Another Brendon Park x reader concept that features fertility issues… idk why I keep coming up with these I’m sorry.
Dana is pretty confused when Park the Shark is back in the Pitt at just about handoff.
He’s in his street clothes, a bag in hand.
And he’s looking for her, by what he just said to Nasally- politely.
“Everything okay Dr Park?”
He looks almost, nervous before he speaks.
“I heard you were looking for a kinship foster for your baby Jane doe?”
Dana can’t hide her eyes widening.
“We are. You know someone who might be interested?”
“Yeah” he breathes.
“My wife and I”.
Dana is infact, truly shocked.
Yeah, sure. Park wears a ring, but the idea of him having a wife is still a mindfuck.
“Oh. You two talk about this?”
Brendon clicks open his phone like he’s anxious.
“Yeah. We’ve uh, been caught in a game of phone tag all day between her having a shit signal and me in surgery. But she’s on her way now.” He explained.
Shit.
Parks dead serious, huh.
“It might be a little hard to get your hands on baby stuff right now. Whole worlds closed for the Holliday.”
Something like a bruise came over Brendon’s face.
His voice dropped marginally.
“A few months ago we had an, uh, a pretty late term miscarriage so. There’s been plenty of boxes in our garage ever since.”
Despite the classic set in his jaw, Dana can see that real pain in his eyes as he explains it and it’s a side she really never would have expected.
His phone flashes.
“Oh. She’s on her way in.” Brendon supplies.
Dana has the feeling she’s just along for the ride at this point.
A minute late, through the ambulance bay doors comes a woman looking confused- in a lost way not a disoriented way- in a halter top sundress and sandals. She’s got a sun glow to her skin- maybe she got just a little too much today. Bathing suit straps out of line with the neck.
She sets her eyes on them and looks like she’s not lost anymore and Dana’s jaw damn might as well drop.
She looks far too normal to be married to Brendon Park. Looks can be deceiving but she looks nice.
She slots herself into Brendon’s side, accepting a kiss in greeting. She’s younger, sure. But not in a jarring way. In a way that feels natural and fitting.
And you introduce yourself to Dana kindly.
Huh.
You look at Brendon with a nervous excitement.
“Oh. I didn’t get a verdict, sorry. So can we?” He asks Dana.
Right.
Dana blinks slowly.
“Shit, you’ll be doing us a real favor here.”
“Pleasures all ours.” You insist.
“I gotta make some calls. Print some papers up. Why don’t you guys go into peds and see her?”
Your eyes fucking shimmer.
“Really?”
Dana knows damn well this isn’t gonna be temporary from the look on your faces.
“Yeah. I’ll get the paper work handled. Go meet your baby.”
♡ synopsis: after the death of your husband 2 years prior, you've withdrawn and become a shell of your former self due to grief. one man was there for you during that time, until you eventually pushed him away and broke his heart too. when you arrive on station 42's doorstep one afternoon during an absentminded afternoon walk, you run into their new battalion chief. and soon thereafter, the two of you fall into bed together.
unable to ever let yourself move forward, however, you leave the following morning... until the results of a small plastic test brings you back.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, age-gap, widow!reader, exploration of past bode x reader, p in v sex, creampie, suicidal ideation, pregnancy, mention of a housefire
♡ a/n: i've only watched s4 e1-4 to try & get a grasp of brett's character, so apologies for any inaccuracies.
Emerging from the confines his new office—strange to even think of it as that, even if a handful of weeks have already passed since his arrival—to instead step into the main engine bay for a bit of fresh air, Brett's brows furrow at the sight of a young woman clad in a wrinkled dress and old sneakers wavering at the entrance of the station, near a freshly washed truck.
"Miss?"
His questioned greeting earning him no response, he comes closer with quiet steps. Studying the rueful expression painted across your feminine features, he steels himself for whatever may lie ahead. "Excuse me, miss? Something I can help you with?"
Turning on your heel, your eyes first flit to the mustard-colored CAL Fire decal ironed onto his t-shirt before trailing higher. "What?"
His greying brows slowly draw further together.
You don't look...well. Your complexion is pallid, your eyes are devoid of so much as a spark of light, and a frown seems to tug at your lips like you're, in a sense, perpetually disappointed.
"I asked if there was something I could help you with," he repeats softly. "Are you alright?" Brett asks with a slight tilt of his head.
You blink absently. "I didn't mean to..." You slide a hand over your clavicle and then to your shoulder. "My feet just carried me here. I was on a walk."
At least you're in a safe place if you're on something, he supposes. Brett nods. "Do you need help finding your way back home, miss?"
It's your turn now for your brows to knit together. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
He folds his arms easily behind him. "Brett Richards. I'm the new Battalion Chief."
Your face falls.
"Oh. Vince," you whisper in understanding. "I... I should've gone to his service, but..." you shake your head, then glance toward a sea of redwood trees in the near distance, which stretch toward the pale blue sky above.
"You knew him?" he questions.
You nod.
"May I ask how?" Brett inquires carefully.
"I—" You blink back tears, but know it's a losing battle. They always win, and have consistently every day for the last two years. "My late husband worked here."
His heart sinks. Late husband.
You're so fucking young and already a widow has been made out of you because of this occupation; this life.
How can he hate fire—something which does not think or breathe or act, but merely is—yet be simultaneously thankful for it because without it... Who knows where he'd be?
In its absence of being a problem, he wouldn't have the distinct privilege of serving as its solution.
But at least his wife would still be alive then, same as your husband.
"You have my condolences," Brett mutters with a slight shake of his head. "I've seen the portraits," he states thumbing in the direction of the admin office that lies across the hall from his own. "Of... Those the station's lost. What was his name?"
You swipe a tear from your cheek. "Eric," you whisper.
Brett hasn't been here for an extraordinary length of time, but he's nevertheless heard the name—knows that it carries weight even still; complete admiration. "Handsome man," he says with curved lips. "Dark hair?" he questions to ensure he has the right guy in mind.
Another nod.
You wander toward the garage's opening. "I should've gone. I just... I knew that if I did, I would've done nothing but sob the entire time. I didn't want to make a scene."
Brett comes to stand at your side. It feels like you're talking more so to yourself than him, but he's willing to listen if it makes you feel better.
He gets it.
"I'd say that a funeral is the one place where tears are welcome."
You shake your head and wipe away another. "They wouldn't have been for Vince."
Horrible as that sounds...
He shrugs. "I don't know how close they were, but you're about the same age. Bode is really going through it right now, as I'm sure you can imagine. When you lose someone like that... The more people who reach out, the better."
"That hasn't been my experience," you snap. "For a couple weeks, people might be at your beck and call, but they inevitably disappear when they go back to their own lives and decide that just because your world has stopped spinning, it doesn't mean that theirs has to, too. No one cares. It's easier this way. If you don't let anyone in, then you can't lose them."
"Alienation is no way to live," he gently argues.
You about-face. "I mean no offense when I say this, but you have no idea what it's like to lose a spouse. To feel a part of your soul die when they do. To realize that the life you once thought you would have—had been planning to spend alongside them—has vanished in an instant. You could never understand that sort of grief. And if you're lucky, you never will."
He doesn't fill with anger; doesn't seek to lash out at you for it. Brett is unaware as to when Eric died, but he assumes it wasn't terribly long ago since you still seem to be in the early throws of the five stages.
"Before I reply, I want you to know that I'm not upset. And you don't need to apologize, because I understand," Brett assures with a feigned smile and a nod of reassurance. "But I'm not that lucky, because I do know what that sort of loss feels like."
Your features shift—you wince and glance away in hopes of composure. "I'm s—"
Brett stops you before you can pour forth guilt-laden regrets. "It's okay. You had no way of knowing. And... What're the chances, y'know?"
You wrap your arms around yourself, wishing they were another's instead.
He tilts his head back. "Same way for her. She did this too." He swallows thickly. "Was on a roof. It turned to sponge beneath her feet and—" he jerks his head to the side and clears his throat.
"I'm sorry," you whisper mournfully. "Did... Did you have children?"
"A daughter," he replies with a faint smile. "All grown up and living on her own now."
You resent him for it. For having a piece of his wife still while you have nothing.
"You're fortunate," you state flatly.
The sound of rubber boots approaching sounds from the opposite side of the engine bay then. You each turn to greet whoever has arrived and Brett nods at Bode when he rounds the front of the firetruck parked to your left.
He nearly asks if he needs him for something, but finds his words swallowed up at the charged look exchanged between you.
"Hey," Bode murmurs with a dip of his chin. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he nudges the cement floor with the toe of his shoe. "Didn't know you were comin' by."
Your attention moves to his chest and Bode shifts uncomfortably.
Swiveling on your heel, you bid Brett a quiet farewell and leave in silence, same as you came.
Brett watches you go, and when he turns to question Bode about what the hell just happened, he finds himself standing alone.
"You mind telling me what that was?" Brett asks with crossed arms.
With his head half buried beneath the hood of his GMC, the noisy, stuttering zip of a ratchet fills the empty space Bode is otherwise meant to himself with a reply he doesn't much feel like giving.
"She seemed upset," Brett continues. "Not that you look too happy yourself."
Bode snorts derisively. "Don't I?" he snips sarcastically.
"Listen, I know I'm new to all of you. Means I'm still learning the lay of the land, so to speak. There's clearly history there. Just trying to find out how much of it I should concern myself with."
Bode tosses down the tool with a sharp metal clang, then grabs a socket wrench next. Flitting through his toolbox for the correct attachment, he shakes his head. "None," he deadpans with a venomous glare before stepping up to his truck again.
"Guessing you knew her husband, though," Brett remarks with a shrug.
A rhythmic clicking echoes off the room's sturdy walls.
"You know him well?" Brett presses while advancing forward step-by-step.
Bode shakes his head in irritation, wishing he'd just drop it. Old man is acting like a dog with a bone. "We were partners," he grunts. "I was there when he—" He purses his lips and continues on with engine repairs.
"What happened?"
"Housefire," he retorts. "The hell do you think?"
Bode moves to the left. "Later found out it was electrical. Not like that matters."
Brett simply listens.
"Family of four, but the husband was out of town on work. The mother and the oldest boy were already outside when we got there. Whole fuckin' thing was up in flames. She just—" he grimaces. "She just kept screaming 'my baby boy is upstairs, you have to save him, you have to save him'. So we went in. We're going room to room, they're all empty. I... I could hear the wood splintering; groaning under the weight of what had turned to kindling and ash. Knew the support beams were about to give.
He grits his teeth. "I tried to pull him out, but he just—he wouldn't listen to me. Kept telling me that he wasn't leaving until he had him in his arms. Eventually yelled at me to shut the hell up and keep searching."
Bode retrieves a wrench next.
As if he can fix anything now.
"He was like an older brother to me. I worshipped the ground the guy walked on. I wanted to be just like him. He'd been at it longer than me, so I told myself that he'd leave when it was time to finally go and not a moment sooner. That he could never be that stupid."
Bolts being tightened emit a quiet pop while Bode's arm works in tandem with the tool he holds tightly to. "And then the ceiling caved in. It barely missed me. He—"
Brett remains quiet.
"I ran out of there like a goddamn coward and left my brother behind. Turns out," he says with a bitter chuckle. "The kid was never up there to begin with. Got turned around downstairs, but ultimately made it out. So Eric died for nothing."
"He died trying to do the right thing," Brett mutters. "And it wasn't cowardly of you. It was self-preservation."
Bode's arm falls to his side—that grease-covered tool still held tight in his calloused grip. "Yeah? What right thing was that? Refusing to listen? To remember his training? Trying to save a kid that was never trapped at all because their fuckin' mom couldn't keep an eye on him!" he shouts with vehemence.
"I was the one," he shouts while throwing the tool toward the wall with a resounding ting. "Who had to tell her. Had to look my best friend's wife in the eye and tell her that he was dead, all while knowing that I was the reason. I had to hold her when she collapsed in my arms, screaming for a man who was never coming home again."
He swipes his forearm beneath his nose. "Should've been me." He shrugs. "Maybe I was never meant to make it out of that house, because I've felt like a dead man walking ever since."
Brett shakes his head. "Who would both of you dying in there have helped? Your dad? Your mom? Your crew?"
"It doesn't matter now. Can't change it." He laughs without mirth and looks to Brett with raised brows. "And you wanna know what I did about it after? That very same night?" he offers with arms dramatically outstretched from his sides.
Settling his palms on his hips, he chews his lip in contemplation. "I'm there, and she just keeps crying and crying, and I am too, but no matter how tightly I hold her, no matter what I say, I can't make her pain stop. I destroy her entire fucking life—I kill someone that we both loved—and I can't do this one thing," he spits. "And then she turns to me with these big, teary eyes and my heart stops. Because now she's begging me. Please, Bode. Please, please, please."
He runs a trembling hand through his hair. "So I slept with her in his bed. Something I always wanted to give her, or—or have with her, and I couldn't have let it happen at a worse possible time."
Silence falls and his mind drifts... To messy sheets that smelled both of you, and all-too familiar cologne. To soft, naked skin and spread thighs and you whimpering softly for him to just please make the pain stop. To help you.
He started between your legs with slow kisses and gentle licks before moving over your stomach with kneading hands, suckling at your breasts with parched lips, nipping at your neck with quiet passion before finally sinking inside of you.
He can never admit it—will take it to the grave that he knows he deserves sooner rather than later—that it was the best sex of his entire life.
It'd never been so all-consuming and soul-swallowing before. Not with anyone.
He knows the grief clouded his assessment of the moment and does still, but...
Finally, Bode raises his head while swiping tears from his stubbled cheeks with the heel of his hand. "Next morning I found her sick in the bathroom. I tried to... Tried to help. She smacked me. Then said she was sorry and crawled into my lap. Next, she told me to go. Just go and don't come back, she said. So I did."
He sniffles, then returns to his truck with a Craftsman screwdriver. "But it wasn't that simple. Not with funeral arrangements needing to be made and her having no one else to lean on. No one that was as close to her or knew either of them as well as I did, that is."
He begins loosening a part Brett can't make out from the angle he stands at.
"My mom would come by. She'd cook and clean and try to... To get her to look through catalogues for caskets and goddamn flower arrangements. But she wasn't having any of it, so I stepped up. I took over and got it done."
