Summary: After months of wandering the space to study Tau Ceti, Grace found out that there’s another crew on board. It was only revealed when Rocky corrected him on how many people the ship has. Grace got hope for him to recall his pieces of his memories back on Earth. You must be an answer for him.
“Happy. Happy. Grace has woman now. statement.”
Pairing: Ryland Grace x fem!reader (shy!grace x soft!dom!fem )
Warning: Use of profanity / No use of Y/N / Fluff - smut / good ending / smut - !MDNI! / age gap / rocky yapper / shy!ry / bunch of flashbacks / you are rocky’s favorite human woman / ry dealing with amnesia / 50% conversation / slow burn AF/ weird safe words/
Words Count: 9k
Note: I just started reading the book so this is mostly based on the movie. Hope Andy Weir won’t get mad. tried to not make it like Passenger lol. Grammatical errors may occur.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and science claims are either imagined or used for storytelling purposes only. Any resemblance to real people or real-life situations is purely coincidental.
Part 2/2 : No Light Years Between Us ✧˚₊ || MASTERLIST ||
Waking up drunk with the worst hangover is something Grace would choose rather than waking up with IVs all over your body in a space craft in the middle of nowhere. Not knowing himself, name, age, where he lives, occupation or even his own race. Just a sub-conscious self but smart enough to observe, understand everything happening and to analyze that he is no longer on earth before he could remember his own name.
No guide, no manual. He all started with scratch but the hardest part for him is trying to recall himself rather than how to use the laboratory apparatus to study outside of the ship. From analyzing how his brains work he was able to find out the reason why he is on that ship. I am a scientist. He said to himself.
Apparently the other two crew in the ship had already passed away for unknown reasons. Names were written in the bags which he thought meant ownerships. Since the two other bags were written in Chinese and Russian, he assumes that he owns the third bag. Grace. “Am I a girl? But I have a pe— oh! it's my last name.”
Not long he was able to recall how to study matters outside the ship and what was the mission for, and he directed his focus on it, setting aside knowing about himself since doing the mission was more of muscle memory for him— like he’s been doing this before.
“Grace is quiet. statement” and not so long when he met Rocky who has a bigger and cooler ship with just a different kind of aesthetic. Six months after he woke up from coma when he met this new friend, smart, reliable,
“What Grace is thinking, question?” and full of curiosity.
“I am having a moment, bud.” Grace said while his eyes were shut.
“Why Grace need time. question?”
“Because I am trying to recall my full name, Rocky.” eyes were still shut and sitting in the center of the LED dome made for the crew in the ship.
“Grace has more names. why? Question.”
“Because on Earth— argh you know what? nevermind, I lost focus.”
Rocky accompanied him for the past 3 months, since then he never cared about knowing him at all, compared to the first 6 months since he woke up. He is now accompanied and occupied. Not until now.
“Rocky checks on Grace okay.”
“Yeah, Rocky. I am fine. Thanks bud.”
“Grace thinking but not science.”
“It’s because..” He paused, “I wanted to know how I got in here. It’s like a missing puzzle piece for me. I can’t recall what's the benefit of this to me. what made me convinced to come here. If I could just ask the crews,”
Grace sighed, “...but they are all dead now. If those 2 crew just left any note or clue before they passed and left me alone in coma.”
Rocky rolled closer to Grace, “Grace is not alone. Not all dead. statement.” and that made a smile on his face and Grace threw his shoulder over the glass. “Thanks, bud. Thank you for accompanying me, You’re making me alive too.”
Grace never expected his bond with Rocky would grow strong like this. He knew he’s middle school teacher when the sudden excitement of wanting to share new things hit him, especially when he met Rocky, “The kids would be amazed to know about you. They’re little minds would explode.”— Kids? I have kids? Oh! I am a teacher. Science teacher.
“Grace never been alone. statement.”
“Yeah- yeah. I got it, bud. I am very glad you are here.”
“No. crew still rest.”
“Yes. They are resting in peace.”
“Rocky know dead. crew only rest.”
“They are dead as fudge, Rocky. 2 dead crew.” Grace detail while showing his two fingers up. He grabbed his laptop and checked if there were any translation issues but the words he had input in here was enough to form understandable human grammar.
“Grace is wrong. 2 dead. 2 alive crew. statement.”
“What are you talking abou— two what??” Grace immediately got up and wore his glasses properly. “Where is he?”
Rocky led him back to the part of the ship where he woke up from uncounted years of coma. He never took Rocky here and never detailed to him this part of the ship as for him it won’t be necessary to look back.
“Up up up. Crew resting.” Since rocky could only roll most of the surface, Grace needed to take it from there. There was a containment that Grace did not bother to look at since most of the things on the ship were meant for 3 crew, he never thought there could be another human in the ship.
Hopes are filling up into his heart in every step he takes in the ladder to check the chamber higher than where he woke up. Another human, another chance for him to know everything. It was a bigger MRI-like chamber where you could step inside or slide out the patient’s gatch bed. Grace was able to easily open the door and step inside.
“What Grace see? question.” He can hear Rocky from below waiting for him.
Grace sees a similar apparatus he has been before, monitoring computers and your unconscious body that is perfectly resting with signs of condemnation. You are a person that is buried in his memories.
Grace heard only a few banging of the door before footsteps inside his room. He did not bother. He continued to his sleep while on his sheets and boxers. Yesterday was a tough day doing his research and preparing for his presentation. Sleeping in a Naval Station wasn't the best experience but the best option he has for all extended effort he did last night.
“Since you often get yourself ready for 20 minutes, you'll be late for approximately 8 minutes for your presentation today with the world’s leaders.” He ignores the voice and buries his head to the pillow and covers his head.
“You need to get your rocket-boxered ass ready, Dr. Grace.” You commanded with a bit of firmness.
You questioned to yourself if the rocket printed boxers were still in 30’s men's choice of underwear or scientist thing, or maybe it's just him. You turned your head to Carl and asked, “Do you have any specific choice of underwear? If you don’t mind me asking.” Carl only shook his head while still standing firmly next to you. You looked back to the scientist who is still fighting for a nice sleep. “I see. I see. It’s just him. Last time his boxers were molecule printed.”
“I don’t get why they call you a Stratt clone, Stratt doesn't talk about someone else's underwear.” Grace said beneath the pillow, and that hit him. Hair tousled when he lifted his head and the first thing he met was your eyes. “Good morning, Doctor Grace. Time to get up.”
It was not the very first time you did it to Grace and the doctor can’t get help but to feel timidly as he covers himself with his blanket to hide his flushed face from you.
Grace was lucky that the presentation went well as he practiced last night. The world leader only threw questions related to his presentation since their interests were leaning more to strategy and planning which is under Stratt responsibility already.
A sound of a box placed in his desk woke Grace from his power nap in his laboratory, “You haven’t got your breakfast.” He sits properly off his body from the head rest of his swivel chair while eyes are still half open, “Thank you” trying to keep cool.
“How did you manage to get bento on a naval station? We’re practically sailing around Faslane.”
Most people saw you as another Eva Stratt in heels, sharp-edged and impossible to rattle, all clipped professionalism and firmness. Copying it was not that hard, just a couple of years working with her. But after months of working beside you, Grace learned the truth: once you let someone close enough, the steel gave way to something warmer. Playful. Gentle.
Caring in quiet little ways that caught him off guard. Carl and him are the most who sees it.
“I made it myself,” you said simply. And somehow, even after all this time, he realized there were still so many things about you he had yet to know.
You waited for him to take a big scoop and shove it into his mouth before asking, “So what’s with rocket printed undies?” He almost spit all of the food he took as he choked.
Grace knew you were well aware of how patient he could be, years of teaching middle school had made sure of that. He never lost his temper when you pulled things like this. If anything, all he ever felt around you was that strange little flutter in his stomach he still didn’t quite have a name for.
“You don’t ask someone about their underwear.” Grace said as soon as he swallowed food that almost choked him.
“We wanted to know if it is a scientist thing or just your thing. We are just curious. Right, Carl?” You said and turned away from Carl and faced Grace again.
Carl just casually mouthed “I am not” to Grace while shaking his head.
“It's just— It just happened that they made this kind of underwear. This is something I customize myself. And for God’s sake can you please not go inside my room?” His worry lies not in his privacy but on how you would think of him seeing him sleep— during hours where he is careless about himself.
“You are in a naval station. Basically it's owned by the government and we are authorized to check it anytime.” Your eyes smiled at him. Grace raises his index. “That sounds power tripping to me.” that only made you chuckle.
You put a bottle of water in front of him at the exact moment he chokes. Grace knows how reliable you are, not just inside the laboratory but in many aspects even to the smallest one.
“Carl, would you mind getting Dr. Grace some soda?” With no question, Carl followed what you asked and you waited for him to leave the laboratory.
You pushed his loose glasses towards his radix which made him get a clear sight of you in front of him.
“Wanna go stargazing later? I know a spot on the ship.”
It was the first time anyone had ever asked Grace to do something that wasn’t tied to work. Just one simple question, yet it stirred something unfamiliar in his chest, a strange warmth spreading through him at the thought of being wanted for something other than the job.
Mission was never left behind as it is still his priority while consistently checking on your unconscious body. Ofc he would always check on you since Rocky is asking about you every hour.
“You couldn’t hide how excited you were about her, yet somehow you hid from me that there was another crew here you can see for months.” Grace said to Rocky while observing you in your sleep. “Grace did not ask. statement.”
“How could I—” He stopped from there since Rocky got a point.
It was tricky to move your body to the lower chamber where the Chinese crew, Yao, used to be placed, but Grace managed to do it.
Your unconscious body wrapped in a translucent body bag which is being monitored by designated machinery in the chamber turned into Grace’s hope to unlock his true self, to recall who he was, but he was also having fear if he should still know about himself. “I should know.” He should know the answers why his body involuntarily gives him shivers and warmth whenever his hand lands in your skin.
You could be something more than a crew. You could be more than part of this project. You must be something more.
“Woman is beautiful. Grace want Woman. statement.” Grace’s dissociation was interrupted by Rocky. As he always does. Since Grace has no clue of her name, he just set it on Rocky’s translation as Woman so he wouldn’t constantly hear it as Adrian, “Please don’t do that once she wakes up. You’ll freak her out.”
“Do Grace want Woman. question.”
“We are professionals here.”
“Professionals… |”
“Our priority is the mission.”
“mission… |” Rocky copied.
“Yes, that's correct.”
“Grace did not answer rocky question.” Rocky rolls closer to Grace, “Grace want Woman. Statement.” Grace could lie to himself but not to Rocky.
Rocky could sense how his heartbeat skips and increases pace whenever he sees you and the different toxins his brain releases whenever he checks on her. Rocky knows that all.
He never pushes himself to remember everything but only lets his brain do it by nature. Grace only relies on the images from his memory of you. Doing laboratory stuff, him asking you to search information he needed and lunch together but more of work related activities. yet feels different. His smiles were different, words from his mouth were stuttering.
“When Woman wake up, question?” No one knows. Grace wouldn't take the risk to wake her up. They just both continue their routine in finding new information about how to eliminate these star-eating bacteria while on their journey to Tau Ceti.
“Did Woman wake up, question?” Grace couldn’t give more information than no, but never failed to check her, it became part of his routine.
There will always be room for new things to learn about each other. They have discussed a lot of things about each other’s planet and practices— although Earth has different practices in every corner.
“Earth is complicated, not like Erid. statement.”
“We are guilty as charged.”
“So how do humans breed, question?”
“Wow oh! that escalated fast.” Rocky got confused with how Grace reacted. He knew that humans are not vocal about breeding.
“Eridian breeding technique is beautiful.” Rocky said while his arms were raised. “Do Grace want to see the Eridian breeding technique, question?” He added.
“No. no. not now. I am not ready to see. Maybe next time, bud.”
“Does Grace have breeding techniques?”
“Of course, I do.”
“So Grace has breeding experience, question?”
“Breeding doesn't sound appropriate to me.”
“Humans are complicated. statement.” Grace couldn't even recall any past lovers— if he does have one. Surely he got some. He said to himself before looking again to the unconscious body in the bed.
“You seriously haven't been in a relationship before? woman? man?” You shift your focus to him, off from the monitor and turn your chair to face him. “What’s making you keep your virgin ass?”
“I didn't say I’m a virgin. I said— I haven't been in a proper relationship before.” Grace clarified. “Most of them I’ve only been with for some months, 10 months max. but they never really cared. So I just focus on my career, the longest relationship I’ve been with.”
“How about the other teachers in the school?”
“Who would you pair with a Science Teacher, then?”
“Math Teachers”
“One is a married man and the other is lesbian.”
