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Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: It's not about swimming. It's about learning to trust your body again.
Tags: amputee!reader, fem!reader, trauma recovery, derek morgan is steady and sure, patient partner derek, swimming for the first time since, body memory, anxiety, fear of vulnerability, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft physical affection, derek being the safest place on earth, sensory writing, the water is a metaphor but also it's just water, no use of y/n
Word count: 2.7k words
The scent of chlorine hits you first—sharp, clean, and almost medicinal. It fills the air so completely that it becomes a taste, weaving itself through the warmth until it sits thick in your throat. You can feel it in your lungs with every breath, that strange, sterile scent tangled with something older—childhood summers, laughter bouncing off blue water, the shimmer of light across ripples, the echo of a life that once felt simpler. The pool stretches before you, an expanse of liquid silver under the low lights, quiet and endless. Its surface trembles faintly, catching every glimmer from above and scattering it in fractured ribbons that dance against the tiled walls. The room hums softly with the sound of the filtration system, the occasional splash of water lapping against the sides, the faint drip from a pipe overhead. The air is thick and humid, every sound magnified. It feels suspended from time—an in-between world, built of reflection and silence.
You sit at the edge of the pool, towel folded beneath you, damp from the condensation that beads across the tiles. One leg stretches out before you, your skin goose-pimpled from the air. The other—the one that is no longer there—casts its own kind of presence, ghostlike, not pain exactly but memory. The towel slides slightly as you shift, fingers gripping the tiles to find stability. Balance feels different now. It's not just physical—it's internal, something about the world's weight being rearranged, your axis realigned without your permission. Every small motion feels cautious, measured, like your body is a new language you're still learning to speak.
You tell yourself this isn't a big deal. You tell yourself it's just water. It's just swimming. You used to do this without thinking, slipping beneath the surface like you belonged there. But now—now there's something in the stillness that feels vast and cold, as if the water might remember all the versions of you that existed before and hold them against you. The thought tightens in your chest. You can almost feel the water already—the chill, the pull, the promise of weightlessness—but also the dread: the exposure, the way your body will look, the vulnerability of being seen when you can't quite feel steady in your own skin.
Derek moves through the pool like he belongs there, water gliding across his skin as if it bends around him willingly. The light slides over the curve of his shoulders, catching in the droplets that bead along his collarbone before dripping down his chest. His movements are slow, deliberate, calm. When he turns toward you, his smile is soft—steady and sure, carrying warmth that travels across the space like sunlight through mist. There's no pity in it, no hesitation. Just Derek, patient and grounded, like he's been all along.
He's been through every part of this with you: the endless appointments, the sterile rooms, the slow, uncertain days that felt like walking through fog. He's seen you in silence, in anger, in grief so heavy it nearly swallowed you whole. He's held space for all of it without ever trying to fix what can't be fixed. Now, here, his patience feels like gravity itself. The water ripples around him as he moves a little closer, voice low, smooth, and unhurried. "Come on, baby," he says. There's that quiet, teasing warmth threaded through the words, gentle but confident. "I got you."
He lifts his arms, palms open, water slipping through his fingers like glass beads before they vanish back into the pool. The sound is soft, hypnotic. You glance at his hands—familiar, strong, steady—and something twists in your chest. You know those hands. They've steadied you, soothed you, coaxed laughter out of you when you didn't think you remembered how. Now they wait, suspended in the glow of the water, offering something both terrifying and safe.
Your gaze drifts down to the water. It moves in restless waves, a mirror and a mystery at once. The reflections ripple across the ceiling, catching on the walls, flickering like the light from a distant fire. The surface looks calm, but you can sense the depth beneath it—the quiet, the cold, the promise of surrender. You can almost remember what it felt like to float, to give in, to trust the water to hold you. Back then, it was a kind of magic: the moment your feet left the ground, you ceased to belong to gravity. You belonged to something gentler. But now, that same surrender feels too much like letting go, and you're not sure if you're ready for that yet.
