get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.
“I’m still going to hold her a place over there just in case.” Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss.
Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. “Shouldn’t you be doing hand-offs with the rest?”
Sully didn’t look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. “I’m telling you this because I’d hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until it’s too late.”
Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didn’t relinquish. He didn’t care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was “best” for his department.
“You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here.” Sully stated with firmness.
From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didn’t doubt that you’d share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasn’t exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.
What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.
They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didn’t make it easy, and they certainly wouldn’t have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.
Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. He’d chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint.
Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor.
He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldn’t handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.
Yet, you didn’t fit that image, physically or metaphorically.
You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to ‘ease up’ on the only resident able to keep up with him.
He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to ‘ease up’ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands.
Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.
When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadn’t realized how late the surgery ended.
There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.
It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.
He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh.
Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although he’d probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.
He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasn’t until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.
“I swear, I’ve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.” You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath.
Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, “He’s not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.”
“So, how come he’s leaving?” Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.
There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. “He doesn’t see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.”
“And how about you?” Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. “You’re pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?”
You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. “I haven’t decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.”
“Don’t wait too long.” Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendon’s parents did to him.
Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didn’t have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didn’t need personal distractions to keep him occupied.
“Sometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.” Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. “If I had taken my own advice, I would’ve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.”
Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didn’t need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patient’s door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door.
He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket.
Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. “Dr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?”
“No,” The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. “I’m here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.”
With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. “I will check on you tonight.”
He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. “So soon? You just can’t stay away from this place, huh?”
While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. “What can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.”
Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.
“If you’re looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.” You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you.
“How did the surgery go?’ He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.
You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.”
The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldn’t have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasn’t the true reason you had delayed leaving.
Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.
“How come you were pulled to assist?” Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.
When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.
You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. “Is there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?”
The question wasn’t proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him.
He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.
Working for 24 hours—half of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether you’d give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.
“Typically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.” Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.
You didn’t remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Don’t get used to this treatment. It’s not meant to last.
“I responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmick’s directive to have me on the surgical team.” You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. “It was a learning opportunity.”
Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be ‘equals’ if you could barely speak words to him?
“I have to go home. I work another shift tonight.”
Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge.
Brendon’s hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly.
He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, “See you next week for day shift.”
Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better.
That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someone’s quality of life.
That is a lot harder said than done when patients weren’t easily agreeable to their plan of care.
Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didn’t understand that type of reliance.
Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.
A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them.
“We just don’t feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?” The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.
He shouldn’t have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.
“We don’t have precise numbers, but most children recover well.” Brendon’s concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“But, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?” The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her.
“So we aren’t even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?” She continued with a shaky breath.
He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.
Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.
You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.”
When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?
The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.
Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. “We will need more time to think about this, anyway.”
“Let the nurse know when you’re ready.” Brendon curtly responded.
You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, “What is it?”
“ER needs a consult.” You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.
When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. “Why hasn’t anyone gone down?”
“Bryant did.” You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. “Dr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.”
His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before.
Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the ‘control’ he had within himself and in his habitat.
When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, she’d check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule.
Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends.
“So, how come you're here telling me this?”
You chuckled, grinning subtly. “It’s better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.”
The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didn’t go amiss. That was shady, but something told him that’s exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldn’t admit it, you were intentional with your action.
You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. “Was that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?”
Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you could’ve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.
“Seemed tense.” You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.
No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.
He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. “Blame Jones. He’s freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.”
He scowled and there was a beat of silence.
“Is there any way I can help?”
The question was assertive. You weren’t planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.
The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an ‘act’ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.
He was also acutely aware you didn’t stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.
Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.
No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.
“Why not answer the consultation?” Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.
You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. “I’d rather not get on Dr. Robby’s bad side.”
Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked you’d do so easily with someone who wasn’t directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.
Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. “I will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.”
He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. “You better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.”
The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining.
Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether you’d come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadn’t come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure.
Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control.
He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.
You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved.
The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldn’t tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.
When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you weren’t fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care.
While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkers—which explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in.
No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart.
And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadn’t moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.
He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents.
“How did you manage to get them to consent?” Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up.
There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grail—waiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing.
Standing in front of anyone, he’d feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into.