You were suggesting more,“English Teachers?”
“All were my work besties plus they were way too young”
“Physical Education?”
“They are also the Math Teachers.”
“Principal?”
“Do you seriously have a thing in office romance?”
That caught you off guard. Like Stratt, You often stay professional and have no room for romance especially in the workplace. But you are not closing the door for opportunity, after all you are just a human with a beating heart.
You were about to ask him another question just to not cause any awkward silence but then he speaks, “—Because I don’t.” Grace added, with a very noticeable movement in his throat. “I’ll do the job, finish it, pack my stuff and go home. Making my life less complicated.”
Right on time, Stratt walks into the laboratory with Carl behind her. It's like a switch, you turn back on to your work mode. “Am I interrupting something?” Stratt.
“No, w-we are just talking about my student loan haha that's it.” Grace answered Stratt which made you look at him.
“You still have a student loan, Dr. Grace.?”
“Well, It is supposed to be paid off by the university if they just keep me there.”
You gasped, “Gosh— so I’ll be still paying my student loans till my 30s.”
Eva slowly looked at you, “You have a student loan that I didn’t know about?”
You immediately look for a valid escape goat and the first thing you see is Grace. “Dr. Grace asked me to get him some food.” and quickly exited the lab. Startt’s eyes followed you as you made your way out of the room, “I did not ask for food” Grace.
In the past few weeks of being locked up in the Naval Station, the most fun activity you often do with Grace is stargazing, and surprisingly he did appear every time you asked him to.
Focus was still on the mission, Startt has this kink in micro managing and you are the first hand receiving those tasks making you unable to spend time with him by night.
That particular week had been brutal. Stratt buried you under endless workloads on top of research assignments and experiments with Grace. He noticed that. Of course, he noticed it. and at the same time he was waiting for you to ask him for stargazing tonight. “Anything I can do for you, Dr. Grace?” You asked with half eyelid open
“Rest.” he said gently. “You need to rest. I’ll be fine here.”
You did follow that else your body will collapse. You immediately went to your assigned room and slept even if it wasn't still aligned to your body clock that you often follow.
Your body suddenly wakes you up by night, it reminds you that sleep was not enough, you need to fill up your tummy as well. While eating your dinner, you open your phone, which you are trying to avoid so you could have excuse to Stratt not seeing her messages
But you received a message from someone you did not expect.
Dr. Grace *.✧: Wanna watch the stars? Here at the same spot.
While in your pajamas and cardigan, You made your way to the upper deck on the side of the naval ship. Spot doesn't often check by the authorities in the said ship where you two could have a moment in peace.
“Nice Pajamas. Kuromi is a great choice.” Grace compliment half meant tease you. “It's not something I customized for myself.” You replied to aim to copy what he responded to you before.
“Hey— how do you know Kuromi?” You asked as you walked towards him he shrugged his shoulders in response. Of course he knew who Kuromi was. He’s a cool middle grade teacher.
You sat beside him, close enough to feel his body temperature in this cold night which noon was the only source of light but light enough to see his face clear.
He sighed, “I did not prepare any star fun facts today, sorry.”
“No pressure. I’m just here to relax and get some air.” You chuckled.
“Yeah— yeah. Oh! I may have no stars fun facts today but—” Grace paused. “I could get one for you.” He winked.
You smiled while raising an eyebrow at him, “Show me then” challenging him.
He rubs his palm against each other, “Okay then. Point the star you want.”
You have chosen Alphecca in Corona Borealis which is on your far side. Grace actually reached for it, lifting his hand and grabbing it like light years distance didn’t matter, like the sky might give in if he tried hard enough. You were about to laugh, but it caught in your chest when a faint glow lit at his fingertips, soft and warm, like a secret he brought to life just for this moment.
You never knew that thumb tip light magic would be this fun.
The light glowing in his fingers while the space between you quietly disappeared, did notice but did not bother. You watched how he passed the light from his left finger to right like a kid first time seeing magic, first time feeling a newly introduced feeling.
You didn’t ruin his show—you let him show you, let him have this small magic, because the way he looked at the sky… and slowly back to you, felt more real than anything else. And maybe that’s what made your heart stutter—he wasn’t reaching for the star anymore, not really. Grace was close enough now to what he really wanted more than the stars.
You were laughing at how creative he was and there were the show ends when he saw you smiling again. “Hope it's not lame.”
A soft hit to his chest while laughing “No—no. it's not. I wouldn't think that. I find it really nice. I did not expect it. Did you use that in your class?”
“Actually.”
He watched as you got over it and didn't bother to call you out on leaning on him. His eyes landed in your smiles, in your lips. His eyes made you recall all of the unspoken things you two have— you both have.
You cannot recall when it started but being on his side was no longer part of the job for you, but willingness to be on his side most of the time.
Ryland didn't know if that new memory was helpful or not. In a moment he was full of hope, and now it suddenly shifted to not knowing what you do once you woke up and still doesn't know who you were for him back on Earth because the last thing he saw on that memory was how close your lips to his.
Did we kiss?
What are we then?
Am I not really a virgin?
“What Grace is thinking, question?”
His dissociation was again declined when Rocky appeared on his side. “It's nothing Rocky. I just found out our names. My name is Ryland, Ryland Grace.”
Grace took a marker and went closer to your bed. He wrote both your full name on the wall, big enough to be noticed first. “....is here,” he added.
It's been a month since Grace found out your comatose body and marked it his 10th month from the time he woke up.
By this point, checking on you was just helping him to recall pieces of his life, but not entirely. If Rocky is resting in his ship, he would go to you and talk. slowly hope’s fading. yet you did help him to recall some of what he was used to.
“Amaze. amaze. amaze. Grace knows all his name.”
“Yeah, feel lightened up.”
When they were about to leave, Grace stopped and looked back when he heard familliar voice command.
“Body movement detected.” followed by “What is two plus two?”
They both stopped for a while to see if there might be a real movement or just a bug on the machine. “Oh god—” Grace runs towards you when eyelids tried to open.
You have no clue where you are or what was happening. The guy caught your attention away from looking at the blank white ceiling with floating machines around you. “Am I in the hospital?” questioned yourself but felt different. It wasn't the room, it was the atmosphere.
In his excitement, Grace answered the question that supposed to be answered by you.
“What's two plus two?”
“Four…”
“What is the root cube of 8?”
“Two…”
“What is the factorial of 6?”
“Seven hundre— That wasn't asked to me before.”
He did realize that you must answer those questions yourself as it was able to recognize his voice but also it was designed to know if you are conscious enough to think and answer.
“Seven hundredzbs— glunnn— twenty.” Tube that was in your mouth may cause you hard time to speak but you were able to manage answer it till stating your name which made the tubes automatically taken away.
This man helped you to get up. He must be the doctor? but he doesn't look like one, based on your guts.
“I am Ryland Grace. D-do you remember me?” He said while sitting in front of you. You remembered nothing than your name. You looked around but nothing. Just only sub conscious thoughts and body pain.
You don't mind what you were wearing, translucent body bag, but Grace does and wrapped you with a common lab coat.
“amaze! amaze! amaze!”
“Hello woman. I am Rocky. statement.” It was a blurry glass you assume was machinery. it does not surprise you until it moves closer to you. There was an alertness switch in your body but did not make you react much. Enough for Grace to notice.
“I know it does not look like usual, and it is new. but he’s a friend. He's from Erid.” He said while holding the glass around Rocky. “I don’t want you to freak out, but I believe you should and you must be aware of this— that you are not on Earth anymore.”
“You are in Project Hail Mary. Welcome aboard”
“cheer! cheers! cheers!”
—not the best word in Rocky’s translation to use at that moment.
Ryland was hands on in taking care of her. Never feel a burden while you are in the state of recovering yourself. He knew how hard it would be, so he won't let you alone.
He could say that you’re recovering fast, and if his calculation were correct you could recall her memories faster than him. but at the moment, they are taking things slow. Days and turn to weeks since you woke up.
“Did we kiss? Should I ask?” Ryland asked himself. Yet also, not right thing to ask for someone who is recovering.
“Grace thinking what, question?”
“Nothing, Rocky.”
“Grace can't think of nothing. Humans are always thinking. statement.” He knew Rocky wouldn’t stop but he can't just tell him everything, not that you are just behind them.
You walked towards Rocky with a rag in your hand, kneeled down to wipe his barrier. “Rocky is correct. humans can't think of nothing,” you said softly. “We just take a little time—sometimes to understand things better, sometimes to rest our minds, and sometimes because we’re trying to decide what’s right. The best thing you could do while we are taking some time to think is, to let us be. spare us more time.”
It did not take long for you to get comfortable with Rocky. Ryland did a great job in being a bridge for you two to build connection and know each other. Just like two kids befriending each other.
“Awesome awesome. Woman good explanation. Woman is best human ever. statement.”
Ryland protested, “Hey! you told me that first.”
“Grace is Rocky favorite human.” He paused, “—second. statement.” Rocky added.
Ryland also did give her a tour around the ship, from do’s and dont’s to how the ship works. Ryland did pass all things he knew about their spacecraft, but most of the time he gave you a light task why you are still recovering. Also since you can't find your bag here in this ship, you use Milana’s stuff. May God rest her soul in peace.
You did not bother adding your name or changing “woman” in Rocky’s translation. You got used to it.
“Hey, something's bothering you?” shiver crawls on Ryland’s back when he feels your hands on his near waist. He cannot deny that but you don’t notice it at all. “I am f-fine haha.” He responded.
“Let me know what else I could help you, okay?” You said before going out of the room to do other tasks.
Sound object skittered noisily as it rolled.
“Grace heart skipping beat. statement.”
“Shh Rocky! She’ll hear you.”
There were no new memories of you with Ryland and what you mostly recall about your life before the project, but you have a glimpse of memories working with him. You often check on Ryland since you could hear him talking with Rocky constantly but his words are getting fewer whenever you are around.
But if you two were colleagues, you two must be comfortable with each other, right? maybe not. But your guts says yes.
Been 3 weeks since you woke up and you can sense you are starting to recall what happened during the process of this project. You could be the hope for Ryland to know how she hopped in this ship. You start to learn how to manage the facility when Ryland realizes it takes more than two hands to operate the ship properly.
Today was so different it was too hard to interact with Ryland, especially that you woke up from a dream that felt so real. It could be real. It could be from your memory. In that dream, you can feel Ryland's soft breath touch your neck while he is sleeping next to you. The tolerable weight of his arm was in your waist while two of you were sharing one blanket. Feels so soft. Feels so light. Feels free. and felt so real.
“Earth to you?” Ryland said and snapped next to your ears. He moved to your side and checked on you while you were trying to hide your flushed face from thinking about what you dreamed of.
“Impossible. Why earth to Woman. Can Woman carry Earth. question?”
“It's an idiom, Rocky.” Ryland said.
“Oh, Earth idiom. very confusing.”
Ryland faced you again and asked, “Are you alright? You seem so distracted since you woke up.” You can't answer it. God knows how much respect you have for him. You couldn't tell him what your dream was about, that couldn't happen. He leads this project, and you? You don't know, you can't recall about yourself entirely.
When you looked at his face, you saw the same detail of your dream. much detail as you were only inches away from his sleeping face in that dream.
“Are you sick?” concerned Ryland.
“Woman is sick? DIE?! Woman is going to die no no no no no!”
That made you chuckle after you saw Rocky panicking inside his glass, “No and no. I am not dying and I am not sick.”
“You sure?” Ryland asked and you just nod at him.
He clapped and wore his glasses again. “Alright, need to get back to work. We haven't figured out how these things breed fast.” referring to Astrophage captured back in Venus sitting in his table.
“Rocky taught Grace how Eridian breeds but Grace did not teach Rocky human breeding technique.” That caught off guard both of you.
“And that was out of nowhere, Rocky.”
“Rocky remember sudden. statement.”
You just watch them discussing, not bother to interrupt. Ryland responds,“It's just— It's because— we don't teach others how to do it. I just came naturally? Yeah naturally.”
“Grace parents not teach, question?”
“That's disgusting. I am glad they did not do that.”
“Rocky is curious. Show me. command.”
“Woaw that’s such a demand.” disbelief in Ryland's face. “But no! It takes two humans to do it and the opposite gender.”
For a minute, they both went quiet. Ryland just realized what he just said and immediately blood rushed up to his face that he doesn't want to turn and face you. The silence made you also realize what Ryland has just said.
Ryland took the opportunity to talk to you in your so-called kitchen and handed you a pack of skittles in a sealed pack. “No expiration date but hope it won't hurt your tummy on that light years-old Skittles.”
“Thanks, Ry.” You said and put some of your hair in the back of your ears which gave Ryland a better view of your face.