You tighten your grip on the edge, nails pressing into the tile. The faint tremor in your arm betrays you. You breathe in, slow and steady, trying to calm the stutter of your heartbeat. The scar on your thigh tingles, a tight, pulling sensation that brings you sharply back to yourself. For a second, you think of the hospital—the sterile light, the faint buzz of machines, the ache that never really went away. You push the thought aside, replacing it with Derek's voice, the low rumble of it steady as a heartbeat. I got you.
He shifts again, sending silver spirals curling outward. He's closer now, just a few feet away, the water swirling gently around him. His eyes never leave yours. "You don't have to rush it," he says, voice softer now, but his arms remain outstretched, unwavering. He doesn't move closer, doesn't reach. He just waits—anchored, patient, unyielding in his quiet certainty.
You study him, drinking in the sight of him. The water glistens on his skin, tracing light across the lines of muscle, across the familiar curve of his jaw. There's strength in him, but not the kind that overwhelms. It's the kind that steadies. His gaze holds yours with an honesty that's almost unbearable. He looks at you like you've never once been broken, like every scar you carry is proof of survival, not loss. It makes you want to cry, but the tears don't come—they just sit, heavy and unshed, behind your ribs.
The air feels thicker somehow. The hum of the lights grows louder in the silence. You can feel every beat of your heart, every tremor of hesitation that threads through your limbs. You want to move forward, to feel the water close around you, to know that it will still hold you. You want to reclaim this thing that once belonged to you, this joy, this peace. But fear is a living thing inside you, crawling under your skin, whispering you're not ready, not yet.
You shift your hand, pressing the heel of your palm into the tile. The edge digs into your skin, grounding you in the present moment. The smell of chlorine sharpens, the air damp against your face. A droplet of condensation slides down from your hairline, tracing your cheek before falling. The sound it makes as it hits the water—soft, almost imperceptible—seems to echo through the room, rippling outward like a heartbeat.
You exhale slowly. Derek doesn't move. He waits, still smiling, still open, his expression so full of quiet faith that it almost undoes you. The pool glows faintly between you, the lights above flickering in the water's shifting reflection. The rest of the world feels distant, almost imaginary. It's only you, the hum of the air, the shimmer of light, and Derek's arms still outstretched, still waiting.
The water rises against your skin with a quiet sigh, cool and startling after so long. It slides over you like silk and ice, curling around every line and hollow, wrapping you in its steady hush. For a heartbeat, your body forgets how to move. Breath catches, instinct rebelling against the sensation, every muscle tense and expectant. It's been so long since you've trusted anything to hold you—so long since the idea of letting go didn't come with a pulse of fear. But then Derek's hands are there—steady, sure, impossibly warm even through the coolness of the pool. His palms find your waist, fingers splayed just enough to remind you that you're safe. He doesn't rush you, doesn't speak, just watches with quiet patience as you breathe and find your rhythm. When he finally does move, it's only to match you, his fingertips tracing calm, grounding circles against your skin.
"Easy," he murmurs, voice low and rich, the sound wrapping around you like the water itself. "That's it. Take your time, baby." His tone is a warmth you can almost feel in your bones. When you look at him, the overhead lights catch in the droplets scattered across his shoulders, turning him to something almost celestial. The world fades until there's only his voice, the soft churn of water, the sound of your own breath.
You take one last breath and ease off the edge. The pool's surface trembles beneath your weight, shivering under the movement. For one suspended second, your balance teeters, fear sharp and immediate—but then it passes. The water lifts you. Catches you. It carries you without question, without resistance. Every bit of tension in your body begins to dissolve as the heaviness falls away. The water feels like memory—strange but familiar, the buoyancy like a language you once knew by heart. You let it hold you, let it wrap around you. The quiet hum of the pool becomes everything.