You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. “I just sat there and spoke to them.”
“The parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didn’t address.” You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.
You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. “They just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery.
Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You weren’t rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls.
The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before.
The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. “They knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.”
“It’s all for the benefit of their child.” Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.
It should’ve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk.
You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. “They know that, Dr. Park.”
With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you weren’t going to put in words for him. They’re still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You weren’t going to bother with explaining yourself anymore.
“I also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.” You informed, holding the mug in two hands while
heading back to your workstation.
He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. “Not everyone’s preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.”
The small grin on your face while you typed didn’t agitate him as much as it would’ve from anyone else. Walsh would’ve earned a scowl. He might’ve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year.
And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.
“Some of us learn differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.” You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. “The point is we learn to do better next time, right?”
When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs.
Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.
Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.
“All non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.” Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought.
“My nurses know what they’re doing, Dr. Park.” Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.
Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. “What is the current count?”
“17 including children, right now. It can change soon.” Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.
Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.
“Have you reached out to the rest?” Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.
She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. “I’ve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.”
He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didn’t stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyone’s life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.
As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sully’s steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.
When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. “Residents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.”
“Trauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.” Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.
“Lovely.”
Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. “I will assign you all to cases as they come in.”
Sully and you both nodded to Brendon’s command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. “Want to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.”
“I’m going to need all R4 and R3’s in the OR.” Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. “I won’t have to check the work of the interns.”
Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasn’t rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.
“Fair point.” Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.
When Brendon looked over at you, there wasn’t any deflation of his prerogative. You weren’t visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didn’t let your face show it.
“Will you be able to manage?” Brendon questioned in your direction.
Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, “I’m going to need you to be alert. Sometimes you’re going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.”
The statement wasn’t wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it.
He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. “I understand, Dr. Park.”
Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. “Ambulances are 7 minutes out.”
“That’s my cue.” Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. “See you once the dust settles.”
Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. “Don’t’ go biting any of my resident’s head off!”
Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didn’t see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. “Get your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.”
You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers.
The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kidding—covered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.
You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. “What do you have?”
“Bilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.” You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. “May is closing up.”
The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. “Park, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?”
When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. “I won’t be scrubbing in.”
You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. “What? Don’t tell me you’re going to send me one of your pups?”
Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldn’t believe Park was actually looking at you. “Possible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.”
“What did imaging show?” You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.
“Come on, Park.” Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. “What are you, sweetheart? R3?”
“I’ve done this procedure before.” Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal.
It wasn’t disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.
Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. “Nothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I don’t need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this man’s possibility of walking.”
Brendon's own disbelief didn’t seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didn’t smile for a doctor with ‘razor sharp’ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, he’d flaunt it.
Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. “Dr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.”
Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.
“You ready?” Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the OR’s down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular.
Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. “I will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.”
Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. “I didn’t want you defending me.”
Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didn’t deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didn’t know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didn’t rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendon’s guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.
The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.
“I wasn’t.” Was all he plainly said.
He wasn’t defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldn’t have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didn’t come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.
“You better hurry and scrub in.” Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him he’s wrong. Prove to me you’ve got this.
With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2.
Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.
Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. “You done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that won’t heal on their own.”
Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didn’t help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.
“Thank you, Dr. Park.” Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.
The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldn’t utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didn’t need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldn’t use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do.
In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didn’t know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant.
He didn’t want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasn’t your preferred method of surviving—because you weren’t just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someone’s life while living their worst day.
The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.
Brendon didn’t see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and him—his correction and your fear of fucking it up—was his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.
Of course, the method didn’t work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.
It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. “Better you than me. I might’ve socked the guy.”
Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. “You wouldn't have.”
“For her? Yeah.” Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. “Like I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I could’ve made it without her.”
“I don't take lightly when people dismiss her.” Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.
You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spirits—and if that meant warding away what ate the center of it—there was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sully’s face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.
Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. “So, thanks, Dr. Park.”
“I’ll book the OR.” Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning.
What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.
It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.
All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff.
The only one missing was a green cap.
“Are they finishing it up?” Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.
She hummed, head still lowered. “Ortho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.”
Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldn’t have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didn’t feel the need to come in after that.
His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, you’d probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you.
Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed.