“Uhm” He pauses, “Sorry if you might find it annoying earlier. Rocky is just curious about us. humans. He finds us very complex. too complicated to understand.”
“I totally understand. We are very different from each other. I myself also curious about Eridian.” You replied
“Well, I just also think that he’s messing up with me too. He knew I don't like talking about— you know— the breeding stuff. I barely discussed sex education to my students before.” and the two of you laugh.
He does check on you time by time, to see if there's any improvement with your memory or recalls something new. something you two shared. maybe time you two with each other, only two of you. To know if that's his imagination only or if it did happen back on Earth.
“May I ask? Do you—”
You cut him off by holding his arm when you felt something strange with your weight. “Do you feel that?” You asked him. Both your heads snapped toward the nearby monitor just as the warning flashed across the screen.
[ CENTRIFUGE DISABLED - PREPARE FOR GRAVITY SHUTDOWN ]
Before you could react your feet lifted off from the floor. The thing is you haven’t practiced floating around as Ryland wanted you to focus on your recovery. “R-ryland…” Ryland could see the terror in your eyes and immediately took your hands pulling you closer to him. “Relax, relax. You're safe.”
“This is the reason why there are many strings around the ship. You could try to hold with those if you wanted to go to another facility.” He explained while your hands were gripping tight in his arms.
“Please, don’t.” You plead asking not to let go of you. Ryland agreed.
But with no control over where your body wanted to drift, your hands latched onto the first thing you could find—Ryland. Before you realized it, you were clinging to the scientist outright. Ryland didn’t mind the way you held onto him. What worried him more was whether you’d mind it once you noticed exactly how close you were.
“Okay, I’ll put us lower, closer to the floor before I go to the function deck— to turn on the centrifuge again. Would that be fine for you?” Ryland asked for your approval. As soon as you nod while face is buried in his neck, and with gentle care, he pushes the two of you off the ceiling, guiding your drifting bodies downward.
When two of you were only inches away from the floor, the gravity went on immediately with more pressure, causing a loud sound across the room.
“Ouch— my back.” You complained while Ryland’s hand was on your back which he used to support your body.
“Are you hurt?” worried Ryland.
Before you could answer Ryland, Rocky entered the room and stopped on the doorsteps— that made two of you realize your positions. How you were lying beneath Ryland with his arm at your back and side of your head supporting his body from falling to yours.
“Nice nice nice. Grace and Woman breeding. statement.”
“No, we are not!” You and him said in chorus.
Ryland’s passion in teaching is not limited to his classroom. From everything he learned in handling kids, he was able to apply it in his everyday life— or maybe he is just patient in nature.
You could hear them discussing from the other room.
“Rocky turned on the centrifuge. statement.”
“How did it go off first?”
“Rocky too”
You chuckled silently after hearing it. No gravity could be fun sometimes.
During times that you all decided to rest, you often found him sitting in front of the window. Staring at the endless space composed of stars “Y’miss earth?” You asked as soon as you stepped in.
“Who wouldn't?” He looked at you with a smirk on his lips without moving his body. “I mean, yes, People there are not highly recommended to interact with, they are incredibly unfair— but it's still home.”
Ryland continues, “I have a bunch of memories being mistreated there, but I don't think that was enough for me to join here. That's why I was still wondering how I got in here.” For a moment, he forgot what just said as he faced you, “How about you? Do you recall going in here now?”
Your face looked almost angelic in the dim light. All he could do was look at you and wonder how someone could exist and make the whole room feel gentler just by being in it.
“No, actually sorry.” You answered. Ryland hopes to know if he has indeed shared the moment you have gone again. Getting itchy to know anything, even a clue.
“— but I have this dream. I am with you—” You couldn't decide whether to tell him the truth or you’ll just be judged. You don’t want him to think you are daydreaming of him.
There's only 3 living with conscious matter in the ship and you don't want to make it awkward. “...and?” Ryland was waiting for you to detail it.
“Oh— it's just a random dream. It just felt real? That you and I… were…” You sighed, “we’re colleagues. You know, just a random scene at work.”
Ryland nodded in response. “Yeah, I think that one is real. We won’t be here together if we aren’t working for this project. Makes sense right?”
For a brief moment, there was silence in between you two. He clears his throat and takes something out of his pocket. “I also have this dream? Memory? Uhm— of us. Kinda work related. That we are stargazing together.” He said, and yes you have a glimpse of those, like an old photos in your memory.
“We often star-gaze in a Naval Station since there are only limited things we can do. We are locked in research for this project—” He explains and moves closer to you.
“So uhm— ‘kay. Choose a star and I’ll get it for you.” Ryland said. You chuckled and pointed out random bright stars since you can’t identify names of the stars from where the ship was right now.
You watched him as he acted like a catching star using his bare hard— he even showed exhaustion after his ‘attempts’, and after a couple of catching stars he finally got one and kept it in his palm. “Gotcha!”
He slowly leaned to you while palm was still closed. Curious, you leaned toward him too, your attention fixed entirely on his hand. When he opened it, a tiny folded paper star rested in his palm. “Sorry, I don't have my thumb lights, so I improvised.”
That made your memory clearer.
“Oh! Yes! Hahaha I remember it now! stargazing on the Naval Station’s deck and we…” You stops.
“And we what?” Ryland asked
Before you could answer, Your gaze went down to his lips. Unsure if that really happened or just your brain tricking you since he’s the only guy you could interact with— but don’t feel like that. Everything seems so… natural.
He also noticed how your focus shifted to him instead of answering his questions. your eyes lingering where they shouldn’t have—on the slow bob of his adam’s apple as he swallowed, bullet sweats on the side of his forehead, on the faint, restless twitch of his jaw every time he fought for composure. You all notice those. surroundings went quiet, quieter than the endless dark outside the ship. Like the only person in the universe are the two of you.
Inch by inch your face was getting closer with no gravitation needed to pull each other closer. pulling you toward each other with the slow, inevitable force of magnets finally giving in.
“Are you hugging without Rocky, question?”
And just like that, you immediately part away, face flushed, and avoid each other’s eyes.
It all came back with painful clarity, even the memories you wished you could leave untouched. You remembered everything. You shared a brief time with him before this project took off but those weeks were the most wonderful weeks in your life. It was beautiful. He is.
Been almost a week since your last stargazing in Naval Station and he barely speaks to you since. Not unless it was strictly work-related and it was obvious. Unluckily for him, nearly everything that needed to be done requires talking to you.
“Carl, Can you pass me the pen— oh nevermind let me.” the pen was literally on your desk that he could have just asked you to hand it to him. Carl noticed this strange behaviour of Ryland and eye-questioned you, you only shrugged your shoulders in response.
Only the two of you left when Carl takes Stratt's call. You moved your swivel chair closer to him. “Want to grab something for lunch?” You asked.
“T-thanks but I have some errands to do.” That’s when you confirmed that he’s avoiding you.
You know he has nothing to do after lunch. You are the one who organize his schedule. You wanted to confront him but you know he would avoid you more, so you need to think of a way where he doesn't have any choice. Did he just kiss-n-run me?
In the other hand, Ryland hates himself for having no balls to tell you what he felt. It's just the hate for himself stays when he could tell her right away that he wanted that. Coward coward coward. He tells himself. He could have the chance to tell you that night, but chooses to run after kissing you.
After a long day, he immediately packs his thing like he has need to bike back home.
“Where are you going?” You asked when you saw him packing up his stuff.
“Where do you want me to go on this ship? I’ll be resting.”
“We are throwing a farewell party for them tonight.”
Everyone is having a great time, laughter is in every corner of the room while Ryland is only having an almost empty bottle of beer with his notes. You did not expect him to join but there he is. He was surprised when a hand closed his notes followed by another bottle of beer being set beside him. He heard you mutter a complaint about your head before you sank down beside him.
“Working hours are over, Dr. Grace.” He knew he couldn’t get off of this now you are there. You winked. “Set off your nerd mode for tonight, this is a party.”
Ryland knew he couldn't let this pass, so he set his notes aside and replaced the pen in his hand with a bottle of beer. Lucky for him you did not bring up what happened on that night. purely topic under the sun.
The party was loud and full of people, but you two were already in a world of your own. It was just better to be alone, as long as you were alone together, and that is what you two did.
“Be careful” He said while you were walking through the benches on the side of the deck. “It’s fun! Sometimes you need to explore things, Dr. Grace.”
He really finds you adventurous, easy to hangout with and not afraid to try new things out. Different from him who just kept himself in one place, comfort zone. One of the reasons why he can’t stop himself adoring you.
You were getting quiet, and he doesn’t want that feeling it gives him. Ryland used to hear you being expressive. Transparent of what you felt or what you were thinking. You stopped walking as soon as you reached the upper deck. “Why?” He asked.
“Nothing.”
“Humans can’t think of nothing.” He said. He is indeed a scientist. Cool scientists with just stupid displacement of eyeglasses often made you laugh.
The cold sea breeze is passing to his cardigan and making your scarf swing. You are looking into the eyes of someone who made you feel butterflies in the stomach that you thought you could only hear in teenage fiction.
You wanted to know if he treats everyone else like he did to you, or could be something special. Exclusively yours.
“Don’t you really mean that kiss?” You asked out of nowhere. His lips suddenly shut. That caught him off guard. “Was it really nothing for you?”
He wasn’t looking at your eyes, “Look, I don’t want you to get it wrong. No beef on you. It’s just—”
You stepped closer to him and pushed his eyeglasses again towards his radix. His face is almost next to yours.
“Dr. Grace, the question is closed ended. So, is it a yes or no? I am making it easier for you.” He can’t believe that he could get intimidated by someone way younger than him.
Ryland gulped, “It meant… nothing for me.” You nodded before placing your hand on his cheek and reached out his lips, placing a slow and heated kiss in his lips. You watched his eyes shut and deepen his face towards yours.
His cold hands crawl on your waist supporting your body. You move away when you feel his lips moving on yours. He even chased your lips when you moved it away. His body is telling you different story. telling you the truth that he couldn't say.
“I thought it was nothing?” You asked while foreheads were leaning to each other.
“I was.. a liar and coward to tell you it was more than everything.”
Ryland doesn’t know how to calm his pounding heart while you two are on your way to his room. He is trying to keep cool— as he doesn't want to give you an impression of being too eager.
Didn't he know you were the one being impatient.
He was thinking about what he should do once you reached his room. All of what he plotted in his mind was useless when you grab his face and claim his lips again. There was no time wasted. He reacted fast and joined you, dancing along with your lips while his arms secured to your waist and back.
Tongues were dancing, nose tips were bumping each other. It was a total mess, but exactly how he wanted. exactly how he daydreams that he often pushes away because of his respect for you. He loses it, so you do.
You're thankful that his cardigan’s button was cooperating. Your hand slides under the shirt and touches it with a light scratch of your nails, that sends him little shivers crawling all over his body. Even if he doesn't tell you, you can sense it, his arm around you tightened. “Stop.. teasing me… please.” He pleads in between the kisses.
You walked him to his bed which is a few steps away without breaking the kiss, and pushed him to his own bed. You admire the view of him in his bed leaning on his elbow.
“I like your shirt, Dr. Grace, but we need to let go of that.” and it didn't take a second for him to understand that, he immediately sits up and removes his shirt, finally showing to you the toned body he is hiding beneath.
You knew he got something under those lab coats, but it exceeded your expectations. You tried not to be impatient. Ryland watches as you slowly unbutton your tops, for him it's like a show he doesn't want to miss every scene. He crawls back till his back hits the headboard when you knelt in front of him.
His glasses were still on, but the usual not on its right place. You still find it attractive along with his messed up hair because of your hands.
“Do you have any prepared safe words, Dr. Grace?” You asked.
He let out a shaky laugh, “I’ll choose Torcularis Septentrionalis— longest name of a star but I’m not planning to use it either.”
You can't deny that his nerdy tricks attract you, making you want to devour him. Once again your lips and his links. You took the opportunity of touching every inch of his exposed skin. “Damn, where have you been all this time?” He asked while his eyes were shut.
“Hmm let’s say when you got your bachelor degree, I was in 8th or 9th grade.” You said.
“Please don't make this sound weird.”
“You were asking where I have been.”
“I love kids, but not that kind of love.” He said “Your humor is really in the wrong timing.” added.
He was interrupted when you shifted your focus to his ears. His mouth left open as you made your way through his jaw— taking much time as you enjoyed his scent there.
Ryland did not fight and surrender his body to you, letting you do anything you wanted. He enjoyed it. He did try his best not to make any sound, but you were a sucker of whimpers.