He can still remember the day when he thought he would be granted forgiveness. Had hoped for it, anyway, because it would make things easier, even nominally.
But he's never been that fortunate.
You had shot up from the couch and padded across the room while sinking your nails into your scalp and screaming No, no, no repeatedly.
"This isn't right! I don't—I don't care about caskets and pillows and— It can't even be opened, anyway!" you'd shouted.
Meanwhile, Bode's pit of despair grew impossibly deeper for having failed you.
"It's not like I can afford any of it! Just stop talking about it! Shut up!"
His mother had stuttered for a reply—grasped heedlessly for a way to calm you down—until he stomped over to her, ripped the damn glossy booklet from her hands and muttered that he would do it instead.
So she rose and busied herself in the kitchen as a distraction while he coaxed you back over to the sofa with quiet, comforting words of encouragement.
"Don't just pick the cheapest or easiest option to get this whole thing over with, or the day will come when you regret it."
He'd rested a heavy palm against the small of your back while turning to face you. "I don't want you to regret it."
You'd sniffled while shaking your head. "I don't want to either."
He had sat up the least bit straighter—had felt a glimmer of hope rising in his chest—until you met his eyes and spoke again. "But it doesn't change anything."
Bode's face had crumpled then while the two of you sat wholly unaware of Sharon clocking the interaction from a room away—knowing that you weren't actually discussing different types of varnishes.
"He built this place out of hard wood, so he would've fucking hated poplar," Bode had stated while tearing out and balling up an entire page.
"I can't afford—"
"I don't want you to worry about price," he'd interrupted. "I'll take care of it."
"But—"
"I said that I'll take care of it," he had insisted with gentle conviction. "Whatever you need," Bode said while squeezing your hand. "I'm here."
When you rested your weary head on his shoulder, Sharon padded into another room to start on a load of laundry to give the two of you some privacy. And he used to moment to grant the crown of your head a swift kiss.
You leaned on him after that.
For a long time.
During the funeral, when you couldn't make it through the first sentence of your husband's eulogy, he rose from his seat, buttoned the front of his suit jacket, and joined your side while pulling you against his own. As you sobbed into his shoulder, he read your heartfelt words despite the tremble in his voice.
He had to be strong for someone else then.
It wasn't about him anymore.
And during the twenty-one gun salute for Eric's time in the Marines, he kept an arm around your shoulders to keep you steady when they fired. When they lowered him into the ground, he kept your fingers laced between his own to keep you the least bit more together.
And when it was all said and done, he took you back home and saw the terrified look on your face due to the prospect of walking into an empty house for the first time. So he offered to let you stay with him instead. For as long as you needed. When you accepted, he ran inside, packed you a bag which included a handful of Eric's things, and took you home with him... Where you quickly fell apart.
Bode eventually spent his days at the station and all his nights at home bathing, feeding, changing, and cleaning you up if you had an accident. Not to mention holding you when you woke screaming from night terrors.
He was there every day and became whatever you needed him to be. Husband, father, friend, caretaker, priest, philosopher... Until the day came when he found you headed for the door.
Something had changed between the two of you by that time. Something...monumental.
He begged you to stay. Had told you "I would never leave you like this."
To which you simply replied "because I'm not yours to leave" before stepping out.
He started drinking then. After all, what was one more addiction to top the rest of 'em off?
"That was two years ago," he tells Brett. "We haven't spoken since. Haven't seen each other, either. Or... She hasn't seen me, rather. I go to the cemetery to talk to him sometimes, despite the fact that I always leave feeling worse than when I came. Because even though he's dead, I can't bring myself to speak the words aloud: I fucked your wife.
"When she's there, I watch her from a distance while she falls apart. Or falls asleep in front of his headstone, curled into the fetal position, begging him to come back to her. And I drive away. Because that's what I do when someone needs me, apparently: I leave. I left him behind, I left her that next morning, and I leave her with him still so that she can continue getting worse while I pretend like I don't spend my days thinking about sticking a pistol in my mouth."
Richards nearly finds himself at a loss for words due to the weight of it all. More than even he would ever know how to carry, he thinks.
"You love her," he supplies quietly. "Nothing you did was done out of malice."
"Love," Bode remarks. "Yeah. And look at all the good that it's done us."
Manny catches Brett on his way back to his office to retrieve his keys so that he can head home. Out of all of it, the one comment Richards refuses to forget is the one about a pistol. The kid was already doing horribly, and his father's death has only served to compound it.
He can't imagine what seeing you again—coupled with your refusal to even speak to him—is doing to his psyche right now. But in terms of conversation, he got as far as he was going to with Bode today.
Probably further than anyone else has in a long while, he assumes.
He hopes it'll provide him some relief to have finally said it all out loud: how he blames himself, what the two of you did that night, and the torch for you that he still carries.
"Headin' home, Chief?"
Brett nods and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. "Yeah, figured it'd be best. Long day and I need to get something figured out for dinner."
He glances back in the direction of the garage where Bode is still hard at work, fixing God knows what. "Keep an eye on the kid for me, will you? Think he's gonna have a rough one tonight."
Manny's brows furrow. "He get into it with you again?"
Brett leans over to study his boots for a moment while shaking his head. Straightening again, he looks at the man in front of him. "No. Just... Eric's widow was here. Stopped by and they, uh... Had an encounter, I guess you'd say."
Manny folds his arms. "Y/N was here? When?"
"Just a bit ago. Couldn't have been half an hour. Why?"
He huffs with a shake of his head. "Just haven't seen her since right after Eric's funeral. Surprised she came around."
Brett's lips tug downward. "You all could try and reach out to her. I didn't know her then, and not that I do now, but she doesn't seem to be doing well. When you get into this line of work, it's with the understanding that you're supposed to be a family. You don't cut someone out just because that binding link dies."
Manny studies him silently for a moment. "We have reached out. Multiple of us, and multiple times. Gone so far as to show up at her house just to check on her. But when the door is locked and the blinds are drawn, there's not much you can do if the other person doesn't wanna be found."
Brett sighs while scrubbing a hand down his weathered face. "She made it sound like efforts stopped on the other end."
Manny's shoulders lift then settle. "I get it: pushing everyone away. Feelin' like maybe we could never understand. That while we lost him, too, it was in a different way. Not as heavy. Bode took it the hardest, o'course. Whether because she blames him, or he blames himself—hell, maybe both—or because something else happened, I don't know. All I do is that... When Eric died, it felt like they both went with him."
Brett cups the back of his neck and massages the taught muscle beneath. "It won't last forever."
Manny brushes past him. "Didn't think it'd last this long."
It's almost three weeks later before Brett sets eyes on you again, and it's in a somewhat unexpected place.
While in search of a creamy white sauce for the halibut he's having tonight for dinner, he catches sight of a familiar frame out of the corner of his eye while passing the baby aisle.
Turning back on his heel, he watches you from a distance as you clutch a tiny pink onesie to your chest with eyes squeezed tightly shut.
His heart breaks on your behalf.
If he has nothing else, he does his daughter, even if she's elsewhere now because she could no longer stand to be in the house where her mother wasn't anymore.
He makes a decision in that moment to seize an opportunity. If he could get Bode to open up with minimal prying involved, perhaps he can you, too.
"We meet again," Brett remarks with a quiet lilt in his voice.
Blinking open bleary eyes, you turn to him with a solemn expression. "Oh."
You wrack your mind for his name. It started with a B, didn't it? Or was it a D? It doesn't matter. You met only the one time, so how can he be offended when you get it wrong?
"Brad," you supply uselessly.
"Brett," he says with a chuckle. "But close enough," he remarks with a one-shouldered shrug. "You here picking something up for dinner?"
You eye the basket hanging from the bend in his arm. "I was." Placing the onesie back on the hook where it belongs, you take a small step back. "But I lost my appetite."
Before you can turn to leave, he speaks again. "I usually make too much, so I'd like it if you could join me."
Manipulative verbiage, he knows, but if he asks whether you'd like to, Brett has a feeling that you'd promptly find a polite way to decline.
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you waver. "I'm not much in way of company," you whisper.
"Not asking for conversation," he replies, despite knowing that he'll be gently prodding for as much later, but strictly for your sake. "Just for you to eat."
Silently, you consider while tacky pop music plays overhead and fluorescent lights blind.
Metal forks clink quietly against porcelain plates while you and Brett both dig into the dinner he's cooked tonight. He offered you a glass of white wine, but drinking only makes things worse, so you poured yourself ice water instead.
His place of residence is quite...unconventional. An old firehouse remodeled into a home.
Personally? You hate being inside it and wonder how he himself can stand it. If it were you, you'd find no rest here.
Just nightmares.
Chopping your seasoned fish into tiny pieces, you push them around your plate until they disappear beneath a sea of sauce. You rather make a game of it.
You sometimes wonder if something is wrong with you now that can't be fixed.
"Can I ask about you and Bode?"
Your head snaps up and you focus in on him with narrowed eyes of suspicion. "Excuse me?"
He takes a sip of his beer. "The day you came by, it's like there was this look exchanged. He seemed withdrawn afterward. I know that he and Eric were partners and... That Bode was there when—"
You stab into your fish to pry out the spine. "It's really none of your concern."
"I'm not trying to step into territory where I'm unwelcome to. Just curious, I guess," Brett says gently, like he's toeing a landmine.
"All you need to know is that it was his fault," you bark. "He left Eric behind. He let him stay too long as it was. So you should keep that in mind when you think of sending him into a burning building."
You take a miniscule bite that's comparable to a nibble, and then another.
"Seems to me like Bode blames himself too. The fact that you do—if it were me, that is—would make such an impossibly heavy load that much harder to carry."
You release your utensils with a clatter. "Is that why you invited me here? To lecture me about something you weren't even there for? You have no idea—"
"No," he interrupts with raised palms. "I'm just..." He sighs.
Resting both his elbows atop the table, Brett rubs his hands together. "I was angry too. For a long time. My inability to move on is what finally drove my daughter away. After she left, the day eventually came when I looked up and realized just how alone I was... Because I was so mired in grief, and it was all my own doing. I don't want anyone else to go through that if they don't have to."
You swallow thickly and consider the bottle of wine still on the counter.
You should've made an effort to get drunk enough until you could no longer see straight.
"I don't want to move on," you state with finality. "I don't want to forget. The pain I feel is the only thing I have left. Do you want to know why I was in the baby aisle? I went to get something to eat, but then I thought—like I have a thousand times before—why do I deserve to? To enjoy a good meal? To take care of myself for even a second while he lies rotting in the ground? So I hurt myself. I took myself down that aisle until I felt bad enough to go home hungry instead."
Brett's features draw together in sympathy for the broken girl who sits in front of him. "As a husband who loved his wife more than anything, if you were her... The way you've treated yourself would do the very opposite of bring me peace. I'd rather burn in Hell for all eternity than let her suffer for another moment the way you have."
You grab your fork again. "At least in Hell, we'd be together again." Stabbing a piece of cold fish, you lift it toward your mouth. "It's where I live every day."
Washing dishes is a silent affair. Standing close to Brett's side, your elbows occasionally bump together when he hands you a wet plate to dry, or when he scours a pan with a Brillo pad to remove stuck-on grease and fish scales.
Being near someone so tall and tough and warm, however, makes you feel things you once thought forgotten.
This is why you've endeavored to remain alone: because with masculine company comes temptation.
You note the steady rise and fall of his strong chest with each breath he takes, the way the muscles in his forearms and biceps flex and contract with every movement he makes, and how his cologne reminds you of a summer night right here in fire country.
He's all man, and it makes you ache desperately for one you no longer have.
Once the kitchen is clean, and leftovers have been tidily stored away in the fridge, Brett meets your awaiting gaze with a smile as he wrings his damp hands with a dishtowel. "Even though I clearly failed at conversation, I hope dinner was at least decent."
You nod with a forced smile while taking a step closer. "It was. Thank you." You watch as he tosses the towel back onto the counter. "I appreciated it."
"Anytime," he replies with a nod and crossed arms.
"You..." you swallow nervously while taking another step forward in an effort to bridge the physical gap. "You said that you were lonely."
He shrugs slightly. "I think it's better now with me whipping 42's crew into shape. Gives me something to dedicate myself to, at least for awhile."
You nod, though you're not really listening.
You've little concern for the fire station or those residing within it right now.
"I'm lonely too," you state while resting a palm atop one of his rough hands. Cupping his stubbled cheek, you tug at his tan, freckled arm. You want him to drop it to grant you access to his chest. To him.
No boundaries to hold himself back from you.
"But you understand me," you whisper while rising up, onto tiptoes. The underside of your breasts brush against his forearms, and he finally drops the limbs down to his sides. "Let me help you."
You're not doing this for him at all.
Pressing your lips softly to Brett's, he falls back against the granite countertop behind him, and catches himself against it with his hands.
You slide your arms around his neck then and pour all the passion you've been withholding for your late husband into the intimate gesture. You run your tongue along the seam of his lips until he grants you entry, and you deepen the gesture by cupping the back of his head.
Just as you're about to let your hooded eyes flutter closed, the older man grabs you by the hips and pushes you back a few inches. "Y/N—"
"Please," you plead with a broken voice and gathering tears. "Please." You kiss him again. "Please, Brett."
He tries to remember what it was that you apparently said to Bode the night the two of you fell into bed together. It was something similar, wasn't it? All pleading words and tears he couldn't turn away from, nor a woman he could've resisted if he tried.
Tugging you back against his chest, Brett suddenly understands why, even now, you're still a weakness for him.
You're the first woman he's taken to bed since his late wife.
Sat atop the mattress with you in his lap and one of your pebbled nipples in his mouth while his aching hands roam your soft, naked skin, he's reminded of just how good making love can feel.
Cradling the back of his head, your hips rock against his while you pepper his forehead with tender kisses.
He worries that when he finally nears his finish, he won't be able to pull out in time, if at all. The fleeting thought had crossed his mind to stop you long enough for him to procure protection, but there's none here.
Once his wife began menopause, there was no longer a reason to keep it around. Had he done that, though, the moment would've been gone, and so, too, would you have been by the time he got back from the drug store, as well as his will to follow through once he had time to properly think.
You pant quietly against his shoulder. Tilting your head to the side, you press your damp lips to his and gently flick your tongue against Brett's in a bid to stir it to life.