And then Derek's arms come around you. Instinctive. Certain. One slides low across your back, firm and sure, while the other steadies your shoulder. His touch guides you, strong enough to remind you of his presence but never enough to restrain. His warmth cuts through the chill, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. When you exhale, it trembles—half relief, half disbelief—and he feels it, pressing closer, his lips just beside your ear.
"There you go," he says softly. "That's it, sweetheart. Got you."
You can feel him now—his body solid beneath the surface, the faint ripple of his chest against yours as he breathes. You can smell the faint salt and warmth of his skin beneath the scent of chlorine. Your hands move before you think, fingers finding the hard curve of his shoulders, slick with water, grounding you. You cling—not out of fear, but because the contact feels like the only thing that's real. Derek shifts easily, adjusting your weight, letting the water carry you both. For the first time in months, you're not fighting gravity. You're not fighting anything at all.
When your gaze meets his, he's smiling. Not that teasing grin he flashes when he's being cocky—but something quieter. Softer. The kind of smile that tells you he's been waiting for this moment as much as you have. "You did it," he says, brushing a wet strand of hair away from your face. "Told you I got you, didn't I?"
A laugh bursts out of you—light, shaky, unrestrained. "You did," you whisper. "Guess I should start believing you when you say things like that."
"Guess you should," he replies, and leans in until his forehead presses to yours. The water ripples around you, each motion sending little circles of light scattering across the walls. "Proud of you," he murmurs, voice low, reverent. "So damn proud of you." He nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "You've been through hell, baby. Look at you now."
The words hit deep, settling somewhere between your ribs. They hum through you, the sound of his voice merging with the rhythmic lap of the water. You close your eyes, feeling everything at once: the pull of the water, the steadiness of his hands, the gentle ache of your own heart relearning how to trust stillness. When you move again, it's tentative but real, a small shift that sends a soft wave between you. Derek moves with you automatically, his hold adjusting with unthinking precision. You can feel the strength in him, but also restraint—an understanding of exactly how much space you need.
He tilts your chin up, thumb grazing the soft dip beneath your lip, and then he kisses your nose. The touch is quick, featherlight, playful enough to make you laugh. It spills out of you, bright and surprised. "What?" he teases, grin flickering wide. "Can't a man kiss his girl for being amazing?"
"Pretty sure this doesn't count as amazing," you say, voice half laughter, half tears. The corners of your mouth tremble into a grin that feels new and old at once.
"Feels pretty damn amazing to me," he says, and he proves it—pressing gentle kisses to your cheeks, to your brow, to the corners of your mouth. Between each one, his words fall like quiet waves: "Proud of you. Proud of you, baby. So proud." It's steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat made of syllables, each one as soft as the water brushing your skin. He says it like he means it every single time.
You breathe him in. The faint tang of chlorine. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips. Your head rests against his, noses brushing, and you let the sound of his voice fill the space where fear used to live. The world beyond the water doesn't matter. It feels like you've been folded into something endless, something that doesn't demand, only holds.
"Feels strange," you murmur after a long while, voice thin but steady. "I forgot what it was like—to move without thinking. To not fight myself for every little thing."
He hums, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "You don't have to fight right now," he says. "You just get to be. That's all. You and me. That's enough."
You swallow hard, words barely more than a whisper. "You make it sound so easy."
He smiles, a small, unguarded curve. "It is easy," he says, eyes soft. "With you, it always is." His voice catches slightly, a quiet honesty threading through. "Missed that smile. Missed you."
Something loosens inside you. You didn't realise how tightly you'd been holding yourself together until this moment—until you feel everything uncoil at once. The ache that's lived in your chest begins to ebb, replaced by warmth that spreads outward, slow and sure. You slip your arms around his neck, closing the small gap between you, and the world shrinks to the sound of water and breath. He holds you like it's the most natural thing in the world, his hand resting against the back of your neck, thumb stroking small, lazy circles there.
"You're here," he whispers, his breath ghosting against your ear. "You made it back."