While busy with his neck, you sat in his pants exactly on top of his crotch and did an intentional friction there. Combination of light sucks in his neck and your hips rolling on top of him is driving him insane.
Not long after, his shaky breath turns to fading groans. His deep manly voice continues playing in your ears as your kisses travel down his abdomen.
He watched you while undoing his pants, giving him a final look before pulling it off was sinful. His thing sprung out proudly as soon as it freed itself. He was above average— as shown in his height and thick enough to give you a hard time later.
Ryland couldn't hide how embarrassed he was. You can't blame him, it's been almost a decade since his last.
But he let you take care of him, using your soft hands wrapping around his cock with gentle strokes— observing effects on him. He pressed his lips together once he felt your warm breath down there, trying to conceal the sound he might make.
You started with teasing your tongue on his tip,“Oh god— please.” He murmured and buried his head back in the pillow. You took him slowly inch by inch, sucking all down to the base for once only before it chokes you, then your tongue plays around his cock inside your mouth.
“Shit shit shit— fuck.” You knew he's losing his shit when he started cursing repeatedly with no censor unlike what he does most of the time. “Stop— please. I’m near. Torcularis— fuck— septentrionalis!” You slowly let him go and go up. He was panting.
“I just..” catches his breath between the words, “....finishes with you.”
You are glad he is using his words now. You stood up and stripped all of the remaining clothes you have, as you went back he was already leaning again to his headboard.
You placed yourself in his lap trapping him in between your legs. His cold hands were travelling in your bare skin, adoring every part of you. You held him again and positioned it towards your entrance.
“You sure with this?” He asked while staring directly into your eyes.
“I wouldn't suck the hell out of you if I am not sure.” Your response.
You lower yourself down, making him go inside you. You sucked up air half way through, You knew you would have this trouble. He was gripping your hips and waist. Still you manage to sit till its base. “You still sure?” He asked and you nod.
“Plus I forgot your safe word anyway, no way to stop.” You winked before clenching around him causing him to lean his head again in the headboard which gives you a better view of his neck. “You are torturing me.”
As soon as you adjust with his size, you start moving on top of him. He watched you like heaven in the sky and again your lips met his again. He held the back of your head to deepen his kisses on you while he rocked his hips so that you could bounce on him steadily. He knew what you needed.
“Fuck, Ryland.” whispered to this eat following up with a moan. The pleasure is very visible in his face. He looked helpless while eyes were half lid open. Never met someone who please you more than he did, and that encourage you to fuck him better.
He was murmuring something inaudible. You continued bouncing on his lap but you also noticed him being soft like letting you do whatever you wanted. Eyes closed, his eyebrows furrowed— signs he is trying to keep his focus. “I am near…” He said while panting.
“Hold it baby, hold it.” You whisper to his ears.
When he opened his eyes, he saw your flushed face which made it harder for him to hold. His hand landed in his bedsheet and gripped on it to help him keep his posture.
His other hand went down to your clit and rubbed it to help you. His hand was soft and his touch was gentle.
“I am near.” You announced. In just a few seconds, you were able to hit your climax and not long after a few bounce, Ryland hit his limit and released inside. “Oh no…” worries lie in his face for brief seconds.
“Don't worry, I’m safe.” then points out your inner arm.
He let rest on top of him, both restless yet satisfied. The overflowing feelings are unexplainable even to the genius mind of Ryland. He let his mind rest and let his heart take over— not thinking but only taking that moment. so you do.
You snapped back to reality and the first thing you saw was Ryland’s worried face right in front you. Heart pounding with all memories you retrieved. Your lips were shaking but afraid to let Ryland know.
Both you and Ryland found out who you got on the ship and your pasts. The exploration through the stars was also a journey to recall pieces of memories.
summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace. (part ii here and part iii here!)
pairing: ryland grace x reader
word count: 4.5k
tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader
cross-posted to ao3
What would you do if the apocalypse started?
It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.
She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.
Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too.
The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.
—
The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.
Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.
You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.
“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.
“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.
“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.
“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”
“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”
He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”
“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.
“And, your family—?”
“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”
He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”
Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”
—
It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.” Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.
When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.
He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.
More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.
The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.
This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything.
—
You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit.
You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.
“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.
Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”
You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about. You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”
“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?
It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.
“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.
“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.
He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.
It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.
It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.
—
Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.
You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.
It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.
You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”
You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.
“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”
He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.
Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”
“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”
“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.
“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.
You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.
He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.
“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”
“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”
You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.
“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.
Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him.
“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.
There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you.
Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”
AN: While y'all wait for the next update, I thought it'd be funny to do an "Incorrect Quote List for Spider!Reader and The Pitt. These are from Pinterest, because people are always funnier than I am.
Shen: What made you change to night shift.
Spider!Reader: I suppose I just finally saw the errors of my ways.
Shen: . . . It was Jack, wasn’t it?
Spider!Reader: It was Jack.
Dana: Robby, they (The Pitt) rely on you
Robby: I can’t be blamed for their lack of judgement
Jack: (While Spider!Reader is actively dying) You’re losing too much blood
Spider!Reader: No, I know exactly where it is. The floor. Don’t ever underestimate me again.
Frank: Hey, do you have a bag I can borrow?
Spider!Reader: The only bags I have are the ones under my eyes, and they’re specifically designed to carry the burden of my existence.
Frank: Literally all you had to say was no.
Spider!Reader: You call it a near death experience, I call it a vibe check from God
Robby: The night shift needs an extra attending. We’re short staffed for tonight.
Spider!Reader: Damn, that’s crazy. Good luck though.
Robby: We could use some extra help.
Spider!Reader: Yeah, I bet. Good luck, Robby!
Spider!Reader: It’s nice to be wanted, you know?
Jack: Not by the law!
Jack: One of these days, your smart mouth is going to get you stabbed.
Spider!Reader: Pfft, as if I haven’t been stabbed before!
Spider!Reader: *unbuttoning shirt* It’s so hot in here
Jack: I know that, but why are you unbuttoning my shirt?
Spider!Reader: Is stabbing someone immoral?
Jack: Not if they consent to it.
Trinity: Depends on who you’re stabbing.
Dennis: YES?????
Jack: Be careful.
Spider!Reader: I’m always careful.
Jack: Your medical records say otherwise.
Spider!Reader: Robby, I have to tell you something.
Robby: Can it wait? We’re kind of busy here.
Spider!Reader: It’s urgent.
Robby: Okay, fine. What’s so important that you had to interrupt an emergency?
Spider!Reader: I’ve been shot.
Robby: Why didn’t you lead with that?
Victoria: Did you eat all the sugar powdered donuts that were left in the break room?
Spider!Reader: *mouth full of food* No . . .
Victoria: Then what’s that on your scrubs?
Spider!Reader: That’s cocaine.
Robby: Did none of you think this was a bad idea?
The Pittlings: Oh no, we all did. We just decided to do it anyway.
Jack: You know, I really feel like we aren’t seeing eye to eye
Spider!Reader: It’s because you’re taller than me asshole.
Spider!Reader: I’m going to defeat you with the power of friendship and this scalpel I found.
Jack: I’m forgetting something.
Spider!Reader: Your leg, probably?
Jack: No, it’s something important.
Spider!Reader: More important than walking—
Robby: fuuuucckkk that is my circus. Are those?
Robby: ……
Robby: Yep . . . those are my monkeys
Trinity: With all due respect . . . which is none
Spider!Reader: Dennis, I’ve started seeing someone.
Dennis: As in dating or hallucinations?
Frank: Were you dropped as a baby?
Robby: Bold of you to assume I was held.
Mel: *completely sober in the club googling worst medieval executions
Cop: You’re receiving a ticket for having three people on one motorcycle
Robby: Shit.
Jack: Damn it.
Spider!Reader: Wait, three?
Cop: Yeah?
Spider!Reader: OH MY GOSH DENNIS FELL OFF
Jack: So, what’s your type?
Spider!Reader: Old, hazel eyes, dumb, 10/10 personality but 1 out of 2 legs, really big biceps
Jack: Huh, that kind of sounds like me! Too bad it’s not me though.
Spider!Reader: Did I mention dumb?
Jack: Yeah, why?
Spider!Reader: Just making sure.
Spider!Reader: Because I am a mature resident
*turns to see Dana, Robby, and Jack shaking their heads*
*turns back around*
Spider!Reader: I am a resident.
Robby: Never have I ever . . . been grounded.
Spider!Reader: (exasperated) Every time. He makes abandonment jokes every time, and he always wins.
Jack: Good one, brother. I always go for the never have I ever not been able to take my leg off.
Spider!Reader: *Stands up and walks away*
Robby: When I die, donate my entire body to science
Robby: Except my middle finger. Give that to Gloria
Spider!Reader: *googling* Spider bite leg what to do
Google: Elevate and apply pressure
Spider!Reader: *lifting the spider really high* Apologize or else
Robby: Dana, I think you should play the role of my mother
Dana: I don’t want to be your mother
Robby: That’s perfect. You already know your lines
Frank: Can I be frank with you guys?
Spider!Reader: . . . isn’t that already your name—
Mel: Shhhh, let Frank-squared speak.
Spider!Reader: Chillax!
Robbby: That’s not a word.
Spider!Reader: Sometimes the ones who deny “chillax” are the ones who need to chillax the most.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
🕷️ Synopsis: Pittsburg gets their very own superhero who tends to favor a certain ER when dropping off injured civilians. What the Pitt staff doesn't know is that one of their day-shift residents has a night-shift of their own.
🕷️ Headcannons Pt. 1 Pt. 2
One Shots . . .
🕸️ Clinical Tingles
During the day, you maintain the chronically late and clumsy persona that keeps your attending and charge nurse on the edge of concern and suspicion. It all goes well until one certain night shift attending starts connecting the dots. (5.9k)
🕸️ Emergency Trach Tutorial, No Glue, No Borax
Not knowing what else to do and one Youtube video later, you successfully performed an emergency tracheostomy on an injured civilian. This causes quite the stir in the Pitt not even an hour into the day shift. (1.9k)
🕸️ Talk Me Off the Ledge coming soon
As the night melts into day, you have the chance to show up early to work for once. That is until the sight of Jack Abbot, who's a little too close to the edge, makes you stop and try to get him to back away.
🕸️ My Emergency Contact coming soon
When your shoulder gets dislocated and you can't put it back in, your only option seems to be checking yourself into the ER, but there's two catches: you'll only be seen by Dr. Jack Abbot, and he doesn't work on secret-hiding-masked patients.
🕸️ Of Spatulas and Mario Kart coming soon
Needing a breather from the villain of the week, you find an open window leading to an apartment. However, what you don't expect is for a spatula to be thrown your way the minute you step foot into the living room, scaring its two occupants that happen to be your fellow residents.
🕸️ I've Been Incorrectly Labeled coming soon
Public figure to public menace sends the city spiraling into a mass panic. Through handling villains and saving lives, you're also evading police officers every time you try to drop off injured civilians at the Pitt. But even without knowing your identity, the staff seems to claim you as their own, meaning they'll keep you safe for as long as they can.
🕸️ Stay With Me, Kid coming soon
Jack knew there were dangers of you living a double life. He'd been there for the small scrapes and non-threatening injuries. However, he wasn't prepared for you to drag yourself through the ER doors after a battle that leaves you fighting for your life.
🕸️ Cheaters Never Prosper (Unless You're Jack Abbot) coming soon
The hero knows way too much about first aid to be a regular citizen. Knowing this, the Pitt staff starts a bet: the hero works in some capacity at an ER. Some even go further to bet that they work at the Pitt. Knowing what he knows, Jack joins in on the latter.
🕸️ Where's Waldo? coming soon
Super senses can be a bitch. Noises are too loud, fabrics are too scratchy, and the never-ending feeling that something bad is going to happen gets overstimulating pretty quickly. And yet, you know exactly where everyone is during a shift; a special talent that actually comes in handy more than you'd realize.
🕸️ Hi, My Name Is . . . And You Don't Remember Me coming soon
Everything went downhill too fast, and the next morning, you're left with nothing. No job, no boyfriend, no . . . identity. It all leaves a hole in your chest that you're desperate to fill back up. But you find yourself questioning if them forgetting is better for everyone.
summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.
warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),
18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint
word count — 11.2k
note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3
Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.
A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.
Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.
No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.
You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.
The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.
The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.
Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.
“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.
“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.
“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”
Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”
“Hey!”
Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.
Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.
Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.
“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.
He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.
With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.
Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.
“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.
You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”
He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.
“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.
Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”
You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”
That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”
Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.
It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.
Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.
He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.
The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.
"You think you’re better than this place?”
He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.
“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”
He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.
“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”
Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”
Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.
“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”
Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.
Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.
He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”
Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”
“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”
“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”
“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”
Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.