Everything here in this bedroom tonight is slow—carefully measured. Every touch, every brush of eyelashes against cheek, every sigh and whimper and embrace.
But no matter how good it is, you won't look at him.
You haven't since he carried you in from the kitchen.
He ignores why that might be until it finally happens, right against his ear.
"Eric."
Brett tells himself that if he tries hard enough, maybe he can be that for you. It's the right thing, because he's aware of what this is.
Closure.
He wishes it could be as much for him too, but he's further along in the grieving process than yourself. The time for pretend lovemaking has passed.
He's onto other things.
Brett tilts his head back to watch you—to study the serene expression spread across your previously tortured features. There's your parted lips, your sweat-laden skin which tastes pleasantly of salt, and the way your cheek twitches each time he reaches a specific fleshy spot between your legs with his erect cock.
You're young. Too young, he knows.
But God, you feel so fucking good; like a welcome escape.
"Eric," you whimper again while carding your fingers in his greying curls. It's best you keep your eyes shut, he figures. He's all the wrong color there.
His days of pigmentation are long gone.
Only aging and a map of stress in the form of wrinkles has been left in its wake.
You crush your lips to his and whine against his open mouth. "God," you shudder. "I love you."
His cock twitches.
Brett can scarcely remember the last time someone said that to him. "Again," he rasps in a gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine, for it seems so familiar.
"I love you," you whisper.
Silver-blue moonlight spills across the bed where you both sit intertwined as one.
With one arm around your waist and the other cupping your cheek, he keeps you close until you both come undone.
Once Brett spilled himself inside of you, you each clung to the other for a spell while simply breathing.
And when you reluctantly opened your eyes and surveyed unfamiliar wood paneling and a foreign red-and-black checkered robe hung atop a hook on the wall, your stomach churned.
Not him.
When you pulled back—wanting off his lap and for his limbs to release you—he gazed up at you with eyes clouded over not from lust, but gratefulness.
Meanwhile, you had cringed away—nearly sneered in disgust at what you had done to yourself. What you had done...with him.
And when he saw it, his hold loosened and you fled to the bathroom to wash away your betrayal.
Brett's heart had sank to his knees when you returned because you had been seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When you plucked your shirt from the floor and clutched it to your breasts to cover your modesty, he filled with disappointment.
"I should head home," you had mumbled.
He had known it would've been the smarter option; that you got what you came for and it was over now. But he felt he was owed his half of the unspoken bargain as well.
"I'd prefer it if you stayed," he muttered from the edge of the bed.
So now here the both of you lay. You, turned onto your side away from him—clad only in one of his 49ers t-shirts—and him onto his, but facing your back. He assumes being held after is tradition for you—that you seem the type. Him too, in truth, but being the one doing the holding.
He'd like to, but you seem reluctant to be touched now.
He doesn't have the right hands. Or body, face, or soul.
Brett reaches out anyway and slides a palm along your back—his callouses catching in the thin fabric there. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.
There's a beat of silence, followed by the sound of you sniffling, and then you speak. "Please," you sob. "Just go to sleep."
He turns onto his back, and then his side to face away from you while thinking of how deeply he misses his wife, and how much he wishes that things were different.
You pad around the bedroom gathering clothing items and tugging them on one-by-one while remaining conscious of Brett's breathing all the while. You suppose that if he wanted to track you down, it wouldn't take much effort on his part to recover paperwork on your husband, so as to find your home address, but he also doesn't seem the type.
Once you've popped on your second sock, you verge toward the door and slip out without a sound.
You're a mess and know his cum is still inside you—one can only do so much with a quick rinse while squatting in an unfamiliar tub—but deign that you'll take care of it once you're back home safe. You'll have a nervous breakdown after scrubbing your soiled skin raw.
Just when you spot your shoes by the door, a floorboard creaks behind you and your spine goes ramrod straight.
"Trying to sneak out, huh?"
Now tense, you slowly turn back to him on your heel.
At least he's dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a matching dark blue t-shirt now. You left his sports one folded on the foot of the bed. "I didn't wanna wake you."
With crossed arms, he shrugs. "Was planning on making you breakfast when we both got up."
You bristle. "You don't need to do that."
He huffs and takes a step forward. "Listen, I know what last night was—"
"A mistake," you interrupt with concrete certainty before he can make this any worse. You need to crush any potential hope he has for something more like a bug beneath a rock.
He stumbles back a step.
You shake your head and glance toward the dining table the two of you occupied last night. "I've just...been so lonely. And you were right there. And so kind to me." Your chin wobbles, and you're thankful for it. Sadness you can do; grief especially. "I missed my husband."
Brett pads forward with a clenched jaw. "Are you even aware—" he shakes his head from a sense of bubbling irritation. "You said his name. Twice. Told me—or, I guess I should say him—that you loved him. It stung, but I kept quiet because I knew it's what you needed: one last chance to be with him. Because hardly ever do we know that the last time is going to be just that. But to wake up alone the next morning too—"
"I'm sorry, Brett, if you thought that this was something it wasn't. It was just sex. Nothing more. It'll never be anything more. We're strangers to one another. It's bad enough that I was unfaithful to my husband, so staying for breakfast and pretending like I wasn't..." you trail off, now at a loss for words.
Done with this conversation, you turn to leave again.
"You can't cheat on a dead man," Brett retorts.
You shoulders draw together tightly while your hands morph into fists at your sides. "Do not ever speak about Eric like that again. A man you never even knew."
"Seems like habit for you," he spits. "Using a man for sex just to be with your husband again, then tossing him aside the next morning when you're left feeling guilty."
You seethe. "Did Bode tell you?" you snap.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "Right after you left that day. He was worked up and just needed someone to finally talk to about it, I think. I should've taken it as a warning, but—"
"So long as you were getting laid it didn't really matter, though, did it?" you sneer.
Silence descends. "Get your things and get the fuck out of my house," Brett orders with icy composure. "Now."
You swipe your shoes from a rubber mat sat in the entryway, flip the lock on the door, then slam it shut behind you after you exit.
Left all alone—same as always—Brett blinks back the tears brimming in his eyes and turns to head back to bed.
It's three weeks later when your world tilts on its axis, despite your efforts to prevent it.
So you take the time to debate with yourself, but ultimately lean in the direction of what you consider to be the "right" choice when you return to Station 42's doorstep.
Bode watches from the shadows as you pick your way across the vacant engine bay, until he finds his voice and steps out. "Something you need?"
When you turn to meet him, he notes how different you appear, even from just a handful of weeks prior.
Your cheeks are fuller and your body more filled out. Color has returned to you, as well as life to your eyes. Even your clothes seem more put together—form-fitting and clearly pressed with an iron. "I'm looking for Brett," you explain. "There's something I need to speak with him about."
Jealousy rears its ugly head, but he keeps the feeling tempered for now. For your sake. "Was in his office last I saw him," he supplies.
You nod with a delicate smile. "Thank you."
A quiet knock sounds from the other side of the frosted glass window positioned in the middle of Brett's office door. "Yeah," he calls from the other side while flipping through a pile of paperwork.
Least favorite part of the job for him.
The door clicks open and swings inward while a quiet scuff of shoes enters the half-cramped space.
Stacks of metal filing cabinets line the wall opposite the desk he sits at, and a towering card catalog is shoved flush against the wall behind him. Piece of outdated furniture, but the crew found new use for it by stuffing it full of hardware and instruction booklets they were reluctant to misplace.
Lifting his head from an incident report—wanting for a welcome reprieve from a responsibility he'd be all too happy to hand off—Brett is left disappointed when his eyes meet with yours.
"I hope it's okay that I'm here," you say softly.
Leaning back in his chair with arms now defensively crossed, he regards you with a displeased expression. "What d'you want?"
"For starters, to apologize for that night," you begin.
Much to his surprise, you don't shy away from the elephant in the room.
"You were kind enough to invite me into your home, make me dinner, feed and host me. You were right that I used you in return. I hope you know I didn't intend to, though."
Leaning back against a cabinet, you continue. "After we cleaned the kitchen, I just... Made a split-second decision. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I can't undo it. I can't change what's happened. All I can attempt is making amends. So I'm sorry. Truly. Especially for the way I spoke to you, and my trying to sneak out the next morning without even a word goodbye. It was cowardly and you deserved better."
Gone is the girl from almost a month ago, he thinks as he studies you. In her place, a complete stranger. But he supposes you were anyway, just as you said.
At least this version isn't quite so hopeless.
He wonders as to what's changed. Maybe you just got what you needed from him.
Brett shrugs indifferently. "Like you said, can't change it."
You dip your chin in acknowledgement. "There's one other thing I came to tell you. And before I do, I want to preface by saying that I expect absolutely nothing of you. I simply felt that you deserved to know. I would want to if I were in your shoes, but I in no way am trying to force your hand one way or the other, nor will I ever ask you for anything because of it."
Shifting in his seat, he clears his throat while his eyes flit toward the door, then back to you. Brett folds his hands in his lap after casually settling an ankle over a knee. "Let's here it then."
A hand flutters toward your belly and comes to gently rest there. "I'm pregnant."
The air in the room evaporates in an instant and the world silences all around him. No birds chirp outside the window, no torque wrench can be heard across the engine bay where it echoes from the garage, and the breath in his lungs has ceased circulation throughout his body.
"And I'm keeping my baby," you add gently. "When Eric died, so did... So many things for me. I felt like I did. But the possibility of children were one of them, as I only ever wanted to bear his. When I thought of any other way to, only three possibilities presented themselves, and none were preferable."
"One," you begin while clasping your hands at your waist. "IVF. But with what it costs..." You shake your head.
"Two, I could meet a stranger at a bar and follow them home. But what if he hurt me? Gave me a disease? Was a horrible person that my baby would have then come from?" You sigh. "Not that that inherently means my child would've been too, but I would've rather known who I was lying down with instead of that. And if they insisted on contraception, then there went my idea. Right out the window," you state while glancing to the one behind him which is cracked slightly open to invite in a warm summer breeze.
"Three: I enter into a relationship I neither wanted nor desired just for the sake of conceiving, which would inevitably end in disaster. But now I'll have peace in knowing that my baby will have come from a good man."
"Did you plan this?" he hisses while planting both feet on the floor and leaning in toward you with a raised brow of contempt.
"No," you insist with a wave of your hand. "No. That night, I wasn't thinking clearly. But I haven't really been since my Eric's death. I... I haven't been touched in two years, Brett. Not a hug, not a kiss on the cheek. Not so much as a handshake. That is how fervent I was about keeping people away, because I was terrified that the moment I let someone in, I would lose them too. Even if I did, I told myself that they could never understand me, so why try at all? Why bother ever caring?"
He leans back again with hesitancy in his eyes.
"I could feel the heat coming off your body while standing next to you. Just your arm brushing against mine made my knees go weak. I... I was that starved for physical touch. So I threw myself at you in an attempt to be with Eric again, just like you said. And it worked. For a bit."
Pressing the pads of his thumbs together, he remains silent while you get whatever is left out into the closing space between you.
"I do want you to know that I took a measure to try and prevent it. I didn't even go home to shower after. Instead, I headed straight for the pharmacy and picked up Plan B. When I got it home I... I sat on the floor of the bathroom for an hour just staring at that stupid box before tearing into it and swallowing a pill I didn't really want to take." You rub your hand nervously against your arm while looking away. "I almost hurt myself after for it, but didn't."
His brows pinch together.
"I always wanted to be a mother, and I believed, at the time, that I had destroyed my last chance for it. Clearly, though," you say while touching your belly again. "It didn't work."
Elbows settled on either wooden arm of the rolling chair he sits in, Brett shakes his head in confusion. "If you've been that close to the edge this whole time... I mean, how've you been providing for yourself?"
Not a ridiculous question, you think.
"Eric's life insurance policy," you say with a nod. "He took out a rather large one. Understandable, given this occupation. And there was his pension from here and the VA. Which... Survivor benefits alone wouldn't have been enough to live off of once everything else ran out. The crew here also gathered together a sizeable sum in the wake of his death. Their helping with funeral costs helped immensely too. I could barely bathe myself, let alone pick out a casket that would never be opened."
You choke back a sob.
Not even could you look at him one last time—touch or kiss his face. It was all taken from you in a blazing instant.
"Bode did so much of it," you relay. "More than I deserved after what happened between us."
If things were different... Maybe it'd be him instead that you were giving this long-running speech to.
You wonder if he'd be more or less receptive to your practiced words.
"And when the money ran out?" he presses.
You meet his gaze with conviction. "I planned to meet my husband."
Growing cold all over, his skin pricks with horripilation. "You intended to end your life, you mean," Brett levels.
You falter for a moment. "I know I haven't been doing well, which is truly an understatement, but I have a therapy appointment for tomorrow. I'm going to be attending regular sessions, because my life is no longer just about me now. I have to do better for my baby."
He chews his cheek. "You seem like you are already." He shrugs. "A bit."
You nod in agreement. "When I saw those little pink lines, two feelings overcame me. Guilt—which doesn't even feel an appropriate word for the weight of it—and relief. Guilt for... Feeling like I had betrayed my husband in the worst way possible, and relief for finally having a reason to keep going; because I finally had something which I had resigned myself to never getting to experience: a life growing inside me; a child to raise."
You curl your fingers protectively against your abdomen.
"So now you know," you finish. "And I understand with your age, and the fact that you're a widower as well—coupled with you already having an adult daughter—that this isn't something you ever anticipated: becoming a father again."
You take a step back toward the door. "It just felt right to me that you should know; be made aware." You settle your palm over the cool brass handle. "Goodbye, Brett."
Shooting out of his chair, he sends it rolling across the floor before it bumps into a back corner. "You never even asked me," he says in a panic.
You release the handle. "What?"
"Whether I wanted this. You just made an assumption and went with it."
Drifting back to him, you look into his wide brown eyes. "You're right."
Granting Brett your full, undivided attention, you turn to face him once more. "I did make an assumption. Because of your age and...circumstances," Such as his late wife and daughter, who you imagine can't be terribly far from you in age. "I figured that you were comfortable with where you were in life. For someone to come along and tell you that you're going to be a father all over again is... Quite the burden to carry."
Brett takes a steady step forward. "I never thought that I would be. Figured my path was set after she passed. But I'll be damned if I let you walk out that door to do this all on your own. Not after all you've been through."