“How was the surgery?” Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.
Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. “Went better than expected.”
“Did Norton give you any grief?” Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your body’s melatonin. From the look of it, you didn’t have anything of substance to run off.
You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.
“He was fine. Didn’t talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.” The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.
He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldn’t remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. “He's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.”
You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. “Have you told him that?”
“Almost.”`
The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. “Apart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.”
Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didn’t plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.
When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it.
In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.
You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. “You’re exhausted”
“No, I'm fine.” You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. “I have charting to get done.”
“Which you are barely awake for.” Brendon pointed out.
The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendon’s eyes.
He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. “You don’t need this. You’re frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.”
“I am needed here.”
He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.
“If I did need you, I’d need you to stay awake and alert.” Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. “Right now you are neither of those things.”
Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. “You could use the help.”
“No, I need you to go home.” Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didn’t have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasn’t an undercut. He wasn’t even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. “I can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.”
“You’ve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?” He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.
With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. “You’re right. It was stupid.”
“It’s the exhaustion.” Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.
“Is Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?” You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face.
“You’re my resident now?” Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasn’t nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.
“Honorary resident, depending on how I feel.” You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.
The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.
Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical ‘pipsqueak,’ you humbled him.
That wasn’t an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth.
He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, “Eat something. You’ve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.”
Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small ‘thanks.’ Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients you’ve had in hours.
After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. “I appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.”
He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. “I probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.”
The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someone’s hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword.
“If the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton won’t have anything to complain about then.” He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona.
He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.
“Not to be cocky, but I’m sure he will.” You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen.
Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. It’s the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience.
“I better not see you in my OR.” Brendon looked at you pointedly. “Not until your next shift.”
Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident.
“I promise, Dr. Park.” You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response.
He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time.
With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.
“Have a good rest of your shift, and I’ll see you around, Dr. Park.” There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.
He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.
It was a running joke within the unit; whenever Simon would mention you. They’d go along with it, maybe crack a few jokes here and there with Simon (to which, he adds onto it, assuming they’re being serious). To be fair, whenever he mentions you, it always comes off very sarcastic?
“Wanna go down to the pub after work?” Johnny would ask.
“Can’t and don’t wanna. Spendin’ the weekend with my love,” was all Simon would say.
Or there will be times when Simon would briefly mention something about you and it comes of even more sarcastic. Like that one time John mentioned about how his wife cooking him a real, special dinner after a long, stressful day.
“Yeah? My love does that every time I see ‘em. Three times a week at that. I’d say step it up.”
Seriously, how can anyone take Simon serious when his tone is flat and expressionless?
Of course, no one believes him. Simon? Simon Riley? A man who has the driest humor and somehow ends up being funny because of his deadpan tone? The same man that hides in his office during lunch hours because he’d “rather talk to the rat in the corner than converse with you lot,”… His words.
It wasn’t until a week before Johnny’s birthday that really made them all think Simon was taking the joke too far. “Might invite my love out too, if tha’s alrigh’ with you, Johnny,” Simon briefly mentions in passing.
And as per usual, Johnny goes along with it (so does everyone else), assuming that Simon was in on the joke. “‘Course, L.T. Bring ‘em around! Tell ‘em to wear camo while you’re at it.”
Get it? Because you’re apparently not real.
But Simon took those words seriously. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’ think they got camo.”
The day of Johnny’s birthday, everyone met up at the pub. You and Simon were the last people to arrive just because you had to go shopping for some camouflage prints after he decided to tell you last minute. Because of course, the man forgets to mention it was camouflage themed.
Now, you’re standing there with Simon, both dressed up in camouflage printed outfits and a small gift bag in your hand while the three men stared at the two of you with jaws dropped.
“I thought you told us to wear camo,” Simon says flatly, walking up to the three with you awkwardly tagging behind.
No one wore camo. Not even the birthday boy. What a sick joke!
“Ghost— I thought— We thought—“ Johnny stared between you and Simon with wide eyes, fingers pointing between you two.
“I told you so!” Kyle hissed, slapping Johnny’s back. Oh, he knew he’d be getting a glare from the Lieutenant. They all were. Even his own captain.