But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.
He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.
“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.
But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”
Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.
Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.
All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.
Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.
“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”
Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.
Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”
The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”
You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.
“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”
That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.
Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?
He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.
Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).
There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.
“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.
“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.
Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”
You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.
Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”
He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.
“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.
“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.
You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”
It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.
“Wha-”
You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.
“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”
Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”
“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.
When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.
Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.
You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”
Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.
Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.
“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”
Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.
“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.
“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.
He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.
Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.
"You want me to kill him?"
He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.
"I want him to die, Andrew." You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.
If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?
A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.
And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.
And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.
Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.
Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.
You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.
You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.
Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.
He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.
Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.
Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.
He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.
He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.
So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”
You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”
He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.
“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”
Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.
Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.
After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.
But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.
Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.
You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”
Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”
He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.
“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.
“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”
He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.
The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.
“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”
You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.
The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.
“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.
“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.
“Wanna see my bedroom?”
Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.
Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.
“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.
Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”
The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.
Pope laughed.
You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”
“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”
You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.
Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.
He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”
Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.
You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.
You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.
You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.
Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.
He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.
You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.
He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.
He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.
“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”
This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”
You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.
“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”
“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.
Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.
Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”
His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.
But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.
You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.
Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”
He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.
The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.
“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”
Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.
He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.
Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.
You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.
“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.
Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”
“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”
You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”
Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”
Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.
You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”
His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”
Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.
“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”
He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.
“Yeah?” you encouraged.
Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.
“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”
Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”
You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”
Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.
He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.
You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.
You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.
“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”
Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.
Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.
“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”
You nodded.
He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.
Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.
The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.
He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.
You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”
His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.
“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.
He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”
You nodded emphatically.
Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.
Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”
It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”
He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.
You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.
“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”
You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.
“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.
“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”
You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.
He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.
“Andrew,” you mewled. “Need… fuck… need you-”
“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.
Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”
Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.
“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.
“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.
“What do you need?”
You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”
You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.
You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”
“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”
He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”
He stuttered. “In-”
“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”
He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.
He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.
You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”
His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”
You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”
He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”
Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”
Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.
Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.
When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.
Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.
summary: you’ve always been a little clumsy, but this time it lands you in the hospital with no memory of what happened after the crash. your neighbour, jack, remembers everything though, especially what you confessed to him. (7.2k+)
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
content: hurt/comfort, neighbours to lovers, slow burn payoff, tension, very very light angst, protective!jack, accidental confession, mutual pining. cw: head injury, concussion, brief loss of consciousness, blood mention, medical inaccuracies, not proof read soz.
“Could you come and fix it?” you say into the phone, voice pitched just a little too casual considering the state of your living room.
You’re standing there, kind of uselessly, staring at the bookshelf you just finished building — or, well, thought you had. It had held together for a solid three seconds after the last screw went in before the entire thing gave up on life and collapsed in on itself like it had personal beef with you.
Pieces of wood are still scattered across the floor. One of the shelves is leaning against the wall at an angle that feels almost judgmental.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You hear fabric shift, the low rustle of sheets, and then a quiet exhale.
“Yeah… yeah, I’ll come.”
His voice sounded rough through the phone, sleep heavy, a little gravelled, and guilt immediately creeps up your spine.
Shit. You definitely woke him.
You hesitate, chewing lightly at the inside of your cheek as you glance around the mess again. This wasn’t even the first time. Ever since you’d moved into the house next to his, it had somehow… become a thing. If you had a loose cabinet door, flickering light, a lock that wouldn’t turn properly, you would call him.
And every single time, he showed up.
“I’m really sorry,” you wince, pacing a small circle around the mess like that’s somehow going to fix it, “it’s just– I actually tried doing it myself this time, and it looked like it went well. Until it didn’t.”
You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your hand coming up to scratch at your eyebrow, a nervous habit you’ve never managed to shake.
Another pause. Softer this time.
“Hey,” he says, a little clearer now, like he’s forcing himself properly awake, “it’s fine. Seriously.”
You’re not convinced.
If he was napping in the middle of the afternoon, then he was off shift, which meant this was probably one of the only quiet hours he got to himself all week. With the kind of hours he worked at the hospital, long shifts that seemed to blur into each other and never really end when they were supposed to, sleep wasn’t something he got nearly enough of.
The last thing you wanted was to be the reason he didn’t get it.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumble, quieter now, eyes flicking back to the mess like it might suddenly resolve itself out of pity. “I can– I can figure it out, if you want. You don’t have to come.”
There’s a brief pause. “Too late.”
You blink.
“What?”
“I’m already up,” he says, there's something dry in his voice, something faintly amused, like he’s already decided that he’s going to come over and fix it whether you like it or not. “And I’d rather fix it once than come over later when it’s somehow worse.”
“That’s very optimistic of you,” you mutter.
“Experience,” he shoots back easily.
Despite yourself, your lips twitch.
“Don’t worry about it,” he adds, softer now, and you can practically hear him dragging a hand down his face, grabbing for a shirt or whatever’s closest. “You’re not the first person to lose a fight to flat-pack furniture.”
“That makes me feel worse, actually.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, a beat passing before his tone shifts, something lighter threading through it. “What can I say? I guess I’ve got a way with my hands.”
You go completely still.
There’s a brief, dangerous pause where your brain tries to decide whether that was a joke, a joke, or something you’re definitely overthinking.
Because there’s no way he just said that.
Right?
Your eyes flick to nothing in particular, grip tightening slightly around your phone as the words replay in your head, slower this time, like that’s somehow going to help.
I’ve got a way with my hands.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re standing alone in your living room reacting like this over a sentence that may or may not have been completely innocent.
He probably didn’t mean it like that.
He definitely didn’t mean it like that.
…He absolutely meant it like that.
You press your lips together, inhaling through your nose like that’s going to reset your brain. It doesn’t.
“Right…” You clear your throat, dragging your attention back to the mess in front of you like it might ground you. It doesn’t.
“Yeah. We’ll– we’ll see about that, Abbot. Just ring the bell when you get here.”
“Mm. Try not to make it worse before I arrive.”
“Oh, shut up–”
You hang up before he can say anything else, your mouth still slightly parted. You stand there for a good five seconds, just blinking at nothing. Then you look back at the broken bookshelf.
God help you.
A good ten minutes go by, and you still don’t listen to him.
Because of course you don’t.
You’re crouched in front of the bookshelf again, one knee pressed into the floor, the screwdriver clutched a little too tight in your hand as you try, for the third time now, to get the top shelf to sit properly. Your head is half inside the frame, eyes narrowed as you angle the screw just right, tongue pressing lightly against your cheek in concentration.
“Okay just– stay,” you mutter under your breath, like the thing might actually cooperate if you asked nicely.
It doesn’t.
The doorbell rings.
And in the exact same second, the shelf gives way.
It comes straight down, catching the top of your head with a dull thud that makes your whole body jolt forward, the screwdriver slipping from your fingers as a sharp sting spreads instantly.
“Ow, shit,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut as your hand flies up to your head, pressing against the spot like that’s somehow going to undo it.
For a second you just stay there, hunched over, breathing through it, before letting out a quiet, annoyed exhale. “Perfect,” you mumble to yourself, pushing yourself up slowly, still a little dazed. “That’s just perfect.”
The bell rings again, longer this time.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” you call out, your voice slightly strained as you make your way to the door, your hand still resting on top of your head, your face caught somewhere between a grimace and irritation.
You open it, and there he is.
You take him in for a second without meaning to. The faint grey stubble along his jaw, his hair still slightly out of place like he didn’t bother fixing it before leaving, the simple black shirt and pants thrown on in a rush. There’s a look on his face already, caught between amusement and expectation, like he knew exactly what he was walking into before you even opened the door.
His eyes move over you quickly, taking in the hand on your head, your hair out of place, the look on your face, and you can see the moment it clicks to him.
You drop your hand a little too late to make it subtle.
A small smile threatens at his lips as he adjusts the toolbox in his hand, stepping forward when you shift to the side to let him in. You hold your breath for half a second as he passes you, the space between you just close enough to make you aware of it, before you shut the door behind him.
“Do I need to guess what happened,” he says, glancing down at you as he steps further inside, his voice still a little rough but clearer now.
You scoff softly, already turning to follow him. “Don’t start. I was trying to take matters into my own hands again, and apparently this shelf is harder to build than it looks.”
He hums like he’s not convinced, already walking into your living room, and he’s done it enough times to know exactly where he’s going. His eyes land on the mess almost immediately, taking in the scattered pieces, the half-built frame, the screw you’d dropped on the floor.
“Right,” he says after a second, one brow lifting slightly. “You tried.”
“I did try,” you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms, even though there’s still a faint sting at the top of your head reminding you how that went.
His gaze flicks back to you, slower this time, settling on your face, then your hair, then the spot your hand had been covering.
“What did you do.”
“Nothing,” you answer quickly, a little too quickly.
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s fine,” you insist, waving it off like it’s nothing even as you avoid looking at him properly. “It just hit my head a little, it’s not a big deal.”
He doesn’t say anything straight away, and that’s almost worse.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine, Jack–”
“Let me see,” he repeats, already stepping closer, his tone not harsh but not really leaving you much room to argue either. It’s something about the way he says it, like he’s already decided and that’s that, and then there’s the way he’s looking at you — his eyes settling on your face, focused so intently that it makes your chest feel a little too warm all of a sudden, like you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
You hesitate for a second before letting your hand fall away, tilting your head slightly despite yourself. “It’s not even that bad,” you mumble, though it comes out weaker than you meant it to.
He doesn’t respond, just lifts his hand and brushes your hair aside, fingers careful as he checks the spot. There’s a brief pause while he looks at it properly, his expression shifting as the earlier amusement fades.
“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself. “That’s gonna be a bump.”
You let out a small, unimpressed breath. “Great. Love that for me.”
His hand drops away, but instead of saying anything else, he turns and heads toward your kitchen. You watch him go for a second, still standing where he left you, a little thrown off by how quickly he just takes over your space (not that you're complaining about it).
You hear the fridge door open, the low hum getting louder for a second, then the scrape of the freezer compartment, things shifting around as he moves stuff aside.
“Of course you’ve got nothing useful in here,” he mutters.
“There should be peas or something.”
“There are,” he says after a second. “Miraculously.”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you.
A moment later, he’s back, a bag of frozen peas in his hand as he stops in front of you. He doesn’t hand it to you.
Instead, he steps in closer, lifting it straight to your head before you can react.
You flinch slightly at the cold. “Oh–”
“Hold it,” he says, already reaching for your hand and bringing it up, pressing your fingers around the bag so you keep it in place. His touch lingers for half a second before he lets go.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks back over to where he dropped his toolbox, crouching down and flipping it open like he’s done this a hundred times before (he has.)
You don’t move.
For a second, you just stand there, hand pressed to your head, watching him. Or more specifically — You’re watching the way his back shifts under the black shirt as he bends slightly over the frame, the fabric pulling just enough across his shoulders, his arms moving as he starts sorting through the pieces, he makes it look so easy.
You blink, forcing your eyes away for a second, adjusting the peas against your head like that’s what you were focused on the whole time.
It doesn’t really work because you look back.
He’s still crouched there, focused on the shelf, completely unaware, and you’re suddenly very aware of how long you’ve just been standing there doing absolutely nothing.
You clear your throat, shifting your weight as you take a small step forward, still holding the peas to your head as you glance between him and the mess. “Do you– need help, or something, or are you just gonna do the whole thing yourself?”
He doesn’t even look up, already moving pieces back into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing, fingers working easily as he adjusts the frame. “No, you’re alright,” he says, like it’s obvious, like you asking was almost unnecessary.
And then, after a second, like it’s nothing, “Just sit and look pretty.”
You just stand there, your brain going completely fuzzy for a second as it registers what he just said, your grip tightening slightly around the bag of peas while your mouth opens a little before you can stop it.
You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he can’t see your face right now, because if he could, you’re pretty sure he’d notice it instantly.
So you don’t say anything.
You just stand there, holding the peas to your head, trying to act like that didn’t just completely throw you off, even though it absolutely did.
He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, checking his own work.
You shift slightly, lifting the peas just a little off your head, your fingers moving to press lightly against the spot instead, testing it to see if it still hurts. The second you do, his head turns slightly over his shoulder.
“Don’t touch it,” he adds after a second, almost as an afterthought, still focused on the shelf. “Just leave it for a minute.”
You freeze for half a second before putting the peas back where they were, pressing them properly against your head doing exactly as he said.
“Okay,” you say, softer this time, a lot more normal than whatever you would’ve said earlier.
He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, like he’s checking his own work.
You watch him for a second longer than you should, adjusting the peas again just so you have something to do.