Bathed in a sense of resilience, the chief gazes down at you with utter stoicism—sure of the next step you're each about to take as one. "Because I'm going to be there," he states. "For every doctor appointment, ultrasound, and when we find out its sex. Every holiday, birthday, and field trip. And you best be sure that I'm sticking dollar bills under our kid's pillow for all twenty teeth. No other man gets that privilege."
The sudden stinging of your eyes you blame on the arid summer air.
"Maybe it'd be easier to think of me as some useless sperm donor, but I'm made of sterner stuff, sweetheart. Meaning that I'm old-fashioned."
Fifteen minutes ago, he'd thought he would be unlikely to ever set eyes on you again. But the wheel of fortune had other intentions, clearly. With his entire life changed in an instant, Brett finds himself with one clear choice lain at his feet.
A mantle to uphold.
Inhaling a deep, calming breath which expands and fills his lungs, the silver-haired man slowly exhales, then holds tightly to your delicate hand. "Marry me."
Your eyes widen in complete shock.
"Just hear me out," he insists. "I'm aware that you're not in love with me. And, to be fair, neither am I with you. But now knowing that you're carrying my kid, I feel that I have an obligation. To keep you safe. It is a man's duty to look after the mother of his child. So it's now mine to look after you. At least this way, you'd both have health insurance, financial security, and someone to provide for you; a man to lean on... Whenever I'm needed."
You become very aware of the silver band wrapped round your finger. "And if... If I lost it? It's common in the first trimester. More than people talk about. If that did... There'd be nothing left to bind us together."
You slip your hand from his. "I don't want you to do something you'll later regret."
"We can wait if you want," he states gently. "But once you're well into your second, this is something I'd like to happen. For my own peace of mind."
A handful of weeks ago, you couldn't get out of his house fast enough, nor could he rid himself of your presence. Now... Now he's asking you to take vows until death. Something you already did once. Why don't they specify whose death? One of yours, or both?
"I don't want to make a widower of you twice," you whisper.
He tilts his head while his brows verge together.
"If I... If my baby died inside me..." You sniffle, then shrug, as if to pretend what you're about to say carries no true weight at all. "My plan was still to join my Eric."
"I won't let that happen."
Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. With a shake of your head, they open again. "You—"
Pressing his palm to your belly, you quiet. "Nothing else happens to you now. Nothing," Brett states emphatically.
You curl your fingers around his. "I need time to consider."
He nods in understanding. "In the meantime, we should exchange information. Like I said: I'm a part of your life now. And I will be there, starting with your first check-up."
"Hey," Brett calls from behind you.
Spinning on your heel, you look at him. "When's your next OB appointment? I forgot to ask."
The sound of something metallic rings in the quiet space—like a tool has just slipped from someone's grasp. "Let me check my calendar," you reply while retrieving your phone from your pocket. "I think it's in a week."
"You're pregnant?"
Nearly dropping the sleek device from a sense of surprise, you jerk your head to the left and are met with the sight of an irate Bode.
"His?" he snarls while pointing at Brett with an accusatory finger.
"Bode..."
Advancing forward with angry stomps, he shakes his head with complete disapproval. "You sick fuck," he spits. "You come to town, try to take advantage of a grieving widow who's young enough to be your daughter, steal my father's seat here—"
He swings on him.
A closed, meaty fist meets with solid cheekbone, sending Brett stumbling toward the floor.
Clambering on top of him, Bode fists the neck of the other man's t-shirt in his nondominant hand and continues his violent tirade.
You scream for him to stop, but all he hears is the angry ringing in his ears.
Brett clips him in the side, tears at his shirt hard enough to rip the cotton seam in half, then tosses him onto the floor, followed by a fist to the face just to get his actions to cease. "Stop fighting me!" he shouts while attempting to shake some sense into the boy when he takes him by the shoulders.
"Hey!" Manny shouts while running toward them in a panic. "Alright, that's enough now!"
Bode grapples with Brett's clenched hands that're fisted in the material of his ragged t-shirt in a desperate attempt to continue their scuffle, but as soon as Brett stands and goes stumbling back, Manny hoists Bode onto his feet.
It takes two more individuals to subdue and practically carry him away, but once his enraged vulgarity-laden screams disappear down the hall, Brett sweeps you up in his arms and cups the back of your head protectively as if you're the one who's been injured.
Each of Brett's cheeks, as well as his chin, are covered in angry red bruises. There had been talk of his nose being broken, but it was thankfully a false alarm in the end.
Only you fussing over him did he accept, so you were made to play paramedic when you cleaned his cuts and scrapes with sterile gauze and antiseptic from a first aid kit found in the restroom.
Bode, however, is in far worse shape.
Emotionally.
Sat just outside one of the station's open side doors, atop a rolling cooler, Bode dabs at his nose with a wad of tissues that's now saturated with blood. Seems the wound has begun to clot, but he continues to hold the makeshift pressure-dressing anyway.
"Brought you a clean shirt," you say quietly from the doorway.
Padding across fresh green grass and dry gravel, you seat yourself next to him and rest the garment in his lap.
"It one of his?" he mutters.
You shake your head. "Found it on your bunk."
Unfolding, he tugs his ruined one off over his head before tossing it aside to replace it with your offering. "Surprised you remembered where that is."
Trailing your eyes along the smattering of hair found across his bare chest, you glance away when you glance the tattoo near his heart of Eric's name, followed by 'forever my brother' scrawled just beneath it, and his year of death beneath that. "Course I do."
A pause of silence falls between you.
"So you're pregnant," Bode deadpans. "By some geriatric that you don't even know."
You turn slightly and your knee knocks against his. "It wasn't planned," you say softly. "I was at the store one night, and so was he. To be kind he invited me over for dinner. One thing led to another—"
"I don't need to hear this," he grumbles.
"I initiated, if that makes you feel less...hateful toward him. And it wasn't about him. I was just..." You shake your head. "It wasn't about him."
He knows who it was. "If that was something you needed, you could've called me. Not gone to a stranger."
Your eyes flit to his in surprise.
"Better it be me than him." He shakes his own head and drops the tissues between his booted feet. "Doesn't really matter now, though, does it?"
You pick at your nails. "Bode, I—I'm so sorry that I ever hurt you. Everything you did for me after Eric's passing... I can never hope to repay it. And the way that I left was not only cruel, but selfish. I wish—"
You raise your head and choke back a sob. "I wish I hadn't walked out the way I did. You're the only reason I'm even still alive. Believe me, I wanted to be dead, but you—you refused to let that happen."
Leaving you alone during the day had been the worst of it, because he spent every shift terrified that he would come home to a corpse. He locked up his guns and knives as a preventative measure, but had you been determined, you would've found a way. He knew that. And there was only so much time he was allotted off for bereavement. As it was, the station gave him more than company policy even allowed. Others were forced to take on extra shifts because of it so that he could stay home with you.
"Was it because you felt something more?" he asks while turning his head slightly to the side. "I mean, you felt guilty about it, right?"
He sighs. "As if you were the only one. You think I didn't hate myself for falling in love with you too?"
"Bode—"
"Listen, I'm not saying that I'm somehow entitled to you, or a form of repayment for looking after you. But for you to just suddenly be better, when three weeks ago you couldn't even look at me ,while I feel like I'm fucking drowning doesn't feel fair!" He started off calm, but his timbre grew in fervor until it morphed into shouting.
You don't stop or try to calm him, however.
This rage is well-deserved for all the damage you've left in your wake.
"I mean, you couldn't even fucking be there," he sneers. "My dad died and you were nowhere to be seen. I took care of Eric's funeral arrangements. I cleaned you up when you wet yourself from nightmares, and held you until you finally felt safe again when the sun came up. And you couldn't even be bothered to have your ass in a seat for an hour for my sake."
Fleetingly, you clutch at your belly—at the life growing inside it—and wish...it weren't there at all.
If not, you could fix this by giving Bode what he's always wanted.
You.
Cupping a hand over your mouth to quiet your mourning cries for what has been lost between you, you take calming breaths to try and quiet yourself. The time for him to care about your suffering has long since passed, you're sure.
"I tried. I got ready, but the minute I set foot outside the door..." you sniffle. "I felt like it was that day all over again. I wasn't even sure that I could drive myself. And it'd been so long since we last spoke. I didn't know for sure if you'd want me there—"
"That's bullshit," Bode rumbles. "I left you a voicemail begging you to come. Telling you that I needed you."
One which you still have saved, but you don't inform him of it.
It had been short, simple. To the point.
His voice had been thick and laden with grief-stricken tears as he pled with you over his phone's speaker. "He's dead. My dad is dead. His funeral is this Sunday and I need you to come. Please. Whatever's happened between us... I can't do this without you. Please just come."
The only thing he ever asked of you and you couldn't be bothered to give it.
Maybe you don't deserve all you've found.
"I know," you whisper.
"Should've been us," he remarks while kicking a pebble and watching it skitter across the lot. "If there was anyone you were meant to move on with, it was me. Maybe it makes me sound like a piece of shit to say it, but it's what Eric would've wanted too. Someone you can actually grow old with. Who's been there for years and knows you better than that asshole can ever hope to. I was there at your absolute worst. Can you really say with all certainty that Brett would do the same?"
If you tell him about his proposal, neither of them may walk out of here alive. "I guess time will tell."
He snorts, then rises. "I won't be there," Bode says while shoving his hands in his pockets. "When he breaks your heart, I won't be there to fix it this time. So don't even think of asking me to be when the day comes."
You don't follow after him.
True to his word, Brett is ever-present for your every need. For your first ultrasound when you each cried happy tears over a fuzzy image of your little blip, to getting married at City Hall, to deciding on a Godparent, as well as your shared housing arrangements in an effort to make things work as one.
Therapy continues to go well for you, while Brett informing his daughter of her new stepmother and sibling... Not so much. So you keep your distance out of respect, knowing that she has every right to feel cross. You assure her that she's welcome to visit the new house Brett purchased for the two of you in an effort to be closer to her at any time. She's yet to take you up on the offer, but your door remains open and your heart hopeful, but for the sake of her father.
You busy yourself with preparing your home for your little bundle that's soon to arrive, and when you ask a particular someone to meet you at your late husband's grave site for the third anniversary of his death, you're met with no response, but pray anyway that he'll come so you can extend an offer.
The sharp slam of a truck door interrupts your one-sided conversation with Eric. Turning on the heel of your sneaker, you slide a soft hand over your swollen belly and greet Bode with a forced smile.
Forced, because you're unsure how to decipher the look on his face. His lips are pursed and his shoulders taught, but he seems more put together than last you saw him.
His beard is better trimmed this time, at least.
"Thank you for coming," you say to break the silence.
He merely nods in return.
"Made it sound important. Whatever was on your mind, that is."
"It is."
Running a palm over the expertly carved granite of Eric's headstone, Bode's cheek twitches while his face goes flush with grief. "What I'm about to say is probably going to sound cruel," he begins, speaking first. "But I'm done apologizing for something that was never my fault. I tried to get him out, but because I looked up to him like an older brother—deferred to whatever he said—I backed down. He was trying to do the right thing. Trying to save a kid that neither of us had any idea wasn't even up there to begin with."
He returns his hand to his pocket. "I respected Eric. Maybe more than anyone, and so I also respected his final decision. I'm in no way blaming his own death on him, but he made a choice, and nothing I did or said was going to change it. I've played and replayed that moment a thousand times. Maybe more. And it always ends the one way. The way in which it happened, because no one—not you or I—can change the past."
His speech concluded, he turns to face you. To absorb whatever thoughts you have awaiting him.
You cradle your belly and sniffle. "It was easier to blame you because you were still breathing. How could I—" you shake your head ruefully. "Blame him when he was dead? My own husband? What sort of monster would even think to?"
Bode's feature soften, and swaying oak trees of vibrant green reflect in his eyes. "Not a monster. A human being. A grieving wife who felt like she had lost her purpose and a part of herself."
"I'll go to my own grave being sorry for putting that on you, Bode. For ever letting you think for a moment that I held you responsible. For shattering your heart and driving into the ground because of it." You slide your free hand atop your belly. "And for this. For taking away our chance of a future by refusing to just stop and think first."
Taking you into his arms, he pulls you close and runs a soothing hand down the back of your head while shooshing you. "What's done is done. It's over now."
"I pray that one day you can forgive me," you mumble while burying your face in his chest.
"If that's what you need to find peace, then you have it. I don't need you carrying that kind of weight around like I have when nothing good'll ever come from it."
You breathe a long, drawn-out sigh of relief, and something flees from you then. Like a bird taking flight, and with it, a seedling of darkness.
"So, why did you ask me here?" he inquires with a hand against your back.
"Brett and I discussed it, and we both agreed. Maybe he did for my sake, but..." You lean back and plant your palm atop Bode's chest while brushing a thumb over the dark fabric that obscures your husband's ink memorial. "We know who we want for our daughter's Godfather."
His lips slightly part and his eyes search yours to confirm the veracity of what you've just said.
"But more than that, since we've both moved, and Brett has sold his house, only mine is left. I don't... Want it to go to strangers. You and Eric built that house. So if anyone should have it—"
"You don't want it anymore?"
You slowly shake your head. "Being there has been slowly killing me. In every corner and hallway I see him. Or memories of us. If I stay in that house—or go back to it—I'll return to the way I was. I know it. So if you want it, it's yours. Free and clear."
You cup his cheek. "And God forbid something ever happens to the two of us, I want you to take over raising her; being her father." You brush your thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. "She's going to need you there growing up either way."
You slide your hand into his. "I want you there. I promised myself that I'd never ask anything else of you. But I'm asking this for my daughter."
Turning to study his brother's headstone, he knows he has a promise to keep. One to look after you always if anything ever happened to Eric.
He had wondered for so long if your late husband ever knew about his feelings toward you. He wasn't nearly as good at hiding it as he thought, turned out, when a year before his untimely death, Eric sat him down by a bonfire with a couple of beers on a chilly October night and made his wants abundantly clear.
"Anything ever happens to me and I'm no longer around to take care of her, I expect you to be the man who steps up. I know how you feel toward her, and I'm not blaming you, but thanking you. For giving me peace of mind by knowing that she has someone else who loves her just as much as I do, and who'll be there for the good, bad, and anything else inbetween."