Simon stood there with a flat expression and slowly re-pinched his black surgical mask over his nose. “You thought what,” he said, still confused about the situation. He doesn’t make it clear though; just glares with the same stare he always gives them.
“You’re real?” Johnny ignores the man, pointing at you. He squints his eyes, believing that maybe, just maybe, he was imagining you… Or that it might’ve been some awful prank that’s gone too far. “You’re like, not getting paid for this, right?” he adds.
“What? No?” you replied in a question, just as confused as Simon was.
Simon lets out a huff under his mask and stuffs his hands into his pockets. The only thing you had to pay for was the ridiculous camouflage outfit. And technically, you didn’t even pay for it, he did. “I told y’ that I’d show up with ‘em,” he tells Johnny.
Kyle gives his captain an awkward smile as if he’s mentally transporting his words over to the other man’s brain. “We fucked up,” he thinks.
All John could do was stare back with a look that says “yeah we did.”
Johnny leans in close to you, “no, seriously. Between us, he ain’t paying you? You’re really his partner?”
Simon’s brows knitted as he snaps his eyes over to his teammate. How many times did he have you mention you? He basically soft launched you to the whole team months ago. And he’s been keeping you a secret for ages! “Christ, Johnny. I’m bein’ serious. They’re my partner,” he says, grabbing Johnny by the shoulder, gently tugging him away from you.
It takes a second for Johnny to finally realize that Simon was serious. That all along, he was genuinely telling the team about you.
It was safe to say they’ve forgotten that it was Johnny’s birthday and spent the whole night asking questions about you… And what you saw in Simon.
Don’t worry, Johnny considered this the best birthday surprise ever.
Simon had a habit of manhandling you, to put it simply.
You'd be practicing your shooting when suddenly you'd feel large hands on your hips, shifting you into a better position. A low "Even out your weight." murmured into your ear.
Sometimes you'd go to Price's office only to be stopped just before you open the door, an arm around your waist pulling you back. "He's busy with Johnny, Love."
Countless occasions like this had your mind almost ditzy. The low tone in your ear sending shivers down your spine. The touching making your breath hitch. And you knew the large bastard got off on it.
Eventually it came to a head when Simon pulled you to his barracks one night. The two of you tugging at each other's clothing.
It shouldn't have surprised you when Simon grabbed your hips and pushed you to lie on your stomach, tugging your ass up so you were presenting yourself to him.
"Fuck" Simon drawls out as he takes in the sight of you. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as you wiggle your hips impatiently.
Finally Simon grabbed your hips and practically speared you onto his cock. Causing you to moan uncontrollably. Grabbing the sheets as he thrust into you.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck Simon!" You whine loudly. Simon groaning as you clamp around him. Cunt fluttering over and over.
You gasp as Simon grabs your waist, letting him flip you onto your back and push your legs up until your thighs were almost against your chest. Eyes rolling back as he presses even deeper into you.
"So fucking tight f'me." Simon huffs, nearly hammering into you now; reaching down to your clit and rubbing tight circles.
Your body attempts to squirm, but you were locked under Simons weight. It strangely aroused you, not being able to move because of how large Simon was.
Your breath then hitches as you suddenly reach your orgasm. The pleasure sparking up your spine as Simons hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sound you didn't know you were capable of ripping free from your vocal chords.
"That's it. Fuck fuck!" Simon moans, thrusting again and again before filling you with his cum. His hips moving slowly as he rides out his own orgasm. His head burying into your neck. His hot breaths fanning against your skin as he calmed down.
being the new, shy tech for the 141 introduced by laswell, and the boys are already trying to tease you. (18+)
you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.
well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.
you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.
“what happened? what did he say?”
“huh?” you raise a brow.
“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”
“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”
“what?”
the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.
big, scary bear. adorable giant.
you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.