“Thank you,” you add after a moment. He pauses briefly at that, just for a second, before continuing like it didn’t affect him at all.
“Yeah of course,” he says easily.
It was an awkward predicament you found yourself in, one that seemed to happen so quickly you couldn’t even properly process how you got there in the first place. One second you were standing on the sidewalk after getting out of the sports bar you had gone to with a few friends you hadn’t seen in a while, still half caught up in the lingering conversation, your eyes scanning the street for a taxi that could take you home.
And then the next second, without even looking properly, you didn’t realise a bike was coming straight toward you along the sidewalk.
There was barely any time to react before the impact happened, the force of it knocking straight into you and sending both you and the rider crashing down onto the concrete. Your body hit the ground hard, but it was your head that took most of it, smacking sharply against the pavement that made everything jolt at once.
A loud groan leaves you instantly, the pain spreading so suddenly and so intensely that you don’t even think before running your tongue over your teeth in your mouth, checking them one by one to make sure they were still intact, still where they were supposed to be. The sensation was so overwhelming, that it made it hard for you to focus on anything else.
You don’t even register that people have started gathering around you, their voices overlapping, questions being thrown at you all at once as they hover nearby.
“Shit– I’m so, so sorry,” the man says quickly, the one who had collided with you.
You blink up at him through the blur, trying to focus your eyes enough to actually see him properly. He looks young, around your age, crouched close by, clearly shaken, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether to help you up or not. He looks completely fine in comparison, his helmet still strapped on, knee and elbow pads in place, protected in a way you clearly weren’t.
You try to sit yourself up from the ground, pushing against the concrete with your hands, but the second you do, a sharp sting spreads across your palms and arms. You hadn’t even noticed how badly you’d scraped yourself up until now. It barely registers though, not properly, not compared to the pounding in your head that only seems to get worse the more you try to move.
Your vision doesn’t clear either. It stays unfocused, everything still slightly out of place, and no matter how much you blink, it doesn’t quite fix itself.
You’d always been a little clumsy, always the type to trip over nothing or drop things at the worst possible time, but this was different. This wasn’t something you could laugh off later or brush away like it didn’t matter. It was worse.
“I’m okay, I think,” you mumble, the words coming out slower than you intended, your voice lacking any real certainty behind it.
The people around you don’t seem convinced.
There’s a shift in the air around you, a sudden stillness that you can’t fully understand, not when your head is still pounding and your vision refuses to cooperate.
“What?” you ask, more confused now, your brows pulling together as you try to make sense of their reactions.
You lift your hand to your head without thinking, fingers brushing against your temple as if to check it, and that’s when you feel it.
Something wet.
Sticky.
More than there should be.
Your hand comes back down into your line of sight, your eyes struggling to focus on it properly through the blur, and it takes longer than it should for your brain to catch up with what you’re seeing.
Blood.
A noticeable amount of it, smeared across your fingers and it doesn’t feel so minor anymore.
“Well, shit,” you mumble under your breath, the words barely leaving your mouth before everything around you starts to feel off again.
The noise of the crowd dulls, their voices becoming distant, like they’re being pulled further and further away from you. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your vision darkening at the edges as the pounding in your head overtakes everything else.
Somewhere through the haze, you can hear the urgency in their voices shift. “Call an ambulance, quick—” But it all feels far away.
And then, just like that, everything goe s completely black as you fall back against the concrete.
Jack can’t quite take you off his mind.
Ever since you moved into the house next to his a couple months back, ever since that first day when you were tripping over the stairs trying to help the movers carry boxes into your place like you weren’t about to take yourself out before even settling in, he’d clocked you as someone he wouldn’t forget easily.
And it should’ve stopped there, it really should’ve, because it’s not like he doesn’t have other things to focus on, not like his job doesn’t take up most of his time anyway, but it didn’t, it just stuck. He never realised how often he was thinking about you until he caught himself doing it multiple times a day.
Robby would’ve absolutely lost it if he knew. Like actually laugh in his face, not even try to hide it.
Which is exactly why Jack never said anything.
Because it sounds ridiculous.
It feels ridiculous.
At least it did, up until the moment he sees you being wheeled into the E.R.
And for a second it doesn’t even register properly, because it’s just another stretcher, another patient coming in too fast, paramedics talking over each other, the usual noise that never really stops around here, until his eyes land on you and everything’s stopped in Jack’s world.
Your head’s turned to the side, there’s blood at your temple, too much of it, dried and fresh mixed together, your hair stuck where it shouldn’t be, and you’re not moving, not even a little, and that’s what gets him the most because you’re never still.
Robby’s saying something, holding something out to him, but Jack doesn’t take it, doesn’t even look, because his focus is completely gone, locked on you in a way that makes everything else feel like background noise.
“You alright, brother?” Robby asks, and there’s something in his voice this time, not just casual, not just checking in, because he’s clocked it straight away, the way Jack’s just stopped responding, like he’s not even there for a second.
Jack doesn’t answer him.
He’s already moving before anything else can catch up, already at your side, falling into step with the stretcher as they push you through, his eyes running over you quickly, trying to take in as much as he can at once, trying to piece it together in real time without letting it slow him down, even with that tight feeling sitting heavy in his chest.
“What happened?” he asks, already reaching for gloves, his voice coming out like it normally would, like this is routine, like it’s just another patient even when it very clearly isn’t.
“Bike collision,” one of the paramedics says, not missing a step. “She hit her head pretty hard on the pavement, was talking when we got there but not making much sense, kept drifting in and out, then stopped responding on the way here.”
Jack nods once, already there as they move you across, his hand coming up without thinking, steadying your head like it’s instinct, like muscle memory has kicked in before anything else could.
Which it has.
He’s done this a thousand times before.
Just not with you.
“Alright, get her on the monitor, let’s check her properly, and I want a scan ready,” he says, more to the room now, more to himself, slipping into it because that’s what he does, that’s what he knows, even if everything in him feels slightly off.
Robby’s there beside him again, quick like always, but there’s a look he gives Jack, brief but there, like he’s noticed more than he’s saying.
Jack doesn’t acknowledge it.
He doesn’t have the space for that right now.
Because his attention is already back on you, and this time it lingers a second longer than it should, taking you in properly, the way you look like this, the way you look too still for his liking.
He preferred you up and clumsy. Not like this.
As you’re laid down, somewhere between conscious and not, everything comes in pieces, sound first, then light, then shapes that don’t quite make sense straight away. You turn your head slightly, slower than you mean to, your mouth parting a little as your eyes try to focus, landing on him.
Jack.
He’s right there, by your side, talking to someone just out of your view, his voice low and quick, but you can’t really make out what he’s saying, it all kind of blends together in a way that makes your head feel heavier.
“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you mumble, the words coming out a little off but still there, like you’re trying to make it sound normal even though nothing about this feels normal.
They move you properly onto the bed, and your brows pinch together almost immediately, a quiet wince slipping through as someone shines a light into your eye, then the other, the brightness too sharp for how your head already feels.
Jack’s attention shifts straight back to you the second you speak, his focus settling on your face properly now.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, hm?” he replies, but it doesn’t sound like him, not really.
There’s no humour in it this time.
And you notice that.
Despite everything, you still smile at him, all teeth, like none of this is as serious as it probably should be, even with people moving around you, checking things, definitely listening even if they’re pretending not to.
“You know,” you start, your words coming out a little uneven but still very much you, “I think because of whatever they’ve pumped into me… I should probably confess my undying crush on you, Mr Abbot.”
You let out a small laugh to yourself, like the thought genuinely amuses you, your head shifting slightly against the pillow before immediately regretting it.
“I feel like this is a very good time for that,” you add, softer now, like you’ve convinced yourself it makes perfect sense. “You know… just in case I die or something.”
Jack just looks at you for a second, properly this time, like he’s trying to decide whether to humour you or shut it down completely.
“…You’re not dying,” he says, and it comes out more firm than anything else, like he’s not even entertaining that part of what you said.
You squint at him slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he answers straight away.
You hum softly, like you’re weighing that up, even though you’re not really.
“Okay… but if I did,” you continue, still looking at him, “that would’ve been a really good confession. Like you would’ve thought about it for the rest of your life.”
There’s the smallest shift in his expression at that, something that almost looks like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite let himself.
“Yeah,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”
You nod slightly, like that’s settled.
“Good.”
He exhales through his nose, then glances over his shoulder toward one of the residents, his focus snapping back into place.
“Keep checking her pupils,” he says, his tone shifting without effort. “She’s been in and out, so keep talking to her, make sure she’s tracking, and get her ready for a CT. I don’t want to miss anything.”
There’s a quick nod, movement picking up again around you.
When you wake up, it takes you a second to properly come to, your head feeling heavy as confusion settles in before anything else does. You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze from your eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, not fully registering where you are at first.
The room is quiet.
Not completely silent, but quiet enough that it feels strange, especially compared to the E.R. you only faintly remember being brought through, the noise and movement and voices that never seemed to stop. It’s different here, and it throws you off more than it should, like you’re expecting something else to happen even though nothing would.
You know what led you here. You remember the bike, the impact, the way everything happened too quickly for you to even react properly before you both went down onto the concrete. But after that it’s blank. Completely fuzzy. Like your brain just cut everything off. You don’t remember getting here. You don’t remember being brought in, or what anyone said to you, or how long you’ve even been here. Just bits and pieces that don’t quite connect, like you were in and out of it the whole time and your mind never fully caught up, which was what exactly happened.
The hospital bed beneath you feels stiff, uncomfortably so, and it only makes everything worse as you shift slightly, trying to sit up more properly. It’s not helping. If anything, it just makes you more aware of how off your body feels, like nothing is sitting right.
You move again, slower this time, trying to find some kind of position that doesn’t make you feel like you’re about to tip sideways or sink straight back into the mattress. The bed doesn’t cooperate, obviously.
“They really need to invest in better beds,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything, your voice still a little thick as it comes out. “People are gonna leave here with more problems than they came in with.”
You adjust again, one hand pressing lightly against the mattress to steady yourself as you sit up just a little more, even though it doesn’t actually make it any more comfortable. It just makes you more aware of everything — your head, your body, the fact that you’re here and not entirely sure how you got to this exact point.
And that part bothers you more than anything.
You don’t even realise when someone enters the room, only properly registering it when you hear the door shut. It makes you turn your head, slower than you mean to, and that’s when you see him.
Jack’s standing by the door, not fully inside yet, like he stopped himself halfway through walking in and couldn’t move himself further into the room. You don’t really understand why, but you don’t point it out.
What you do notice is the relief that crosses his face the second his eyes land on you. It’s quick, but it’s there, clear as anything, easing some of the tension that had been sitting in his expression. Like seeing you awake, sitting up, actually aware, settles something in him that had been building since you were brought in.
“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you say repeating what you said hours ago (even though you didn’t remember saying it), a small smile pulling at your lips as you try to ease the tension that had filled the room the second you saw him.
He doesn’t answer straight away, and it gives you a second longer than you should have to actually look at him properly. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shirt pulling across his shoulders and biceps just enough that you have to stop yourself from staring any longer than you already are.
You drag your eyes back up, a little too late, and the second you meet his gaze again you can feel the heat surge through your body, because he’s already looking at you, not even pretending he wasn’t. His expression is still controlled, still holding onto composure, but there’s concern sitting there underneath it, clear in the way his hazel eyes stay on you.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that,” he says finally, his voice even, but not as light as it usually is with you, “I work here. You’re the one turning up as a patient.”
You don’t really know how to take that, and that’s what throws you off more than anything, because normally with him it’s easy, you know where you stand in the conversation, you know when he’s joking and when he’s not, but right now you can’t tell which one this is supposed to be.
You shift slightly against the bed, like you’re about to say something back, something quick or sarcastic just to ease it, but nothing actually comes out, and instead you just end up looking at him, the silence stretching a little longer than it should between you.
“You gave me quite the scare,” he adds after a second, and there’s no humour in it now, none of that usual back-and-forth you’re used to, just something honest that makes your expression shift without you meaning it to.
“I didn’t know you cared.” You say vulnerably.
“Of course I care,” he says, and now there’s something more familiar in his tone, something that actually sounds like him again, even if the concern hasn’t fully left his face. “Who else is going to call me every time something in your house decides to fall apart, hm.”
Your lips twitch at that despite yourself, a small breath leaving you as some of that tension in your chest eases, even if it doesn’t fully go away. “So that’s the only reason you care?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your voice lighter than it probably should be for what you’re actually asking.
Even as the words leave your mouth, there’s a part of you that pauses, because you don’t really know where that came from. A week ago you could barely hold a normal conversation with him without overthinking every little thing he said, without second guessing the way you stood or where you looked whenever he was over fixing something in your house, and now you’re sitting here in a hospital bed questioning him like this without even hesitating.