He'd turned to him with a stony expression after taking a swig of his beer. "Think you can do that for me, little brother?"
He never told you, because he didn't want you to feel obligated to be with him simply because it was what Eric wanted. Your free will was more important. Nevertheless, he broke his promise by letting you walk out the door that morning, and has continued to every day since.
He won't let another day go by where he doesn't hold true to it now.
Bode presses his lips to your forehead. "Okay."
"There's daddy!" you shout excitedly.
Exiting a glass door at the back of the house, a toothy grin breaks out across Brett's face at the sight of your little girl toddling toward him with wobbly steps and outstretched arms.
Scooping her into his own, he tosses her up just once before cradling her safely against his chest. "Oh, now there is my girl," he coos.
Winding an arm around your shoulders when you come nearer, Brett pulls you close to his side and brushes his lips against yours. "Mm," he hums. "Both my girls."
"Made chili for dinner," you remark while pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck that smells pleasantly of pine.
Little Erica babbles excitedly while pinching Brett's nose between her tiny fingers.
"Smelled it all the way from outside the house. Smells good, baby."
You give your husband a peck on the cheek, then lead him back inside while a clear, shimmering lake ripples at your back. "Let's eat."
Happilymarried!Pope who makes everything a onesided competition on who treats their wife best. He just wants to brag how he kisses the ground u walk on because how are they criminals but Cath has to work at a bar??? Uh uh not Pope's wife, she's lapping up the sun by the pool in their house or busy spending his money around, not a care in the damn world hair done nails done in a cute lil car...his card has never graced the leather of his wallet cause its always in her purse
oh my gosh yes, absolutely. oh he's so husband ohhhh i'm sick!! i especially love this with ditzy, bimbo!reader <3 i got a little carried away but it's andrew so it fits! :)
everyone's at the house waiting for dinner to be made, just standing around and chatting. it's hot, bordering on nauseating humidity, and all andrew wants to do is see his pretty wife before dinner. he needs alone time, quiet time in his old room to just sit and gaze at you as you chatter.
but now? andrew's engaged in a mindless conversation with craig, hearing him drone on about his latest hook-up while he stands with his hands on his hips nervously. you're due at smurf's house at any minute, a promise you made as you laid out on the beachfront of your home, waving at andrew as he got in his truck to meet up with the boys earlier that day.
he couldn't stop himself from kissing you. he was 15 minutes late. big fuckin' deal. andrew's family knew he needed his "you time".
deran's cooking tonight, much to pope's chagrin, and the cody's are all a bit anxious to eat the food. "oh no i literally have the pizza place down the block on speed dial" j expresses in between sips of his beer, before deran angrily chimes in from inside the house "jokes on you, dickhead, i catered."
baz sits on a lounger with cath, holding her to his side as he talks to j about an upcoming job. she's sticky with bar-soda stains and exhausted with the sheer movement of a work ethic. staring down at her ring, she runs her thumb over the diamond, wondering how life could've been different. her eyes flicker over to the oldest cody, and she can remember a time when she'd always find him looking back at her. but that hasn't happened in a long time. her shoulders crack with resignation and envy.
a horn honking, a happy squeal from the driveway, and andrew's straightening up his miserable stance. the thick gummy sole of his jordans rub against the concrete as he, quite literally, walks away from craig mid conversation. "bro-" craig shrugs, turning to look at baz in confusion as baz smiles "his girls home bro, you lost him the second the tires pulled in the driveway." craig stomps into the house, but he's not really angry, never could be at pope, "fucker has super hearing, man"
andrew walks to the driveway, shoulders losing their hunch the closer he gets to your bubblegum pop music and toothy smile. it's hard for andrew to smile, he'd often tell you, late in the dark of your bedroom, "'it's like it hurts a bit. hurts my face, i guess" but right now? his smile is beaming; crooked, endearing teeth on display with a light flush. it's probably because his brothers are inside, he never liked smiling with his teeth before you.
"andy!!" you cheer, wide smile and bouncing in lightly between your left and right foot. andrew doesn't even slow his steps, just keeps trudging towards you until you're in his arms. one big hand hooked behind your head for a long, sloppy kiss. waaaay too much of a display for normal public settings. his breath hitches as your hands drag under his t-shirt, nails lightly scraping his sides.
breathing in through his nose, andrew pulls back to look down his nose at you, "missed you. where you been? how was shopping?" "good! really good andy, wanna see?" "later. lemme get a feel for you. missed you so much" with more kisses to your cheeks as he pushes the hair away from your eyes <3
when you go into the yard, you're smiling and waving at the cody's as you hang onto andrew's arm. your ring glistening in the reflection of the pool, cath can't help but swallow bitterly. andrew trails next to you, head fully turned to listen to you rant and rave about the latest sales and the cute clothing you bought for yourself and him. he looks like he could and would eat you whole at the nearest convenience. it's been years, and he still looks at you the same way.
at dinner, you sit on andrew's lap, legs swinging as you bring the fork to his mouth. craig can barely look but deran smiles into his food; it's nice to see pope happy (even if it is gross to witness at dinner). when his iced tea needs to be refilled, you lean forward over the table, his hand resting on the side of your ass to stabilize you. he's not comfy until the weight of his pretty wife is resting on his thighs.
later that night, when you are all cozy and chatting on the couch, you lift your feet into andrew's lap. he doesn't even bat an eye, moving like it's routine.... because it is. slipping off your lil platform flip flops, starting with a massage at your ankle, andrew massages your foot lovingly as he watches the conversations around him. "'s that good?" he speaks lowly to you, and you nod excitedly.
it's almost torture for cath to watch. she was on her feet for probably 9 hours today, and here you are: shiny toe ring, perfectly, freshly manicured toes. begging andrew for a massage, "think i twisted it after i ran out of victoria's secret." his voice sounds alien to her "'s no good baby, gotta watch your step, we talked about this" soooo husbandly and earnest.
this is for @bookbombshell who requested this bouquet for the 2k follower celebration!
You dusted off your hands as you finished planting the last batch of hydrangeas in Brett's garden. Technically it was your garden too, the two of you had been together for four years and you'd been living together for the past two. Your life with Brett was perfect and picturesque, a wonderful romantic story. Brett was your perfect man and sometimes you worried you'd dreamt him into existence.
Your relationship was wonderful and solid, but lately Brett had been acting weird. He'd leave for stretches of time during the day and spend his evenings alone in his office. He seemed tense and stressed and you were worried there was something wrong and he wasn't telling you. Or worse, he was being relocated to another part of the country for his job.
You wiped the sweat from your brow and stood up, admiring all the hard work you'd put in for the past 2 hours. You turned around to finally head inside for a glass of water and a shower when you had to stop short to avoid running into Brett.
Who was on one knee in front of you.
With an open ring box in his hands.
Oh my god, Brett was proposing.
He looked so nervous, his eyes a little wide as he watched you gasp in understanding and surprise. He was concentrating really hard to keep his back straight and his hands steady as he presented the ring box to you, the diamond ring shining in the sunlight. Your eyes flew to his, your hands covering your mouth in shock, as you waited for his speech. You knew Brett really well, he probably had a whole speech prepared to tell you how much he loved you, how much you meant to him, how you healed him and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. But in his nervousness, all that came out was -
"Please." You could have laughed out loud at the look of alarm on his face. His mouth opened again but nothing came out, his mind going blank in a panic. You smiled, so big and wide that your cheeks hurt, and dropped to your knees in front of him.
"Yes." You replied while you nodded enthusiastically. That seemed to help Brett gets his wits back and he smiled back.
"Yes?"
"Yes!" You said as you took his face in your hands and kissed him. You pulled back, laughing in disbelief. "Yes, I'll marry you, you big doofus." Brett laughed with you as he plucked the ring from the box and slipped it onto your finger.
"I had a speech." Brett told you, reassuring you that he hadn't just winged the proposal.
"I know baby, you can tell me when you remember it."
Another Brendon Park x reader concept that features fertility issues… idk why I keep coming up with these I’m sorry.
Dana is pretty confused when Park the Shark is back in the Pitt at just about handoff.
He’s in his street clothes, a bag in hand.
And he’s looking for her, by what he just said to Nasally- politely.
“Everything okay Dr Park?”
He looks almost, nervous before he speaks.
“I heard you were looking for a kinship foster for your baby Jane doe?”
Dana can’t hide her eyes widening.
“We are. You know someone who might be interested?”
“Yeah” he breathes.
“My wife and I”.
Dana is infact, truly shocked.
Yeah, sure. Park wears a ring, but the idea of him having a wife is still a mindfuck.
“Oh. You two talk about this?”
Brendon clicks open his phone like he’s anxious.
“Yeah. We’ve uh, been caught in a game of phone tag all day between her having a shit signal and me in surgery. But she’s on her way now.” He explained.
Shit.
Parks dead serious, huh.
“It might be a little hard to get your hands on baby stuff right now. Whole worlds closed for the Holliday.”
Something like a bruise came over Brendon’s face.
His voice dropped marginally.
“A few months ago we had an, uh, a pretty late term miscarriage so. There’s been plenty of boxes in our garage ever since.”
Despite the classic set in his jaw, Dana can see that real pain in his eyes as he explains it and it’s a side she really never would have expected.
His phone flashes.
“Oh. She’s on her way in.” Brendon supplies.
Dana has the feeling she’s just along for the ride at this point.
A minute late, through the ambulance bay doors comes a woman looking confused- in a lost way not a disoriented way- in a halter top sundress and sandals. She’s got a sun glow to her skin- maybe she got just a little too much today. Bathing suit straps out of line with the neck.
She sets her eyes on them and looks like she’s not lost anymore and Dana’s jaw damn might as well drop.
She looks far too normal to be married to Brendon Park. Looks can be deceiving but she looks nice.
She slots herself into Brendon’s side, accepting a kiss in greeting. She’s younger, sure. But not in a jarring way. In a way that feels natural and fitting.
And you introduce yourself to Dana kindly.
Huh.
You look at Brendon with a nervous excitement.
“Oh. I didn’t get a verdict, sorry. So can we?” He asks Dana.
Right.
Dana blinks slowly.
“Shit, you’ll be doing us a real favor here.”
“Pleasures all ours.” You insist.
“I gotta make some calls. Print some papers up. Why don’t you guys go into peds and see her?”
Your eyes fucking shimmer.
“Really?”
Dana knows damn well this isn’t gonna be temporary from the look on your faces.
“Yeah. I’ll get the paper work handled. Go meet your baby.”
Park the shark x reader who's equally as intimidating as him <33
Med students and some residents— hell even some attendings are scared to both of them 😆
I wrote it w the intention of making up a patient but then ended up writing it on baby jane doe. park isn’t in here really until the end. an introduction to the intimidating peds dr that is coincidentally married to the intimidating ortho dr lol. f!reader implied
ONE FISH, TWO FISH
"put in your orders dr. mohan."
robby snapped off his gloves and looked to the resident. clearing his throat before finishing. “—and get peds in here.”
samira stuttered in movement before she glanced to the attending. “peds?”
it wasn’t a question of reasoning but rather a an echo of his request. a clarification to make sure she heard him right. robby nodded. tight lipped as he swiveled his head to the side. “yes.” but the way the word was said made it seem like he was second guessing. robby looked to baby jane doe and then to samira. exhaling through his nose and nodding without saying anything. his hand wiped across his face. “yes, get peds in.” and left.
samira stared at the small patient before whispering under her breath. “shit.”
—
her fingers faltered at the tablet, trying to keep her mind on the patient as she waited. ogilvie stood off to the side. eyeing her as he himself waited. dana had told him to assist. insisted on it apparently. from what ogilvie told the resident.
and when robby came by to see where things were at, looking to samira for an answer on why the student was in there—without actually asking—she carefully explains. “dana thought it’d be a good opportunity for him to—”
“I don’t know why- i was looking to get in on the trauma that came in. I wanted to practice my intubation for my medical procedure log but I was told I’d be learning a lot if I were to help dr. mohan.” the med student interrupts. robby and samira share a quick look before robby clasps his hands together and nods. albeit not being okay with the charge nurse assigning his students to cases without letting him know, he sees…why she did it.
the attending bites his lower lip. “I think dana is right. you’ll learn from this so just uh—” he scratches his beard. “wait for peds. dr.park is an exceptional pediatrician—”
“dr. park?” ogilvie asked looking to samira then back to robby.
“yes, she's—” “a child was abandoned?” your gloves snapped on as you walked in.
“dr.park.” robby acknowledged. you spare a side glance and a lifted hand. a wave. “present the case.”
ogilvie speaks as samira opens her mouth, "sats 99 on room air, normal bp, normal pulse…” your eyes brief them over, before shifting your attention to the small patient.
“well hydrated.” robby says from behind.
“how’s she doing?” you asked as you adjusted the blanket.
“she's seems happy enough. we got a quick a point-of-care CBC.” samira said softly. patiently waiting for you to examine baby jane doe.
“we don’t know the birth history and—” he speaks again.
“I’m aware.” you interrupt this time. sparing the kid a look. “you said so in the case presentation and it’s the indication you gave me. unless you—” “I know I just wanted to validate.” samira and robby don’t say a thing.
your head tilts as you stare at him. eyes sharpen. “student?” you question.
“dr. ogilvie. I’m actually a student doctor,” “I didn’t ask. it was a yes or no.”
that seemed to shut him up pretty quick.
“are you aware that you interrupt, doctor ogilvie?” not even looking at him when you speak as you go back to checking the child. it wasn’t even said as a correction to his introduction moments ago. but rather a bite to his need to have that acknowledgment. you look at him. expectantly. waiting for an answer that has seemed to fall on deaf ears.
“I was just telling you.” it’s a poor attempt to explain.
robby shakes his head, hands behind his neck. lips pressed tightly together. this is why dana was insistent.
“and I’m telling you.” you correct him. your tone hard. no room for arguments.
you look back to the baby, offering a smile to her before dropping it when you turn to those standing off to the side. “she looks good, no obvious source of infection, there’s a possibility of it being benign but since we don't know her history," your eyes find ogilvie's. “let’s get labs done.”
you give your orders as the gloves come off.
“I’ll be back in a few to check in.” you walk around and begin to leave. “and doctor?” you direct to ogilvie, your hand on the handle of the door. the young man turns to you.