You laugh softly, the sound trembling but true. "Couldn't have done it without you."
He huffs out a chuckle, kissing the edge of your jaw. "Nah. You were always gonna find your way here. I just kept the water warm."
The water moves gently around you as he spins you in a slow circle. The sound of his laugh mingles with the hush of the pool, the faint drip of condensation from the ceiling. The lights shimmer overhead, their glow refracted through ripples that dance across his face. You watch him through the blur, his expression open and unguarded.
You can hear the whisper of water lapping against tile, the echo of your own heartbeat steadying to match his. You study him—the strong lines softened by the low light, the unshakeable patience in his eyes. When you finally lean in, your lips meet his, slow and certain. The kiss is tender, unhurried. The taste of chlorine mixes with warmth, with everything that makes him feel like home.
When you part, you're still smiling, the expression wide and unbroken. The ache that once lived beneath your ribs has faded, replaced by something simple and profound. You belong—here, in the water, in this body, in the circle of his arms. The world outside could stop spinning, and it wouldn't matter. For now, there is only this: the steady rhythm of your breath, the shimmer of light, and Derek's hands holding you steady, as if he could keep you safe forever.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night with the kind of pain that makes your whole body feel like it's turning inside out.
Tags: disabled!reader, crohn's disease, depictions of chronic pain, bathroom scenes and chronic illness realism, cramps and joint pain, sick fic of sorts, hurt/comfort, aaron is so steady it hurts, no use of y/n, no dialogue-heavy scenes but so much tenderness, slow pacing for realism, domestic intimacy, you're not a burden and he proves it, this is what love looks like when things fall apart
Word count: 3.1k words.
The pain starts as a whisper.
A dull, curling pressure low in your abdomen, like a fist tightening deep inside your gut, slow and deliberate. At first, you try to ignore it. Stay wrapped in the fragile warmth of sleep, tangled in the cotton sheets that still smell faintly of lavender and Aaron. But it builds—twists. Sharpens. It carves through your core like hot wire. The quiet whimper you didn't mean to make betrays you.
You open your eyes to the darkness, the clock's red digits reading 3:14 AM. The air is thick and still, clinging to your skin like a film of sweat. You try not to breathe too deeply. It hurts. Everything hurts. Your stomach, yes, but also your knees, your hips, the aching throb of your joints pulsing in time with each sick twist of your intestines. Like fire laced through your bones. Your insides feel raw, scalded. There's pressure in your lower back now too, a deep, dragging ache that settles into your spine like rot. Your skin feels too tight, stretched over something fragile and breaking. The pain is familiar in a way that makes you want to scream. A grim reminder of your body's betrayal. Crohn's doesn't sleep, doesn't rest. It waits—like some cruel predator—ready to pounce the moment you begin to feel safe.
Beside you, Aaron sleeps on his back, one hand loosely resting on your waist, the other curled under his pillow. His breathing is slow, steady, unbothered. Peaceful in a way you rarely see. You don't want to wake him. You hate waking him. He works too much, carries too many people's pain on his shoulders, and you've never wanted to be another weight he has to bear. The man who faces down serial killers and cartel leaders shouldn't have to bear witness to this—your pain, your mess, your body's quiet collapse. And yet, he never flinches. Never pulls away.
So you lie still for a moment, hands curled into fists, clutching the sheet like it might anchor you to this bed, this moment. Willing the cramps away like a child hoping to magic away monsters in the dark. But your body has other plans. A restless, vengeful tide rising through your abdomen. The kind of pain that steals your breath, your voice, your dignity.
The next spasm is brutal. Violent. A white-hot bolt slicing through your insides, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving you shaking. You groan before you can stop it, curling into yourself as if that will somehow shield you from the relentless pressure. Your eyes sting. Your spine stiffens. You know what's coming. You always know.