“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”
coworker!simon riley who barely speaks to anyone but always seems to notice you. he leaves a black coffee on your desk every morning with no note, no eye contact, just a low grunt when you thank him. everyone thinks he’s cold. you’re starting to think he’s watching you more than he should.
coworker!simon riley who fixes your computer when it crashes during a deadline, sleeves rolled up, veins in his forearms flexing while he types. he’s so close you can smell his cologne mixed with gun oil. when you try to make small talk he just mutters “you’re not as useless as the rest of them.”
fwb!simon riley who corners you in the supply closet the second the floor clears for lunch. he yanks your skirt up, drops to his knees and eats you out like he’s starving — thick fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit until your legs shake. then he spins you around, pulls his mask down just enough and fucks you hard against the shelves, one hand over your mouth so no one hears you moan.
coworker!simon riley who glares at the flirty account manager when he lingers too long at your desk. says nothing, but his jaw ticks under the mask. later that same day he texts you one word: “office?” and you already know what’s coming.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you bent over your own desk after everyone’s gone home. papers scattered everywhere, your computer still on, his thick cock stretching you open while he growls low in your ear, “been thinking about this tight cunt all fucking day, sweetheart.” he keeps one gloved hand over your mouth the whole time so the security cameras don’t catch your sounds.
coworker!simon riley who walks you to your car in the parking garage every night “because it’s on his way.” his hand brushes the small of your back when no one’s looking. you both pretend it means nothing.
fwb!simon riley who has you riding him in the driver’s seat of his truck in the underground garage, windows completely fogged up. he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding you up and down his cock while whispering filthy praise in that rough manchester accent, “that’s it… bounce on it just like that, filthy girl. take every inch.”
coworker!simon riley who still acts completely normal around the rest of the team — silent, brooding, professional. but the second the last person leaves, his eyes go dark and he’s already looking for the nearest locked door.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you slow and deep on the break room couch at 2am during a storm. emergency lights only. he’s got your legs over his shoulders, mask pulled down so you can see the scars and stubble while he stares straight into your eyes the entire time. he doesn’t pull out when he finishes — just stays buried inside you, breathing heavy against your neck like he never wants to leave.
coworker!simon riley who leaves hickeys on your inner thighs that you have to hide under your work pants the next morning. he catches you adjusting your clothes and the corner of his mouth twitches under the mask like he knows exactly what he did.
fwb!simon riley who sends you a text at 11pm during another overtime shift: “elevator. now.” when the doors close he’s on you instantly — pinning you against the wall, fingers inside you before you can even speak, growling “can’t fucking wait anymore.”
t141 are used to simon muttering about his missus. to be honest johnny and kyle thought he was insane, because there is no way in hell lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley has a wife. especially one that he describes to be so soft and sweet.
when they pry and ask about you, he happily tells details, but will never disclose your name or show them a photo. he just has to keep you alllll to himself. naturally kyle and johnny don't believe him.
then simon starts arriving on base with lunches. real good lunches. johnny watches in envy as simon will lift his mask over his mouth and open his little (big) box, juicy steak covered in a real nice sauce.
"y'must be an awful good cook sir" johnny mutters, entranced in the smell of good food.
"told ya my missus makes it for me" simon would grunt. he silently pockets the small notes you would leave him.
i miss u <3
or
im proud of u <3
or
want u to fuck me real good tonight ;)
he would pocket the latter to jerk off to in his office later.
one day simon forgets his lunch. and being the everso caring and worrying wife, you rush down to the base to bring it to him.
when a pretty thing such as yourself arrives on base, the recruits can't keep their eyes off you. especially johnny who approaches awful confident.
"you lost lass?" he can't help his eyes drifting to your pretty tits spilling over your top.
"no" you bat your pretty lashes at him, "my husband left his lunch at home, i thought i could give it to him!"
johnny nearly fell to his knees in agony when you said husband. sighing he said, "aye then, do you know his rank or platoon number?"
you hum trying to recall. "i think task 141, his name is simon riley." you quickly reconfirm, "oh wait everyone here calls him ghost"
johnny stops dead in his tracks.
"you're LT's wife?"
you look up at him with a pretty smile and nod proudly. johnny had to hold back a groan, god you were beautiful.
and you were real.
you follow behind johnny while he leads you to simon and when you reach his office, johnny knocks once.
"come in" is grunted out slightly harshly
any hostility is quickly wiped off simon's face when he sees his pretty little wife standing next to his sergeant.