It throws you off more than anything.
Maybe it’s the medication they’d given you earlier, still sitting somewhere in your system, loosening whatever filter you usually had, making it easier to say things you’d normally keep to yourself. That’s the only explanation you can come up with, because there’s no way you’d be this forward otherwise, especially not with him.
He watches you for a second after that, like he’s caught onto the shift just as much as you have, his gaze settling on you in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than it should.
“That’s not what I said,” he replies, his tone quieter now, but there’s something in it that makes it clear he’s not brushing you off, not really.
You watch as he finally moves fully into the room, like he’s done holding himself back, his hand reaching down to pull a chair from the wall beside the door before dragging it over and sitting right next to your bed. It’s close, closer than he needs to be, but neither of you say anything about it.
And now he’s right here, close enough that you don’t really have anywhere else to look.
His attention doesn’t leave you once.
It makes you want to look away, break it somehow, but you can’t bring yourself to. You just lay there, holding his gaze, even as it makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t want to think about too much.
“Do you remember anything?” he asks.
You let out a small breath, glancing down for a second like that might help you find something you missed. “I can remember the crash,” you say slowly, trying to piece it together as you speak, “like I remember the bike and hitting the ground and everything, but after that it just cuts off.”
You shift slightly against the bed, your brows pulling together. “Which I’m actually kind of thankful for, because if my head still feels like this now, I don’t even want to know how bad it was when I got brought in.”
He watches you the whole time, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s taking in every little detail, every shift in your expression, and it does something to him he doesn’t really want to sit with.
Because he remembers it.
He remembers it clearly, not in bits the way you do. He remembers the way you looked, the way you kept drifting in and out, the way you said it like it didn’t even cost you anything to say.
And he remembers exactly what you said.
“You don’t remember anything after that?” he asks again, and this time it’s not just a question, there’s something behind it, like he’s checking before he says anything else.
You shake your head, a little more sure this time even though it’s frustrating, like you should be able to remember and you just can’t. “No. Nothing. It’s just blank.”
You look at him properly then, and it’s the way he reacts that makes you pause. Not what he says, but what he doesn’t. He just nods once, like he expected that, but there’s a look on his face that says otherwise, one that you couldn’t name properly.
It doesn’t sit right with you.
“Why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “did I do something?”
He huffs out a breath through his nose, like he almost laughs but doesn’t fully commit to it. “You always do something.”
“That’s not helpful,” you mutter, shifting a little on the bed as you look at him again, more serious now. “What did I say?”
He doesn’t answer straight away, which makes your stomach drop. Because if it was simply nothing, he would’ve said something, but it was as if he was holding himself back from doing so. It surely couldn’t be that bad, whatever you may have said.
“Jack,” you pressed, panic in your voice, “what did I say.”
He looks at you then.
“You told me you’re in love with me,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like it didn’t just completely shift everything between you in the span of a second, “in front of half the room.”
For a second, you just look at him.
Properly look at him, like maybe if you stare long enough the words will rearrange themselves into something else, something less insane, something that actually makes sense coming out of your own mouth. Your brain lags behind, struggling to catch up, like it’s still stuck somewhere before the crash while everything else has moved forward without it.
“I what?”
“You heard me.”
Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out straight away, because it’s hitting you in pieces now, slow and heavy, each part worse than the last as it actually starts to settle.
“Oh my God,” you say, sounding utterly horrified.
“Oh my God,” you say again, louder now, your hand lifting instinctively before dropping again when your head protests the movement, the dull ache making everything feel that much more real. “No, I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”
You stop yourself.
Because you would.
“I am so sorry,” you rush out, the words picking up pace before you can even think about slowing them down, like if you don’t get them out now he’s going to look at you differently. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, or out loud, or in front of people– especially not your coworkers, like that is actually the worst possible place that could’ve happened, I literally could not have picked a worse moment for that if I tried–”
You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palm against your cheek for a second, your thoughts already running ahead of you before you can even catch them.
“I don’t even remember saying it, which somehow makes it worse, because now I’m hearing it from you and I don’t even get to know how it came out or what I said before it or after it, and that just makes me look even more insane–”
You glance at him quickly before looking away again, your voice getting faster the longer you keep going. “Did I say anything else? Actually don’t tell me, I don’t think I can deal with that right now, like genuinely I think I’d rather not know if it gets worse than that–”
A breath leaves you, somewhere between a laugh and something closer to a groan, your head tipping back slightly against the bed.
“This is so bad,” you continue, the words tumbling over each other now, your brain refusing to slow down. “Like I’ve completely ruined it, haven’t I? I’ve made it weird now, and you’re not even gonna come over anymore, and every time something breaks in my house I’m just gonna have to deal with it myself because I decided to confess my feelings in front of an entire hospital like that’s a normal thing to do–”
You barely paused to breathe, your thoughts running ahead of you faster than you can catch them, too caught up in defending yourself, in trying to explain it away, to even realise what you’ve just done again.
Because you’ve said it again.
Just as easily.
Right in front of him.
And you don’t even notice it but Jack does.
He doesn’t interrupt you though, doesn’t point it out, doesn’t say anything at all. He just sits there, watching you, one brow lifting slightly, amusement settling into his expression the longer you keep going, like he can’t quite believe you’re doing this without even realising it.
“And now you’re just sitting there,” you add, your voice still rushing out, “like I haven’t just made everything ten times worse, and I don’t even blame you if you don’t want to come near me after this because I wouldn’t either, I’d actually avoid me at all costs–”
You stop just enough to breathe, your chest rising a little quicker, your eyes finally landing back on him properly. There’s a small shift in his expression, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly, his brows lifting just a bit like he’s watching something you haven’t caught onto yet.
It doesn’t make sense to you, the way he’s acting like this, like you didn’t just make everything awkward between you, like you didn’t just ruin whatever this was supposed to be.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice softer now, more confused than anything.
What you didn’t expect was for him to suddenly lean forward, closing the short distance between you, and before you can even fully process what he’s doing, his hand comes up to your face, fingers settling along your jaw as he kisses you.
It shuts you up instantly.
Completely.
One second you were still mid-rant, the next you’re just there, kissing him, your brain trying and failing to catch up with what’s happening. Your breath catches slightly against him, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into it without even thinking, your hand coming up to grip lightly at the fabric of his shirt like you need something to ground you.
His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, his thumb brushing just slightly against your skin as he deepens it, slow enough to make you feel it properly, like he’s been waiting to do this and finally decided to stop holding back.
And you respond just as easily to the kiss, like all that overthinking you usually do just isn’t there right now.
He tastes like coffee and mint, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to him from the hospital mixed with his cologne, and it settles into you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your fingers curling a little tighter into his shirt as you lean into him just a bit more.
You don’t even realise how long it lasts.
It’s only when he finally pulls back, slow and unhurried, that your head starts catching up, your breath still uneven as your eyes open and find his straight away.
You can feel it then, the heat you feel, the way everything feels just slightly off in the best way, and you’re pretty sure it shows, because there’s no way you look normal right now. A small smile pulls at your lips before you can stop it, and you try to turn your head, instinct kicking in like you suddenly remember how to be self-conscious again.
He doesn’t let you.
His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, and he dips his head just enough to keep your attention on him, his expression shifting into something that looks a little too pleased with himself, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.
“Next time,” he says, his voice lower now, something warm sitting underneath it, “try saying it when you actually remember it.”
summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.
pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader
series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)
warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚
this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness
please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked
a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚
✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025
my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise
one: turn back the clock
↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k
part one
part two
two: twice upon a time
↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k
part one
part two
three: every day’s a holiday
↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k
part one
part two
part three
four: groundhog day
↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k
part one
part two
five: carousel
↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k
part one
part two
part three
six: butterfly effect
↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k
part one
part two
part three
part four
seven: spellbound
↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k
part one
part two
part three
eight: edge of tomorrow
↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k
part one
part two
part three
nine: out of the past
↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k
part one
part two
part three
part four
ten: about time
↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k
part one
part two
part three
eleven: tomorrow we live
↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k
part one
part two
part three
twelve: serendipity
↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k
part one
part two
part three
epilogue
↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k
bonus chapters
these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story
frequently asked questions about time travel
↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
↳ One day in Bucky's time loop
57 seconds
↳ How Bucky met Twelve
somewhere in time
↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story
cause and effect
↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.
Isleen Wick, John Wick's younger sister, followed her brother's footsteps by getting out of the messed-up world they grew up in. She managed to get out of that life, but she didn't figure out what she was going to do with her normal life. While trying to figure out what she wanted to do, she moved to Chicago to have a fresh start. This time she wanted to help save lives instead of taking them, and the only way she knew how was becoming a firefighter.
Isleen knew it was going to be hard, but she had been through worse, and she made it, and she knew that when she graduated as the only woman in her class at the fire academy, now she was the newest candidate in Truck 81 at Firehouse 51.
The air in Chicago was crisp, tasting of Lake Michigan and exhaust, but as Isleen Wick stood in front of the red brick facade of Firehouse 51, it smelled like a second chance.
She wore her dark hair pulled back tight, her blue button-down crisp, and her boots polished to a mirror shine. She looked like every other candidate, but her eyes—dark, watchful, and impossibly still—belonged to a woman who had seen the world bleed and decided she was done contributing to the mess.
She stepped through the small side door of the apparatus floor. The bay was cavernous, smelling of diesel and history.
"Can I help you, or are you lost?"
Isleen turned. A tall man wearing a white dress shirt and the presence of a mountain was stepping out of an glass-walled office. Chief Wallace Boden.
"Candidate Isleen Wick, Chief," she said, her voice steady. "Reporting for duty. Truck 81."
Boden’s eyes narrowed slightly, a silent assessment. He’d seen a thousand candidates, but there was something about the way this woman stood—shoulders back, weight centered, hands loose but ready. She didn't look nervous. She looked deployed.
"Welcome to 51, Wick," Boden said. "Follow me."
The common room was buzzing. The smells of cheap coffee and frying bacon filled the air.
"Listen up!" Boden’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. "This is our new candidate, Isleen Wick. She’ll be on 81 under Lieutenant Casey. Treat her like one of your own, or I’ll have you scrubbing the undercarriage of the rigs with a toothbrush. Clear?"
"Clear, Chief!" a chorus responded.
A man with blonde hair and a kind, but weary, face stood up. "Matt Casey. Welcome to the team, Wick."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
Beside him, a shorter man with a few gray hairs leaned back, a smirk on his face. "Christopher Herrmann. This here is Otis, and that’s Cruz. You ready to work, Candidate? Or did you think firefighting was all calendars and kittens?"
"I'm ready, Herrmann," Isleen replied, her tone neutral.
"Whoa, she knows the name already," Otis whispered. "She’s been doing her homework."
From the back of the room, a woman with piercing blue eyes and a medical bag over her shoulder stepped forward. "I’m Leslie Shay. This is Gabby Dawson. If you get a scratch, come find us. If you get a heart attack from Herrmann’s snoring, we can’t help you."
Isleen offered a small, genuine smile—the first one since she’d crossed the Chicago city limits. "Nice to meet you."
The "honeymoon" phase lasted exactly forty-two minutes.
Isleen was in the middle of her first "candidate chore"—scrubbing the floor of the bay—when the bells rang. A rhythmic, piercing mechanical scream that vibrated in her chest.
The sound of twisting metal and screaming tires was still echoing off the skyscrapers. Jay Halstead had been in a high-speed pursuit for ten blocks when the offender’s stolen Charger slammed into a parked SUV, triggering a chain reaction.
Jay hopped out of his truck, gun drawn, but the scene was chaos. A massive commercial truck was tilted precariously, its weight threatening to crush the SUV where a mother was screaming, pinned in the driver's seat.
Truck 81 and Squad 3 arrived in a roar of sirens.
"Stabilize that rig! Now!" Boden shouted.
As Casey and Herrmann knelt by the SUV's wreckage to reach the woman, the offender—bleeding from a head wound—shifted in his crumpled seat. He pulled a 9mm from his waistband, his hand shaking as he leveled it right at the back of Herrmann's head.
Jay was thirty feet away, his line of sight blocked by a civilian car. "CPD! Drop the weapon!" Jay yelled, lunging forward, but he knew he was too far.
Isleen, who had been grabbing the heavy-duty cribbing blocks, didn't hesitate. She didn't drop to the ground. She moved like a shadow. In one fluid, brutal motion, she stepped over the debris, grabbed the offender’s wrist, and twisted.
CRACK.
The gun clattered to the pavement. A second later, she drove her palm into the man’s elbow.