“I get wanting to learn, but this isn’t a competition. so few words of advice—considering it is a teaching hospital— learn a thing or two about respect. do not to interrupt when someone is talking to you.”you grit and push at the door. “—even my kids know that.”
it quiet for a minute after you leave, the only noise comes from the small patient as she coos.
“that was dr. park. she's one of our attending pediatricians.” robby starts off slowly, picking up from earlier. his head tipping toward where you just walked out.
the student stands there, looking startled. “she works with kids?"
samira gives a tight lipped smile and robby laughs before he himself walks out. “just you wait.”
—
the med student stared at the man, who was assessing the amputation in front of him. shocked. because that was not the doctor he saw earlier.
“—clean wound. no crush injury. rapid transport time. replantation is a go. I'll book an OR. irrigate the hell out of this with 3 liters."
"3 liters?"
"of saline, genius."
"thanks, shark."
the surgeon walks out but not before giving a side eye— glaring— at the two young men.
"I thought dr. park was a pediatrician?" ogilvie questioned. eyes on robby for clarification.
"dr. park is pediatrics." robby slowly nodded "dr. brendon park, her husband, is orthopedics." the students' eyes widened when he finally caught up to his words.
Heeeyyy 👋. Love the build a bouquet idea. So cute!
I’d like to request some Yellow roses. purple tulips and black carnations please.
brett richards / nsfw / first date/kiss/time
“I-I don’t usually do this on a first date.” Brett said, as though that explained or excused why he had you pressed against his front door and his hands on your ass. You kissed him again, tasting the wine he drank at dinner as you swiped your tongue into his mouth. Brett forgot what he was saying and fell into the enchantment of your touch once again, his body pressing yours firmly against the door and his hot hands squeezing your ass through your dress.
Brett had gotten the courage to ask you on a date earlier this week and had spent days agonizing over making it perfect. You were the first person he had feelings for since his wife died and he wanted to make everything just right. The movie was the right choice, dinner was delicious, and the lakeside stroll afterwards was lovely. You'd rested your head on his shoulder while watching the film, and playfully stroked his calf with your foot under the table at dinner, and held his hand during the stroll. Brett felt like a horny teen the whole time, his palms sweaty and his heart racing whenever he looked at you.
He offered to make you coffee back at his place but the moment you both got inside you couldn't keep your hands off each other. You didn't mind, you'd practically been throwing Brett hints all night. You liked him, a lot, and you wanted to show him how much.
You grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and spun him, switching your positions so he was backed up against the door. Brett looked at you in shock as you sunk to your knees in front of him. He cupped your face in his hands, getting you to look at him from beneath your lashes.
"You don't have to do that honey."
"Oh Brett," You said with a saucy smile. "But I want to."
jack abbot, who practices getting down on one knee as smoothly as possible the day he buys your ring.
jack abbot, who is so scared that you’ll say no that he stumbles over his words when he asks you the question.
jack abbot, who begs you to repeat your answer three times, smiling from ear to ear when the ‘yes’ finally sinks in.
jack abbot, who puts the biggest goddamn rock on your finger, trying to be all smug about it, but he just stares at you with puppy eyes and hopes that you like the ring he picked out.
jack abbot, who looks at you like you’re insane when you ask about the budget while wedding planning.
“princess, just pick whatever you want. i’ll pay for it.”
jack abbot, who cries when you walk down the aisle. robby is next to him, smiling like an idiot when he sees his best friend finally get what he wants, what he deserves—the love of a woman who absolutely adores him.
jack abbot, who thinks about his first wife for a second, and while he misses her, he just knows that she sent you his way on purpose.
jack abbot, who has practiced dancing with his prosthetic for weeks now. he is desperate to get everything right, all for you.
jack abbot, who refuses to take a break from twirling you across the dance floor. who grinds his teeth when his leg starts hurting. who tries to push through it until you force him to sit down with you.
jack abbot, who is so scared that he won’t be enough for you.
jack abbot, who melts into your arms when you reassure him that he is.
this is for @bookbombshell who requested this bouquet for the 2k follower celebration!
You dusted off your hands as you finished planting the last batch of hydrangeas in Brett's garden. Technically it was your garden too, the two of you had been together for four years and you'd been living together for the past two. Your life with Brett was perfect and picturesque, a wonderful romantic story. Brett was your perfect man and sometimes you worried you'd dreamt him into existence.
Your relationship was wonderful and solid, but lately Brett had been acting weird. He'd leave for stretches of time during the day and spend his evenings alone in his office. He seemed tense and stressed and you were worried there was something wrong and he wasn't telling you. Or worse, he was being relocated to another part of the country for his job.
You wiped the sweat from your brow and stood up, admiring all the hard work you'd put in for the past 2 hours. You turned around to finally head inside for a glass of water and a shower when you had to stop short to avoid running into Brett.
Who was on one knee in front of you.
With an open ring box in his hands.
Oh my god, Brett was proposing.
He looked so nervous, his eyes a little wide as he watched you gasp in understanding and surprise. He was concentrating really hard to keep his back straight and his hands steady as he presented the ring box to you, the diamond ring shining in the sunlight. Your eyes flew to his, your hands covering your mouth in shock, as you waited for his speech. You knew Brett really well, he probably had a whole speech prepared to tell you how much he loved you, how much you meant to him, how you healed him and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. But in his nervousness, all that came out was -
"Please." You could have laughed out loud at the look of alarm on his face. His mouth opened again but nothing came out, his mind going blank in a panic. You smiled, so big and wide that your cheeks hurt, and dropped to your knees in front of him.
"Yes." You replied while you nodded enthusiastically. That seemed to help Brett gets his wits back and he smiled back.
"Yes?"
"Yes!" You said as you took his face in your hands and kissed him. You pulled back, laughing in disbelief. "Yes, I'll marry you, you big doofus." Brett laughed with you as he plucked the ring from the box and slipped it onto your finger.
"I had a speech." Brett told you, reassuring you that he hadn't just winged the proposal.
"I know baby, you can tell me when you remember it."
Babysitter reader taking lunch to pervy single dad Sammy Bryant at work
Summary: sammy forgets his lunch st home so you stop by the station, unintentionally giving the guys something to ogle.
“Jesus Christ”
“Oh, mommy”
“Who’s that with your kid, Bryant?”
Sammy looks up, smirking a little when he sees you walking in with Nate perched on your hip. You’re in a sundress, a short, flowy thing that cuts low enough to show off your cleavage. You spot him and point him out to Nate, grinning as he waves at Sammy.
“That’s y/n. Nate’s nanny.”
“Please tell me you have a nanny cam,” groans Clarke.
“Like one in every room,” Sal adds.
Sammy just shakes his head, smiling. He holds out both arms as you get close and you bend down to set Nate on the ground so he can toddle to his dad. He groans playfully as Nate runs into his arms, scooping him up and holding him in a tight hug. You follow closely, setting a plastic bag on Sammy’s desk.
“You left this at home.”
He smiles gratefully up at you, a thrill running through him as you refer to his place as “home.” “You didn’t have to do that, I could’ve picked something up.”
You shrug. “Happy to do it.” You grin as you lean down to poke Nate, giving Sammy a good view down the front of your dress. Behind you, his buddies groan as they get a view of the place where your ass and thighs meet. “Aren’t we buddy?”
You stand back up as Nate giggles and claps. Sammy follows your lead, subtly adjusting himself where you can’t see. You step close to him, brushing Nate’s hair back from his forehead. “We should probably go. Don’t wanna distract you from your work!”
Sammy nods reluctantly, handing Nate over to you. His hand “accidentally” brushes you, squeezing quickly at your hip. You brush it off, he’s been touchy, but he’s single and you know how lonely split custody can make men. “Well, thank you.” Sammy leans in to kiss Nate on the forehead. “You be good for y/n. Bye.”
You smile, grabbing one of Nate’s hands to guide him to wave. “Bye. Say bye, daddy.” Nate babbles his bye and you leave, totally oblivious to the eyes on your ass as you leave the station.
“You’re hitting that. Please tell me you’re hitting that.”
Sammy just smirks and shrugs, sitting back down at his desk.
“Does she have any availability? I am in desperate need of some child care.”
“You don’t even have kids.”
“I know. I need her to care for the kids in my nutsack. Preferably with her mouth.” The guys all laugh obnoxiously.
Sammy pelts him with a wadded up ball of paper. “Man, shut the fuck up.”
ditzy!reader getting in the smallest lil fender bender & hysterically crying while you call the cops (praying they don’t send sammy). coincidentally, they do. sammy's face drops when he sees you "baby? what happened mama, what's goin on?" as he opens your door, helping you fan your face. your makeup is smudged and you hold up your hand to sammy with a sad "look!" :(
now if most men saw that your nail was broken after losing a bumper on the car they bought you, they'd have a less than caring reaction. but not sammy, he's all pouts and kisses. bringing your hand up to his eyes and inspecting the rigid crack in the sunlight, "oh, sweetheart i'm sorry." it's genuine too, which is what makes ben & cooper howl with laughter behind him. sammy doesn't even notice, too caught up in cooing at you "did'ya hurt anything else? yeah, no, i know, nail's the biggest priority ,my poor baby."
you cling to his chest as you bawl, and sammy knows you need him just as much as he needs to do his job. "okay baby hang on, lemme get a look at the car," but you won't dare let go of his arm; too shaken up and overstimulated. "okay, okay, 's alright, gimme your hand and walk with me" while he walks around the car checking for any other issues. after assessing for any other issues, sammy sits you back in the drivers seat and checks your head and face for any injuries. sammy with his big, strong hand brushing against your forehead and resting his fingers against the sides of your neck to turn your head gently, "i know, i know, i'm sorry honey, just gotta look you over real quick"
after plenty of kisses and comfort, sammy stands and gestures to ben, "wouldya take my girl home, please?" and ben knows better than to question sammy when he sees this look across his face. after you get in the car, you watch as sammy approaches the man you got in the accident with. "You always drive like shit? Huh?" he looks so big, so handsome, so protective... so husband. <3
the summer heat beams down on you like molten hot chocolate, the air conditioner from the car being your only saving grace.
it’s been so hot recently and the only way to escape the heat was to say goodbye to your non-central air apartment and leave your sorry excuse for a fan behind.
the blinker clicks every few seconds as you wait for the red light to turn, your fingers drumming against the steering wheel as stevie nicks plays from the speakers and out into streets.
you reach down to sip onto your newly purchased iced lemonade and sing along, bopping your head from side to side.
-
you see the flashing lights first before you hear his voice from the radio, “pull over. now.”
your heart starts to rattle in it’s cage as you obediently maneuver your car to the side of the road, you gulp as you hear the officer open his car door, his shoes crunching the gravel underneath as he makes his way to your car.
is he walking painfully slow or are you just paranoid?
the sun bores down onto your face causing you to shield your eyes as you look at the silhouette of the cop who pulled you over, his belt clacking as he rests his hand on his hips.
“do you know why i pulled you over?” he wants to know.
“i- im not sure officer” you mumble.
he lets out a sigh and bends down, and your breath catches in your throat as he rests his arms on your door, his sunglasses sitting perfectly atop the slope of his nose.
“license and registration” he says firmly making you fumble for your wallet. “and an explanation as to why your all the way on this side of town.” he says flatly.
you click your tongue as you do as he says, “huh?”
“this part of town isn’t the safest, we’ve got gangs all around… you need to go back to your cute little apartment and stay there” he warns. “or—”
“or what?” you cut him off, your eyebrows furrowed as he rises, his shadow towering over you. before the cop can even respond you add, “officer are you pulling me over, or are you just trying to talk to a pretty girl?” you tease.
you hear him scoff and you gasp loudly as he yanks your car door open, he unbuckles your seatbelt causing your mouth for fall agape while he pulls you out of the car and into his hard chest.
you let out an `mmf-’ as he slams the car door closed before twisting your body so that your chest hits against the hot metal of the car. “hey!” you squeal.
“you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace with that mouth” he growls into your ear, hotly.
“oh my god-” you laugh loudly as his hands capture your wrists and cross them behind your back. “sammy!”
your boyfriend chucked darkly, pulling your body away from the car so you could rest in his tight grip. “what’re you scared?” he coos.
you swat at his touch, he holds your wrists tighter but only for a minuet before he lets them go— allowing you turn to look up at him.
“i’m sorry officer, that was scary. i promise to not give you attitude.” you pout, batting your lashes as you look up at him.
your boyfriend bites his lip, his chest puffing up as he looks down at you. “good girl” he says, making your head spin.
you reach for his hands and he happily grasps onto your smaller one before he swings them back and forth “nah, seriously baby what are you doing here?”
you shrug, “no central air, remember?” you say defeatedly, “i had to get out of there my fan is blowing out warm air. i can’t. ugh” you laugh as you pull him closer to your car.
“stay at my place” he says firmly.
you reach into your car to grab your lemonade and hold it out for him to take a sip from. “good right?” you muse as you let him take another sip.
“here.” he says handing you his key.
“but-”
you’ve never stayed at his place alone, let alone stayed there all that much with him. the one and only time you’ve been to his place was when you dropped off a toy you thought little nate would like.
“but nothing. you wait for me at my place, i get off in four hours. we can make dinner when i get back” he suggests.
you nod in agreement as he opens your door— you smile and bit your lip as you hesitate to go back in. sammy notices this and smiles as he cranes his neck so he can kiss you sweetly.
“deal. but only if you come home in your uniform” you say it so bashfully that you didn’t even think you said it out loud.
but you’re painfully aware that you did as you watch as his tongue licks his bottom lip before he grips onto your chin. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you say, a bit prouder than before.
“i’ll see you soon” sammy chuckles as he helps you into your car and closes your door. “be a good girl and wait for me, huh.”