"hi si! you forgot your lunch" and you almost gallop over to simon in excitement holding out his lunchbox for him.
fuck. when is it johnny's turn :(
"you're excused soap" simon grunts, "although i'll get you to escort her back off base so stick around."
thats how johnny ends up sitting outside simon's office getting having to listen to the clattering of items on simon's desk as well as your sweet moans and whimpers while simon thanks you for making his lunch.
he can't stop staring at you when you stumble out on shaking legs with messed up hair and smudged lipgloss.
he has got to tell kyle that not only are you real, but you're fucking ethereal.
the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
𝐜𝐰; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, it’s 6k words long.
𝐚/𝐧: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the couple’s first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”
His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
“Why are you here?”
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, silence returns.
─☆*:・
You can’t sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t look at you this time.
“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“Still feels like shit.”
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
“Lieutenant.”
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re Simon Riley?”
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.
─☆*:・
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”
His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”
Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.
“You're dramatic.”
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
“You look less murderous now.”
You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
─☆*:・
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”
“A bit.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
—☆*:・
By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“Riley.”
“I got it.”
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”
“'M fine.”
“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”
His visible eye narrows immediately.
“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”
“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
“I was getting water.”
“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”
“I can do it on my own.”
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesn’t feel fair.
─☆*:・
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
“Oh, fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simon’s brows knit slightly.
“Whot?”
“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
“How’m I looking at you?”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.
“No.”
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
“'M fine.”
“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
“Hm.”
“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
“I know.”
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
─☆*:・
Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.
There’s dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
“How bad is it?”
“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”
Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”
You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
“We should go out once we’re discharged.”
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."
Lieutenant!reader, who gets called in to help the 141 with an extremely taxing operation, after Laswell insisted that your set of skills will be extremely helpful for the following missions. Price accepted the temporary addition to his team immediately—an extra set of skillful hands was always needed.
Upon your arrival you greeted everyone accordingly, settling into the barracks. For the rest of your first day Soap kept attempting to get to know you, but hell you were even less talkative than Lt, just nodding along or dryly responding to his questions, your face emotionless for the entire duration of the small talk.
Then, Ghost mutters a single dry comment from the corner of the room and you smirk—fucking smirk, nearly chuckle too.
After that, Soap couldn’t stop noticing the tension between you and his Lieutenant.
The lingering eye contact during briefings. The arguments that felt too personal. The way he would stand just a little too close beside you during training, gloved hand brushing your shoulder as he corrected your stance.
“You’re overcompensating,” Ghost said one afternoon behind the shooting range.
“I’m adjusting for wind.”
“You’re adjusting badly.”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Funny coming from someone who missed center twice.”
Soap felt like he was interrupting something with the way the two of you stared each other down like the rest of the world had vanished.
Later that night, he cornered Ghost near the armory.
“What's going on between ya too?”
Ghost didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle. “Nothing.”
Ghost reassembled the magazine with slow, deliberate movements. “You imaginin’ things.”
“I’m telling you, Lt, every time she walks into a room, you both look ready to either kill each other or tear each other’s clothes off.”
That finally earned him a glare, “Drop it, Johnny.”
Soap did. Technically.
But over the next ten months, things only became more suspicious. Ghost always sat beside you during briefings. You always looked for him first after nasty fights out in the field during missions. Neither of you were affectionate, but somehow that made it worse. Every interaction carried this unbearable intensity, like a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
Then the operation ended with the enemy successfully neutralized.
The team crowded into a dim pub near base, Soap sat across from you and Ghost, still mentally trying to solve whatever strange thing existed between the two of you.
That’s when he noticed the silver ring on your finger, he could swear it wasn't there before.
He blinked. “Ye married?”
You took a sip of your beer. “Yeah, for a few years now."
Soap stared at you in disbelief. "Ten bloody months and ye never mentioned that?”
You only shrugged, amused, "I don't really talk about my personal life at work, MacTavish"
“What’s next?” he laughed, turning toward Ghost. “You married too, Lt?”
“Yeah,” Ghost answered calmly.
Soap barked out a laugh. “Aye, right.” He took a sip from his whiskey, "Good one, Lt"
“He’s not joking,” you said as a matter-of-factly.
Soap looked between the two of you slowly.
Everything clicked into place at once.
The staring. The arguments. The tension.