It feels like your gut is wringing itself out from the inside, like your intestines are being twisted by invisible hands. Sweat starts to bead along your hairline, collecting at your temples, dampening the back of your neck. Your skin feels too tight. You're overheating and freezing all at once. Your hands tremble as they clench and unclench in the dark.
You shift, slowly, trying to sit up without making too much noise. Each movement feels magnified—laboured, aching. You slide one leg out from under the covers, then the other, bracing yourself on the edge of the bed. The floor is cold under your feet. Ice to your skin. You shiver, not entirely from the chill. Your vision swims for a moment as you stand. The walls tilt slightly, shadows thickening at the edges of your sight. You breathe through it, shallow and sharp. Your fingers brush the nightstand to steady yourself.
But you're not quick enough.
Aaron stirs the second you move.
"Hey," his voice is soft, sleep-rough but alert. He's with you in a breath. "You okay?"
You hesitate. "Just the cramps."
You don't have to say anything more. He's sitting up already, eyes sharp despite the hour, face set in that familiar expression—somewhere between fierce protectiveness and quiet, unwavering concern. There are no groggy complaints, no fumbling confusion. Just Aaron, exactly as he always is when it matters. Unshakable. Steady as a heartbeat. He shifts into that silent mode of his, all instinct and care, like a profiler reading a crime scene. Except this time, the crime scene is your body.
You try to wave him off with a half-hearted smile. "Go back to sleep. I'll be fine."
But he's already throwing the duvet back and standing. Barefoot, shirtless, rumpled. Warm skin, shadowed eyes. He crosses the room and puts a hand on your back—not pressure, just presence. A grounding point in the middle of the storm. His touch radiates warmth, careful and constant, and you lean into it without thinking.
"I'll wait outside the door."
You don't argue. You can't. You shuffle toward the bathroom, each step jarring the pain deeper. Every joint in your legs protests. Knees, ankles, hips—they all burn with that dull, grating ache you know too well. It's humiliating, even after all this time, the way your body forces you into these moments. Makes you fragile. Small. But you hear him pad behind you, quiet as ever, and it makes the whole thing feel a little less unbearable. You hate how much you've come to need that sound—the soft hush of his footsteps, the silent promise that you're not doing this alone.
The bathroom light is blinding. Your fingers fumble for the switch and wince at the harsh fluorescence. You close the door behind you and lean heavily against the sink, gripping the edge as another cramp crashes through you. Sweat breaks out along your forehead, slicking your skin. Your knees nearly buckle. It feels like you're being hollowed out from the inside. Scooped out and left to collapse. The mirror is a blur in front of you, reflecting a pale, ghostly version of yourself—cheekbones sharp, eyes sunken, lips bloodless. You look like you're barely holding yourself together.
You lower yourself onto the toilet, arms wrapped around your middle, eyes squeezed shut. The room is cold. The air feels sharp in your lungs. Your body is shaking, small tremors you can't control. You breathe through your nose, slow and shaky. Inhale. Exhale. Try not to cry. Try not to break apart on the bathroom tiles.
The joint pain creeps in at the edges, growing more insistent. Your wrists ache from gripping the porcelain. Your ankles throb from simply sitting. It's all connected—one long string of nerves, screaming. Your jaw aches from clenching. Even your elbows, your fingers, your neck—they're tight, pained, inflamed. It's like your body has declared mutiny and you are its prisoner. Every movement sparks a new flare of discomfort.
Outside the door, there's silence. But not the lonely kind.
You know he's there. Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, legs probably stretched out in front of him. Maybe his head's tilted back. Maybe his eyes are closed. But he's listening. Waiting. Grounded.
You imagine him tracing patterns on the hardwood with his fingertips. Checking his watch. Running a hand through his hair. But never leaving. Maybe he's scrolling through case notes on his phone, the screen turned low. Maybe he's just thinking—about you, about this, about all the times he's watched you hurt and couldn't fix it.