“okay officer, i will! thank you.” you say sweetly before giving him a honk and driving away.
sammy loves calling you on your lunch break, much to the playful jeers of the station around him.
it's halfway through his shift, and sammy finds himself glancing at the clock on the stucco wall. sammy smiles to himself, sitting up and fishing his flip-phone from his suit jacket pocket with a little grunt and squeak from the desk chair. it's a hot spring day, and all sammy wants to do is talk to his sweet little wife on her break.
at the sound of sammy spinning around to grab his phone, moretta immediately pipes up, "here we go. loverboy's making his daily call" gesturing to sal with a laugh. sammy rolls his eyes as he brings the phone to his ear, sal turning to another detective and shooing them away "the man is whipped, leave him be." with a blush, sammy turns to his friends "yeah, yeah"
you answer on the second ring, cheery voice brightening up the line. sammy leans back in his chair, lifting his strong legs onto his desk with a sigh "hey sweetheart." his voice is warm honey, personalized just for his girl to hear.
in the back, his coworkers keep hurling comments "ask her what she packed you for lunch, sammy!" and "tell the missus we say hi!" and when you giggle in response, sammy's throwing a wad of paper at his buddies. "ignore them baby, just jealous... what're you doin? you on your break?"
sammy knows the answer, he just wants to keep you with him as long as he can. he's fully tuned into you as you speak, nodding along and asking questions about your work day. cooing motivation for you and letting you complain about your coworkers, "yeah i know the feeling" "ah c'mon loverboy" nate yells "y'know you love us! right sal?" sal grunts in response, unable to hide his own smile at the display of young love in front of him.
reluctantly sammy has to go, "alright, i'll see you at home, okay? be good, baby.” he smiles into the phone, hand running over his thigh soothingly. giggling, you respond with a loving “okay, i will, promise. love you sammy”
sammy tucks in his chin into his phone, trying to whisper to you. he’s not ashamed to tell you this, never could be, but he knows it’s going to get really loud if nate overhears. “i love you too” which is immediately interrupted by nate & his buddies loudly going “AWWW!” followed by sammy screaming distantly “shut the hell up!” before quickly hanging up.
summary: When a new resident joins the night shift, her coworkers watch her relationship evolve from seemingly perfect to quietly concerning over the years. As tensions in her marriage begin bleeding into her work life, the people around her start paying closer attention — especially John Shen, who can’t ignore the growing feelings he has for her and a few women that like to poke their noises into others business.
a/n: ahh I love and hate this one. Idea was good, but writing it was awful (apologies in advance for a poor writing skills in this one)
The first time you walked into the ER, you looked completely overwhelmed. Your fresh third year resident badge was clipped crooked onto your scrubs, your drink was shaking in your hand, and your wide eyes kept darting around the department like you were trying to memorize everything all at once before someone realized you had no idea what you were doing.
Which, honestly, every person on your first day at new work felt.
That was obviously a lie cause by stress. You know what you were doing. You spend some time before at the ER, already used to the chaos and loud noises.
But you looked especially nervous. Sweet nervous.
The kind of person who apologized when someone else bumped into you.
“Move, move, trauma incoming!” a EMT shouted as a gurney flew through the ambulance bay doors.
You immediately stepped out of the way too fast and crashed straight into someone solid.
Gentle hands steadied your shoulders before you could spill your drink all over yourself.
“Whoa, honey,” you heard a soft, woman’s voice. „You okay there?”
You nodded quickly, turning around to face a blonde woman in navy scrubs.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry—”
The woman laughed immediately. “And she apologizes for everything. Great. We’re keeping this one.”
Your face warmed in embarrassment. “Sorry.”
That only made her laugh harder.
“I’m Dana,” she said, fixing your crooked badge without asking. “Day shift charge nurse. You must be our transfer resident.”
“Y/N.”
“Well, Y/N,” Dana said, already steering you toward the nurses’ station, “rule number one: stop looking like you’re about to throw up. Nobody knows what they’re doing half the time anyway!”
You let out a shaky laugh, feeling your nerves loosen a little.
“This is Lena,” Dana told you. “Night shift charge nurse and the only reason this ER still functions after midnight.”
Lena rolled her eyes. “That’s dramatic.” Then she looked at you and immediately softened. “You’re ready to start?”
“If I’m not gonna faint,” you admitted quietly, embarrassed.
“Aww.” Dana clutched her chest dramatically. “She’s adorable.”
You looked horrified by the attention. “Please don’t call me adorable.”
“Too late,” Lena said with a grin.
That should’ve embarrassed you more than it did, but something about them immediately made the knot in your chest loosen. Or maybe it was the fact that you already got to know someone and a bit of hope that you’re not gonna feel alone hear bloomed in your chest.
The first shift was brutal.
Two traumas in the first hour. A scared mother screaming at doctors, overcrowded hallways and a quick pace that made you wonder if you’re really cut for it.
Still, you kept up.
By the middle of the night, you were charting at the nurses’ station while trying not to look overwhelmed when someone slid into the seat beside you.
“You’re the new resident?” You glanced up.
The doctor standing there looked exhausted, but not like the others did with a coffee in hand that still held a few ice cubes.
“Uh, yeah.”
“John Shen.”
You nodded quickly. “Y/N.”
His eyes flicked over the chart in your hands. “You handled Trauma Two well earlier.”
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You saw that?”
“Hard not to when you nearly argued with mother about what’s good for her child.”
Your face immediately heated. “I wasn’t arguing—”
“You were right,” John interrupted calmly. „You got through to her. She trust you now.”
“Oh.”
A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his mouth when you looked genuinely shocked by the compliment.
“You don’t have to look so scared all the time, you know.”
“I’m not scared.”
John raised an eyebrow.
You sighed quietly. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“That’s normal.” He stood again, grabbing his chart. “You’ll survive if you keep it up.”
„Thanks,” you said, a bit more certain now.
„Go check on them.”
You nodded, quickly logging off and getting up from your seat, paddling towards the room.
„So, you met Sweets,” Lena noticed, pushing her glasses up on her head.
“You already gave her a nickname?”
Lena shrugged. “She apologized to a crash cart earlier because she bumped into it.”
John huffed quietly at that despite himself.
“And,” Lena continued smugly, “she looks like she’d cry if someone raised their voice at her.”
„She’s nervous.”
„And sweet.”
„You say that about every women here. She’s competent.”
Lena slowly looked over at him with the most knowing expression imaginable. “Oh, you noticed that already?”
„I notice things.”
„Mhm.”
„She handed trauma well.”
“You watched her in Trauma Two?”
John’s jaw tightened slightly when he realized he walked directly into that one.
Lena grinned into her coffee cup. “Interesting.”
The first two weeks were hard, but you managed to keep up the peace. You got used to working at night at this point. You always find it good for you, ever since your her night shift at the gas station back when you were getting extra jobs in school.
Right now, you were helping a woman that came with awful burn in her hand.
John glanced unconsciously toward the room you you were in. He started noticing things about you after a few days. The way you were always better with female patients, the way you kept stickers in your pocket for kids, the way you did your drink – not coffee, the green tea had more caffeine in it and how you loved a pump on dragonfruit syrup in it.
“She’s a good fit here,” Lena said eventually, after seeing how Shen looked at you. “People already like her.”
That was true.
The nurses loved you almost immediately. Mostly because you thanked everybody for helping you. You listened when nurses corrected you. You introduced yourself to housekeeping staff instead of ignoring them like some doctors did.
“She just wants everyone around her okay.”
The second the words left his mouth, Lena went completely silent.
Slowly, she turned her head toward him.
John realized too late how soft his voice had sounded saying it.
“Oh my God,” Lena whispered dramatically. “You already like her.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You literally said that like you were describing a wounded baby bird.”
John looked exhausted suddenly. “Lena.”
„What? You can’t fool me!”
„She’s nice! You can’t not like her.”
„She’s also very pretty.”
John said absolutely nothing to that.
Which honestly was answer enough.
Your coworkers met your boyfriend about three months later.
He showed up at the end of one particularly awful shift carrying coffee and takeout because you’d forgotten to eat again. He kissed your forehead while you finished charting, moving to grab your things from your locker. Rubbed your shoulders gently while you complained about a long night, promising you a good breakfast when you get home.
Everybody loved him.
“You work too hard,” he murmured softly while you leaned tiredly against him, short after the handover.
You smiled immediately. “I know.”
John watched the interaction from across the nurses’ station with an expression so bored and blank, that it was unusual for him.
Lena noticed instantly.
“Oh, that’s painful,” she muttered under her breath.
“He brought her flowers too.”
“Jesus.”
Your relationship looked good. Really good.
You talked about him constantly without even realizing it.
“My boyfriend made dinner.”
“My boyfriend stayed awake to pick me up after shift.”
“My boyfriend says I need more sleep.”
You sounded happy.
And honestly? It was all that mattered to John, while he tried not to care about any of that more than he should have. Unfortunately Lena cared enough for everyone.
“Oh, Shen’s in love with her,” she announced casually one night while stealing fries from somebody’s takeout bag.
Peach, another good friend of yours, looked delighted immediately. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, this is excellent.”
John looked exhausted already. “I’m sitting right here.”
“And suffering,” Lena added smugly. “Quietly.”
„Okay, so these are my choices,” you say, showing off the first picture of the dress.
You swiped to the first picture nervously. The dress was soft satin. Elegant but simple. Long sleeves with a low back and tiny pearl details along the wrists.
Lena immediately gasped dramatically. “Oh, you look gorgeous in that.”
“I look pale.”
“You always look pale,” Ellis informed you. “You work nights.”
You laughed quietly under your breath before swiping to the next dress.
This one was different. Bigger. Lace sleeves. More traditional.
Lena tilted her head. “Mmm. No.”
“No?” you repeated, looking surprised.
“It’s pretty,” she clarified quickly. “But it doesn’t look like you.”
You frowned thoughtfully at the picture. “What does that even mean?”
Ellis pointed lazily toward the screen. “You look uncomfortable.”
You swiped again quickly. “Okay, this one Ethan liked.”
Both of them leaned closer immediately.
The dress was huge.
Not ugly. Just… too much. Heavy beading, dramatic sleeves, layers and layers of fabric swallowing you whole.
There was a small silence.
Then Ellis said carefully, “Honey.”
“What?”
“That dress is wearing you.”
Your face scrunched slightly. “That’s what I said!”
Lena pointed accusingly. “See? Trust your instincts.”
ou looked relieved immediately that somebody agreed with you. “Right? I said it felt kinda… overwhelming.”
John glanced up from his chart despite himself.
Your face lit up while talking about wedding planning despite how exhausted you looked after shift. There was something warm about seeing you excited over tiny details. Flowers. Dresses. Cake flavors.
You deserved soft things like that.
Years passed strangely in the ER. Fast and slow at the same time.
One second you were the nervous resident everybody helped with procedures and next thing you were confidently leading traumas while teaching interns yourself. You stopped apologizing constantly. You got sharper. More confident. More sure of yourself.
But some things stayed the same.
You still kept stickers in your pockets for pediatric patients.
Still remembered everybody’s coffee orders and got too emotionally attached to difficult cases.
And John still looked for you first every time he walked into a room.
Nobody missed that anymore.
Especially not Lena.
“You know,” she said one night while watching John unconsciously scan the hallway for you, “at some point this becomes embarrassing.”
John didn’t even look up from his chart. “What does?”
“The fact you’ve been in love with the same woman for like six years.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
Lena stared at him blankly. “John.”
He sighed tiredly. “She’s married now.”
That part hurt more than he liked admitting.
Your wedding invitation had sat on his kitchen counter for almost two weeks before he finally forced himself to RSVP yes. He remembered watching you dance with your husband under soft reception lights while smiling brightly enough it physically hurt to look at you.
Back then, everybody thought you were happy.
The first signs were small enough that nobody fully understood what they were seeing.
You started checking your phone constantly during shifts.
Then came the tense phone calls outside and the way you’d return from those calls quieter than before, shoulders tight, eyes exhausted.
Sometimes your husband still came by the hospital. But the sweetness people first noticed slowly started feeling… off.
One night he showed up angry because you picked up an extra shift.
“You said we’d have dinner tonight.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but we were short staffed—”
“You’re always here.”
You glanced nervously toward the nurses’ station because people were definitely listening now. “Can we not do this here?”
“I barely see my wife anymore.”
John looked up sharply from his chart the second he heard the edge in your husband’s voice.
You immediately lowered yours further. “I’m trying.”
And somehow that sentence felt wrong to hear.
Because you sounded guilty.
Like you’d done something bad by being needed at work.
Later that same week, the ER staff tried organizing karaoke and drinks after shift. Everybody was exhausted, adrenaline high from surviving a brutal overnight trauma run.
“Come with us,” Peach begged while pulling off her badge. “You deserve one night out.”
You hesitated immediately.
“Oh,” Lena said slowly, already noticing the look on your face. “Honey.”
“What?” you asked quietly.
“You’re literally asking yourself for permission.”
You forced a laugh. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Peach frowned. “Do you even want to go home right now?”
You looked down at your phone automatically.
And that silence answered everything.
“I just…” You swallowed slightly. “I don’t know if my husband would like it.”
Lena stared at you for a long moment.
“Would he stop you?” she asked carefully.
You laughed quickly. Too quickly. “No, obviously not.”
But then softer:
“He just gets upset sometimes.”
John felt something cold settle heavily in his chest listening to that conversation.
Because suddenly all the tiny things over the years started fitting together in ugly ways.
The constant apologizing.
The anxiety.
The way you checked in constantly like you were afraid of disappointing somebody.
“You’re allowed to have a life outside your marriage,” Dana said gently.
You smiled weakly. “I know.”
But you didn’t sound convinced.
In the end, you still went home instead of karaoke.
John watched you leave through the ambulance bay doors while something painful twisted inside him.
Because the worst part was that you genuinely thought this was normal.
The first real fight happened in the middle of January.
It started because you forgot to answer your phone during a trauma.
A sixteen-year-old came in after a car accident and the entire department turned into chaos for nearly an hour. Blood everywhere. Nurses shouting vitals across the room. The smell of antiseptic and adrenaline thick in the air while you helped hold pressure against the kid’s abdomen with trembling gloved hands.
By the time the patient stabilized enough to move upstairs, your scrub top was streaked with blood and sweat clung uncomfortably to the back of your neck.
You were exhausted.
And the second you finally checked your phone, your stomach dropped.
Eight missed calls, three texts.
Ethan: Where are you?
Ethan: Why are you ignoring me?
Ethan: Unbelievable.
John noticed the change in your face instantly from across the nurses’ station.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You blinked quickly, locking your phone. “Yeah.”
Too fast.
Then your phone rang again.
You stared at the screen for a second before answering softly, “Hey.”