SNAP.
The man let out a choked scream, his arm now useless. Isleen didn't even look angry; she looked bored. She kicked the gun under the truck and looked up at Jay, who had finally reached them, his eyes wide with shock.
"He's secure, Officer," she said calmly, her voice barely elevated. "My team needs to work. Keep him out of the way."
Jay stared at her. He’d seen Rangers move like that. He’d seen Spec Ops move like that. He’d never seen a candidate do it.
An hour later, the scene was clearing. The mother and child were in Ambo 61. Isleen was wiping hydraulic fluid off her hands when Jay approached. He was usually the coolest guy in Intelligence, but his heart was hammering against his ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with the chase.
"Hey," Jay said, stopping a few feet away. He realized he was smiling like an idiot and tried to pull it back. "I, uh... I wanted to say thanks. For the save. That was... that was some move."
Isleen looked at him, her dark hair windblown. "Just doing my job."
"Right. Yeah. I'm Jay. Jay Halstead," he said, extending a hand. "I’m with Intelligence."
"Isleen," she replied, shaking his hand. Her grip was firm, her skin warm. "Isleen Wick."
Jay felt a jolt—a literal spark. He forgot his next three sentences. "Isleen. That's... that's a nice name. I’ll see you around, Isleen."
The next day, Jay showed up at 51 for Isleen’s statement; the questioning lasted longer than usual, he kept looking at the same page for 10 minutes.
The day after, Jay had follow-up questions, which were not useful for the investigation.
On day 3, he's letting her know the kid she pulled out of the car is doing fine and is being discharged soon.
On day four, he's in the neighborhood and bought coffee and food
On day six, he heard about a fire she worked on and wanted to check in. The rest of the firehouse are already making jokes and making bets.
On day nine, he was in the area again for another case.
Day 11: Antonio was helping Gabby investigate something odd with the family member of one of the people she and Shay treated during a call, and Jay tagged along.
On day 13, he showed up at the firehouse, and he said he didn't remember why.
By Day 14, the atmosphere in Firehouse 51 was less like a rescue station and more like a high school hallway.
Isleen was at the workbench, meticulously cleaning a chainsaw. She knew he was there before the heavy door to the bay even fully retracted. The hum of that Dodge Ram engine was a sound she’d memorized against her better judgment.
"Candidate!" Herrmann yelled from the kitchen table, his voice loud enough to rattle the windows. "Your shadow is back! And he looks like he actually remembered his name today!"
The guys on Truck 81 erupted into a chorus of whistles. Isleen didn't look up, but she felt the heat rise in her neck—a sensation she hadn't felt in years. Not even when she was staring down a Russian hit squad in Budapest.
Jay walked in, looking slightly more put-together than his previous "I forgot why I’m here" visit. He had a small white bag in one hand and a look of sheer, terrifying determination in his eyes.
"Wick," Jay said, stopping at the end of her workbench.
"Detective," she replied, finally looking up. She wiped a smudge of oil off her forehead, leaving a dark streak that Jay found distractingly attractive. "Are we on Day 14 of the longest investigation in CPD history?"
Jay let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Actually, the case file is closed. I handed it to the DA this morning."
Isleen set the saw down, her watchful eyes searching his. "Then why are you here, Jay?"
Jay took a step closer, dropping the "cool detective" act. The firehouse noise—the clatter of plates, Mouch’s snoring, the distant sound of the radio—seemed to fade. "I’m here because I’ve run out of excuses. No more donuts, no more follow-up questions about the kid, no more "happening to be in the area.'"
He set the bag down on the workbench. It smelled like expensive Italian pasta.
"I'm here because I want to take you to dinner," Jay said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and sincere. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I don't have to pretend I’m working just to get five minutes of your time."
From the common room, the room went silent as everyone leaned in to hear.
Isleen hesitated. The ghost of her brother John flickered in the back of her mind—the warning that people in their world shouldn't love people in his. But then she looked at Jay. He was a good man, a brave man, and he was currently risking his entire reputation in front of her coworkers just for a chance.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow?" Isleen asked softly. "I'm off shift."
Jay’s face transformed, a grin breaking through that made him look ten years younger. "Seven o'clock. I'll pick you up."
As he turned to walk away, triumphant, Otis shouted, "Hey, Halstead! Check the chalkboard! You just cost me twenty bucks by waiting two weeks!"
Jay just waved a hand over his shoulder, not looking back, his heart finally beating at a normal rhythm for the first time in fourteen days.
Isleen watched him go, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. She went back to her chainsaw, but as she worked, her thumb traced the edge of the workbench. She had six months of "normal" under her belt and a date with a handsome detective on the books.
She just had to hope the world she and John left behind stayed in the shadows long enough for her to enjoy it.
Six Months later
Jay and Isleen’s relationship was getting serious; they had recently moved in together to Isleen’s apartment in the Gold Coast that was far too nice for a firefighter candidate. She had told him that she had purchased it with some ‘savings’ she had from her old job in New York, and Jay had met John a few weeks ago when he showed up unannounced at Firehouse 51.
Isleen had hidden in her closet a mahogany trunk with gold coins and guns and ammo for an entire army. Jay never knew it was there, and hopefully he will never find out.
The Chicago night was cold and unnervingly quiet—the kind of stillness that usually preceded a storm in Isleen’s old life. Beside her, Jay was a heavy, warm presence, his breathing rhythmic and deep. They had shared this apartment for only a month, a domestic bliss that felt like a fragile glass sculpture she was terrified of breaking.
It was 02:14 AM when the peace of their home shattered.
Isleen didn’t wake up to a noise; she woke up to a shift in air pressure. A muffled thud from the hallway—the sound of a door being breached by professional-grade hydraulics.
"Jay," she hissed, her hand clamping over his mouth as her other hand reached under her pillow for the Glock 17 she kept hidden from him.
Jay was a Ranger; he was awake and armed in a heartbeat, rolling off the bed and leveling his service weapon at the bedroom door. "CPD! Get down!" he roared, but the response was a hail of suppressed gunfire that shredded the mahogany door.
The breach was violent. Six men in tactical gear, faces obscured by ballistic masks, swarmed the room. Jay fired, his rounds striking the lead man in the chest, but the shooter didn't go down.
"They’re wearing Level IV plates, Jay!" Isleen screamed.
In the chaos, a massive hitman lunged through the dark, his hand tangling in Isleen’s hair to drag her toward the exit. It was a tactical error. Isleen didn't scream; she leaned into the pain, grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand, and swung.
The first blow shattered the bulb. The second crushed the man’s orbital bone. By the fourth strike, the man was a slumped weight on the floor. With a practiced, cold efficiency, Isleen stripped the high-caliber HK VP9 from his holster and put two rounds into the gap between his helmet and his vest.
Jay stood frozen for a split second, his jaw dropping at the sight of the bloody lamp and the dead man at his girlfriend's feet. This wasn't the "Candidate Wick" who scrubbed floors at 51. This was a shadow he didn't recognize.
"Isleen, what the hell…"
"There’s no time to explain, call it in!" she barked. She dove for the closet, shoving aside her CFD uniforms and kicking the false floor. The mahogany trunk with an engraving of a subtle gold lion gasped open.
Inside, the moonlight caught the glint of the gold coins and rows of black steel. She didn't hesitate, grabbing two customized Taran Tactical combat masters and a belt of armor-piercing magazines.
"Jay, catch!" She tossed him a high-velocity SIG Sauer and a tactical belt. He caught them out of reflex, his eyes darting from the gold coins to the arsenal, then back to the woman he thought he knew.
"That’s a specialized armor-piercer," Isleen said, her voice dropping into a low, clinical rasp as she racked the slide of her weapon. "Aim for the neck or the pelvic bone. If they're here for me, they aren't leaving witnesses."
More boots thudded in the hallway. The scent of ozone and gun oil filled their bedroom; that’s when Jay had time to grab his radio that was on the kitchen counter. “10-1, 10-1 shots fired at the police. I need backup and SWAT at 1200 North Lake Shore Drive, apartment 40A.”
"Who the hell are they, Isleen?" Jay demanded, his voice strained as he took a tactical position beside her, his training overriding his shock.
"The life I left behind, or so I thought," she whispered as she stepped into the line of fire. "And they just made a huge mistake coming after me; I'm retired. Let's just focus on staying alive while SWAT gets here."
The next 8 minutes were the longest of Jay Halsted's life, as he watched the woman of his dreams kill so easily the group of armed assassins, but that wasn’t the thing that scared him; it was how easily they coordinated, the synchronization they had, like they had done it a thousand times.
The rhythmic pop-pop of synchronized fire echoed through the penthouse, a lethal percussion that Jay had only ever heard in the heat of his days as a Ranger. But this wasn’t a desert thousands of miles away; this was the Gold Coast, and the person moving with the grace of a professional ghost wasn't a fellow soldier; it was the woman he had made breakfast for that morning, the same one he had taken two weeks to ask for a date.
By the time SWAT arrived, the entire penthouse was covered in blood, shell casings, and dead bodies. Jay and Isleen stood in the middle of it with a few scratches and bruises.
All the police officers and SWAT were shocked to see the mess that two people did; that’s when Sergeant Voight arrived, his expression was unreadable, and Jay didn’t know whether he was going to be arrested, yelled at, or fired, but that wasn’t the only concern. He needed to know who Isleen Wick really was and what mess he got himself involved in.
“What the hell, Isleen?!! How? How did you do that?” Yelled Jay, “And don’t give that ‘self-defense classes’ bullshit. Tell me the fucking truth!!!.”
The sirens of half of Chicago’s 21st District wailed below, but the silence inside Penthouse 40A was deafening. The copper tang of blood was heavy in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of spent gunpowder.
Voight stood by the shattered mahogany door, his gravelly voice cutting through the ringing in Jay’s ears. "Halstead. Explain to me why your living room looks like a war zone in Grozny."
Jay didn't answer. He couldn't. He was staring at Isleen, who was calmly ejecting a magazine from a weapon that cost more than his truck. The "Candidate" he had fallen for—the woman who scrubbed firehouse floors and saved kids from car wrecks—had just methodically dismantled a professional hit squad with the cold precision of a machine.
“Fine!” Isleen’s voice was like ice, snapping Jay’s attention back to her. “I wasn’t born in New York; I was born in Belarus. John and I were orphans, and we were taken by the Ruska Roma. They trained us, and we eventually went to New York. John was too good; they named him the Baba Yaga, and me... they called me the Valkyrie.”
She looked at Jay, her eyes darker than he’d ever seen them. “John wasn't exactly the boogeyman; he was the one you sent to kill the fucking boogeyman. I was the one they sent to make sure the boogeyman never came back. We are people of focus, commitment, and sheer will. I watched my brother kill three men in a bar with a pencil just to protect me. We did jobs no one else could pull off. The bodies we buried laid the foundation of empires.”
Jay took a step back, his hand still gripping the high-velocity SIG she had given him, the adrenaline wearing off, until he saw it the ink he had traced with his fingers a hundred times in the dark, the same ink he had already memorized, thinking it was just art, just a beautiful, tragic design. “You’re an assassin. You’re a professional killer. Wait,..so the tattoos—they are from the Rusk Roma, the crucifix. on your shoulder, and the Latin inscription on your back, ‘Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.’ The figure of a woman on the cross, adorned with angel wings”
“I’m retired, Jay!” she shot back, her voice finally cracking. “I chose Chicago. I chose Firehouse 51. I chose you because I wanted to save lives instead of taking them. But then John’s wife died, and some idiot stole his car and killed his dog. They came after me to get to John to hurt him because they know that I’m the only weakness he has left, and now the world we left behind is coming for both of us.”
Voight stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the specialized armor-piercing rounds and the gold coins scattered on the floor. He knew the legends of the Baba Yaga. He looked at Jay, then at the girl who had just turned his best detective’s life into a target.
“Halstead,” Voight said, his voice low and dangerous. “The tactical team downstairs is asking questions I can’t answer. You need to decide right now if you’re a cop or if you’re going to protect a Wick. Because John is coming, and when he gets here, there won’t be enough police in Chicago to stop the fire that’s about to start.”
Isleen looked at Jay, the blood on her face drying in the cold lake breeze. “They won’t stop, Jay. Not until I’m dead or they are. So, are you in, or do I need to vanish before SWAT clears the service elevator?”
Jay looked at the badge on the counter, then at the woman he loved. The lies were over. The war had just begun. And John was coming to town.
“I’m in, but I want the whole truth, and you are coming with me to the 21st,” said Jay, his voice, dropping into that low, Ranger-ready register. He knew John was going to show up in the next few hours looking for his baby sister, “and call John and tell him to meet us at the district.”
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