Soap rubbed his temples with one hand, speechless. “Steaming Jesus.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “Took you long enough.”
Late one night in May, about a week after the two of you had returned from your first mission back on active duty after you were both injured, you found yourself tangled up against Simon's side, resting comfortably on his chest. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the nightstand's lamp, painting soft shadows across the walls. You wore nothing but one of his old shirts, the fabric hanging loosely from your frame and carrying the familiar scent that always made you feel safe.
For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency. No gunfire echoing in the distance. No missions waiting around the corner. No pain from old injuries demanding your attention. Just this. Just the two of you.
The steady rhythm of Simon's heartbeat pulsed beneath your ear, slow and strong, grounding you with every beat. His hand moved lazily across your back, fingers tracing absent-minded patterns over the thin fabric of his shirt. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, a side of him few people would ever believe existed. Every stroke seemed to smooth away another layer of tension you hadn't even realized you were carrying.
You felt completely at peace.
The silence stretched between you, comfortable and familiar. Neither of you felt the need to fill it—simply existing in each other's presence felt like enough.
"Wan' to spend my life with ya."
His voice cut through the silence. It was low, rough with sleep and thick with emotion. The words were quiet, almost swallowed by the darkness, but they settled heavily in your chest all the same.
A soft smile found its way onto your lips.
"Yeah," you murmured, your eyes remaining closed as you listened to his heartbeat. "Me too."
His hand never stopped moving against your back. For a moment, you thought that was the end of it.
Then he spoke again.
"Will you marry me?"
The question was delivered with the same calm tone he used for almost everything, but beneath it was something startlingly rare: vulnerability.
Simon, the Ghost, has faced bullets without flinching. He has walked into impossible situations with unwavering confidence. Yet somehow those four words carried more uncertainty than anything you had ever heard from him.
Your eyes snapped open.
Propping yourself up on one forearm, you turned to look at him properly. Even in the dim light, you could see the careful neutrality on his face, the way he was trying to appear unaffected.
You knew him too well to miss the tension beneath it.
A grin tugged at your lips.
"Is this a hypothetical question," you asked, holding his gaze, "or you actually got a ring?"
One of his eyebrows lifted. For a second, he simply stared at you. Then, without a word, he shifted slightly toward the bedside table. Keeping one arm around your waist, he opened the drawer and reached inside.
When he pulled out a small black box, your heart immediately began to race.
Simon opened it with one hand.
Inside sat a ring.
It wasn't extravagant. There were no oversized diamonds or elaborate details designed to impress strangers. It was elegant, simple, thoughtful.
It was perfect.
The second you saw it, your smile widened until your cheeks hurt, you rarely smile this widely, but you can't help yourself.
And Simon saw it—the way your eyes lit up, the disbelief melting into happiness. He noticed every ounce of love written plainly across your face.
Something warm bloomed inside his chest. The feeling hit him so suddenly it almost left him breathless. After everything life had taken from him, after all the years spent believing certain things simply weren't meant for people like him, seeing that expression directed at him felt almost unreal.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
Then he said your full name. Not a nickname. Not some teasing variation. First and Last name. The seriousness of it made your chest tighten.
"Will you marry me?" he asked again, this time there was no attempt to hide what he felt. The vulnerability was bare, raw, fragile.
His eyes never left yours and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow until it contained only the two of you.
"Simon Riley," you said softly, still smiling, "I will marry you."
The relief that crossed his face was instantaneous.
You had seen Simon happy before. You had seen him amused, proud, satisfied.
This was different. It looked like peace, the kind he had spent his entire life searching for.
The following week, the two of you stood together in City Hall. There were no elaborate decorations. No crowded venue. No hundreds of guests.
Just you and him.
The ceremony itself was simple and quiet, yet somehow it felt more meaningful than anything grander ever could have.
When the vows were spoken and the paperwork signed, nothing dramatic happened. The world didn't stop turning. Fireworks didn't explode overhead.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
“...Fuck.”
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasn’t okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
“Love.”
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”
“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
“Christ.”
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”
You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
“Look at me.”
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.
“Like what?”
“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
“You didn’t.”
“Nearly did.”
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
lol yeah i'm procrastinating my long fics TT
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