Even from several feet away, John could hear the anger in your husband’s voice through the phone speaker.
“You seriously couldn’t answer once?”
“I was in trauma.”
“You always say that.”
You closed your eyes briefly. Tired already. “Because it’s true.”
“Do you even care that I was worried?”
“I do care.”
“No, you care about that hospital.”
Your shoulders slowly tightened.
People around the nurses’ station pretended not to listen while very obviously listening.
“I can’t do this right now,” you whispered. “I’m still working.”
“Of course you are.”
The line went dead.
You stood there frozen for a second staring at your phone.
John watched you rub tiredly at your forehead before forcing yourself to move again.
“You should sit down for a minute,” he said carefully.
You looked up quickly. “I’m okay.”
“You look exhausted.”
A weak laugh escaped you. “That’s because I am.”
John hesitated for half a second before gently taking the chart from your hands.
“Break,” he said simply.
You blinked at him. “John—”
“Five minutes won’t kill anybody.”
Something about the calmness in his voice made your chest ache unexpectedly, because he was making space for you without making you feel guilty for needing it.
And you realized, suddenly and painfully, how long it had been since somebody treated you gently without expecting something in return.
It was freezing outside. Nearly six in the morning. Snow sticking to sidewalks while exhausted night shift staff slowly filtered toward the parking garage looking half-dead after twelve hours under fluorescent lights.
You stood beside your car looking stressed while trying your key again.
Nothing.
“Seriously?” you muttered tiredly.
“You need a jump?” John asked behind you.
You turned quickly, startled. “Oh my God.”
“You say that every time somebody talks to you.”
A tiny smile finally appeared on your face. “Sorry.”
“There it is.”
You laughed quietly under your breath while cold air fogged around you both.
John stepped closer toward the car. “Try again.”
You did. Still dead, unfortunately for you.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Pop the hood.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Mhm.”
Snowflakes caught lightly in his dark hair while he worked beneath the hood without complaining once. His hands were already freezing red from the cold but he still calmly explained what probably happened while you stood nearby hugging your coat tighter around yourself.
Then headlights pulled sharply into the parking lot.
Your husband’s car.
The second he stepped out, the atmosphere changed immediately.
John noticed your shoulders tense before Ethan even reached you.
“What’s going on?” Ethan asked sharply.
“My battery died.”
“And he’s helping you?”
You frowned slightly. “Yeah?”
Ethan looked over toward John standing near the open hood.
“You couldn’t wait for me?”
Confusion crossed your face immediately. “What?”
“I told you I was coming.”
“You said twenty minutes.” You looked exhausted already. “John was just helping me.”
The silence afterward felt uncomfortable.
Ethan smiled suddenly, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. “Right.”
John slowly straightened beside the car.
“I got it working,” he said calmly. “Battery connection was loose.”
“Thanks,” Ethan replied shortly.
You looked mortified suddenly, catching the tension. “John, I’m sorry—”
“You should get home. Roads are getting bad.”
Then he walked away before either of you could answer.
You watched him disappear across the snowy parking lot feeling something painful twist unexpectedly in your chest.
Because somehow, in less than ten minutes, John had made you feel more cared for than you’d felt in months.
And you didn’t know what to do with that realization.
The night you finally admitted it out loud, you were sitting in the ambulance bay beside Lena at four in the morning sharing vending machine coffee after losing a difficult patient.
“I think I’m done,” you whispered suddenly.
Lena looked over immediately.
“With Ethan.”
Lena’s expression softened instantly. “Honey.”
You stared down at the paper coffee cup between your hands.
“I don’t even think he’s a bad person,” you admitted quietly. “I just…”
You swallowed hard.
“I can’t breathe around him anymore.”
That sentence nearly broke Lena’s heart.
Because nobody should describe marriage like suffocating.
“You deserve peace too,” she said gently.
Tears burned instantly behind your eyes hearing that.
Like you genuinely forgot that was an option.
A month later, you signed divorce papers.
And somehow the world didn’t end afterward.
You cried for some time, more about breaking your rutine than losing your husband. But underneath all the grief, there was relief too. Quiet relief settling into spaces inside you that had been tense for years.
You started to laughed easier again, staying after shifts for drinks sometimes and stopped checking your phone every thirty seconds.
And one night after work, you found John sitting alone outside the hospital near the ambulance bay drinking terrible vending machine coffee while early morning sunlight slowly turned the sky pale gold.
“You’re still here?” you asked softly.
John glanced up immediately. “So are you.”
You smiled tiredly before sitting beside him on the concrete step.
Cool morning air drifted softly around you both while ambulances hummed faintly nearby.
Then quietly, you said:
“I signed the papers today.”
John went still beside you.
You looked down at your hands. “The divorce papers.”
Finally John asked softly, “How do you feel?”
You thought about it honestly.
“Sad.”
A pause.
“But lighter too.”
John nodded once slowly.
Like he understood exactly what you meant.
You looked over at him then. Really looked at him.
The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The quiet steadiness in him you’d leaned on for years without fully realizing it. The man who never once made you feel difficult for existing.
And suddenly you smiled slightly.
“What?” he asked cautiously.
“Lena told me something.”
John immediately looked suspicious. “That’s never good.”
A soft laugh escaped you.
“She told me you’ve been in love with me for years.”
John froze completely.
You watched genuine panic flash across his face for maybe the first time ever.
“I’m gonna kill her.”
“No, you’re not.”
“She talks too much.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
John looked away toward the parking lot for a second before quietly admitting:
“No.”
Your chest tightened painfully hearing it out loud.
Some time ago it would scare you. But now, a part of you found it safe.
You stared at him for another long moment while sunlight slowly spilled across the hospital walls around you.
Then softly, almost shyly, you asked:
“If you waited this long already…”
John looked back at you immediately.
“…do you think maybe we could try?”
For a second he genuinely looked stunned.
Then something warm and disbelieving softened across his face so gently it almost hurt to look at.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
And for the first time in years, the answer came easily.
Summary: A beautiful sunny day at a park is beginning to turn stressful when your toddler shows the telltale signs of a tantrum. Spencer tries a magic trick to soothe her; it does not go as he intends.
Contents: 1.6k words, FLUFF, girl dad!Spencer, fem!reader, no use of y/n, fussy toddler, Beatrice is an indoor kid lol, magic tricks
a/n: yeah hi again lol. I've got no self control. this anon sort of requested it. Other requests are still being worked on, though I've no idea when they'll be posted. Thank you for sending them and your love for Honeybea!!!
It was a miserable cold night when Spencer first showed off his magic tricks to you.
You remember it with clarity, like a film you've seen to the point of memorization. It happened during that weird period where neither of you knew where you stood, hovering between the pretense of your arrangement and the terrifying truth of your feelings.
You are in his apartment strictly to make use of his library had been the lie you told yourself at the time, regardless of how much time the two of you spent decidedly not doing any research. He just has a more extensive theory collection. That last part was true, at least.
Still, it hadn't escaped your attention how he'd started offering you a pair of warm, fluffy slippers—in exactly your size—after you'd spent one too many evenings researching there. You never called out the fact that he suddenly kept a jug full of your favorite brew of black tea, stored neatly beside a ceramic octopus mug named Mildred, a mug you insisted on using just to prove a point—he'd said the unconventional shape was unusable, better kept on the shelf safely as decor.
You told yourself, like a stubborn fool, that those things meant nothing. And like a fool, you kept track of them anyway.
But that night, you were completely focused. No, the veins on Spencer's forearms were not distracting you at all, thank you very much. You had so much more important things to worry about—such as the returned draft of your dissertation. There were so many highlighted lines and comments on the document that the word application begun to lag, a fact that promptly made you even more edge as it kept you on loading purgatory, waiting and praying that your last edits were saved.
Spencer noticed your distress. He had grown very good at reading you at that point, though you were convinced it's only because you wore your frustration so openly.
He's supplied you with a plethora of snacks and tea, placed a blanket over your shoulders as you hunched on the floor—more space for all the opened reference books—perfectly settled for a long night of editing and working. He sat beside you on the floor, cross-legged and casual, as if his knees weren't pressed against your thigh, reading The Songs of Maldoror in its newest translation.
When your laptop inevitably did that dumb loading screen again, Spencer's book was instantly abandoned alongside the multitude references littering his floor. He took you by the shoulders before the grumbled curse could even leave your lips, and guided you to his couch with a soft, reassuring murmur.
"Take five minutes," he said, rubbing his large palm on your back, "You don't want your annoyance impacting your work."
"It won't impact my work." you insist, mostly just to argue. "I'm focused."
"You are, but your laptop is not." he replies. One of his hands moved in slow circles on your back while the other reached up to run over your cheek. You leaned into it, exhausted and regretting every single decision you've made, and when his hand tangled into your hair, you thought—and admittedly, hoped—he would kiss you.
Instead, he made some flourish and, with a self satisfied grin, held up his fingers. A quarter tumbled in between his knuckles, glinting every time a perfect angle hit the light.
"What—"
"Wait, and there's more!" he says, and with his other hand, somehow pulled your favorite highlighter from behind your ear.
The absurdity of it made you burst out laughing. Loud and unrestrained and slightly unhinged.
"How'd you do that?"
"A magician never reveals his secrets."
And you laughed even harder. Crash out averted. And ever since, distraction by magic trick has never failed to bring a smile on your face.
Today could not be further from that night.
It's sunny, for one, the perfect temperature where the world seems gilded and fresh with vitality. The skies are cotton candy, the grass is so green it looks artificial, and even the city seems to breathe easier. You're done with your PhD. by now, and your relationship with Spencer isn't fake anymore.
And, most notable of all, you have your daughter with you.
Beatrice had been fussing before you even left the house, making loud wails of protest as you applied sunscreen all over her chubby arms and legs. It seemed like she didn't like the texture of the lotion, if her constant raspberries were any indication. She only blows raspberries when her dramatic nononos don't work.
It continued while Spencer strapped her into her car seat, but this time accompanied by steady, kicking legs. She almost got Spencer's forearm at some point, but you managed to placate her with Disney songs on the radio.
Beatrice seems determined to dislike everything. When you got to the park, you set her down so she could burn off some of her energy, but the started screaming when the grass fluttered past her sandals and tickled her ankles.
You lift her into your arms, cooing and bouncing her on your hip, but she squirms in discontent.
"No, no, no, no, no!" she squeaks, shaking her head to punctuate every no.
Spencer watches from where he's arranging your picnic—under the shade of a large tree—grinning in sympathy.
"Have we figured out what's upsetting her yet?" he asks as you walk over to him with an armful of squalling, indignant toddler.
"I think she just hates nature." you groan, plopping down and letting Beatrice crawl on the blanket.
She looks around with a suspicious pout, but relaxes when she realizes that the grass can't get to her from the safety of the gingham.
"Why don't we give mommy a break, huh?" he cooes, gently lifting her into his lap. Beatrice, normally such an easy child, shakes her head and squirms in his arms.
"She wants to do her own thing." you say, sprawling on the picnic blanket with a happy groan. The sun feels delightful on your skin, perfectly warm without being too humid. "Preferably away from the grass."
"So she's an indoor kid," he chuckles and concedes, propping her up on a little pillow instead, "There you go, honeybee, do you want some fruit?" he places a small tupperware full of grapes and strawberries in front of her.
"No, no, no fruit! Dada no!" Beatrice squawks at her father, then swings her hand and hits the container. It topples sideways. Her face crumples as the fruits escape, rolling all over the blanket. One of them touches her pillow and she shrieks.
Spencer tuts, "No, no, baby, what's wrong?"
You gather the fruits before they roll onto the grass as Spencer bounces Beatrice on his knee, his brows furrowing in concern. And then, his eyes light up, a clear sign he's got an idea.
He returns Beatrice on her pillow, scrunching low to be more on her level. "You want to see something cool?"
Beatrice's lower lip trembles, but Spencer cups her chubby cheeks with his large hand, shushing her sweetly.
"Oh, honeybee, don't cry, look!" he reaches behind her head, and with an exaggerated flick of his hand, produces a coin from behind her ear. He does the same with his other hand, pulling out a flower this time, pure white with a yellow center. "And another one! What else are you hiding in there, little honeybee?"
You understand his instinct, why he did this. It works on you, after all, so why shouldn't it work on your daughter? Besides, from his—admittedly quite limited—experience, kids love magic. It's a whimsical distraction.
But your daughter doesn't giggle, or even pause her fussing.
Instead, Beatrice stares at the items in his hands, grabs at her ears in confusion, and her face crumples. Fat tears bead in her eyes and roll down her chubby cheeks, as she shrieks.
You swear you've never seen Spencer look so crestfallen before.
He stares, so obviously distraught that his magic trick didn't work, that he made things worse. He looks helplessly at Beatrice like every single sob is an earth shattering betrayal, too dumbstruck to even make a move to soothe the upset toddler.
And you?
You laugh.
Loud. So loud it cuts through your daughter's sobs and makes your husband blink in surprise. Twin hazel eyes turn to stare at you, one dripping tears, the other seemingly on the verge of it.
You laugh even harder.
"Oh my god, the look on your faces," you manage to wheeze, bending over at your waist.
"You don't need to cachinnate." Spencer frowns. Pouts, actually, looking so much like your daughter it seems he'd simply copy pasted his features upon her smaller face.
His choice of word only serves to heighten your amusement—always so precise with his language, wielding his intellect in defense any time he feels indignant.
However, at the sound of your voice—the familiarity of your laughter—Beatrice's sobs melt into giggles. Imitation is a big part of a child's skill acquisition, you remember from the countless childhood development and parenting books you've read.
Your laughter seems obnoxious now, dramatic, but for the first time that day, Beatrice's lips are smiling, as bright as the sun in the sky, gap toothed and gummy.
She laughs, copying mommy.
Spencer, equal parts distressed and relieved, heaves a sigh. Soon though, he's laughing as well, shoulders shaking as he hugs Beatrice close, pressing his face to the top of her head. Your daughter giggles in delight now, melting into Spencer's arms, her earlier grumpiness forgotten.
Half hidden from her curls, Spencer peaks up and smiles at you, so soft and adoring you lose breath all over again.
"Well, at least I know my tricks still make you smile." he says. You swear your heart turns to goo under that bright, sunny sky.
read more honeybea HERE | read more about her parents here