The diarrhoea comes in waves. Sharp, tearing cramps that have you doubled over, breathing in sharp, uneven bursts. You bite the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. The pain is hot and relentless, each wave crashing harder than the last. Your stomach clenches, your skin goes clammy. Your body is a battlefield, and tonight it feels like you're losing. And yet, you keep fighting—because what else is there?
You flush, wipe, breathe. Another wave hits. And another. The cycle repeats. Time blurs. You lose count. Minutes? Hours? The pain makes it hard to tell. All you can do is cling to the moments between the worst of it, trying to find small pockets of calm in the chaos. In those spaces, you think about Aaron. His steadiness. His devotion. The way he always comes when you need him—even when you don't say a word.
At some point, you whisper his name.
The response is immediate. "I'm here."
Three words. That's all. But they're everything.
You lean forward, resting your forehead against your knees, heart hammering in your chest, nausea curling in your throat. You think you might throw up. Your joints feel like they're on fire. But there's something anchoring in knowing he's just on the other side of the door. That he'll wait all night if he has to. That he already has, many times before. You remember the first time you let him see you like this—and how he didn't flinch then, either.
"I hate this," you manage, voice hoarse.
"I know." A pause. "I wish I could take it from you."
Your throat tightens. Tears sting your eyes. Not just from the pain, but from the ache of being so deeply seen.
Another cramp. Another round of burning, stinging discomfort. Your body seizes. Your muscles clench. You ride it out in silence. It passes slowly, like thick fog rolling back.
When you finally open the bathroom door, you do it slowly, carefully, as if the world outside might be too loud, too bright, too much. The hallway stretches in front of you like a landscape you're not quite ready to cross. Every inch of your body screams with exhaustion, as if your bones are made of glass and every step could shatter you.
Your limbs are trembling, your skin clammy. Every muscle in your body feels spent, hollowed out and left echoing. You brace yourself against the doorframe for just a moment, blinking against the hallway's dim light. Your knees threaten to buckle. The sweat cooling on your body sends shivers racing up your spine. Your mouth is dry, lips cracked, and you can still taste the bitterness of nausea in the back of your throat. The pain has dulled into a throbbing ache, but it's still there, buried deep. Like the echo of thunder long after the storm has passed. Every movement feels tentative, fragile.
Aaron is already rising to his feet.
He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't need to. His movements are quick but gentle, full of purpose. There's no panic in him—just calm, practiced tenderness. He meets you halfway, hands out, gaze steady, the very definition of reassurance. His hand touches your elbow as though grounding you, reminding you that you're safe.
Wordlessly, he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you. One arm around your back, the other supporting your shoulders as if he's afraid you might collapse—and maybe you would. You melt into him. Let yourself. He smells like sleep and warmth and something solid. Something safe. You rest your cheek against his chest and just breathe him in. The rise and fall of his breathing steadies yours. It's rhythmic, like waves brushing up against sand—calming, slow, inevitable.
"Come here," he murmurs, voice low, barely above a whisper, and you let him guide you away from the bathroom.
He doesn't steer you back toward the bedroom.
Instead, he leads you to the living room, dimly lit by the soft glow of a nearby lamp. The couch is already prepared: a blanket folded over one side, an extra pillow propped up at the end. He must've set it up while you were inside. There's even a water bottle on the coffee table and a small heating pad plugged in beside the armrest. A packet of pain meds sits unopened nearby, just in case you need them later. There's even a small candle flickering on the windowsill—lavender and sage. You didn't see him light it, but somehow it's burning.
You lower yourself slowly, and he helps you find a position that doesn't make you wince. Propped up, supported. Not flat like the bed. You hate lying flat after a flare. You've told him that before, and—of course—he remembered. Of course he did. He always remembers.
He drapes the blanket over your shoulders, then tucks it in around you like it's a ritual. A quiet sort of reverence in the way his hands smooth the fabric. You feel cocooned, held in place by care alone. His thumb brushes your temple before he sits down beside you, moving slowly so he doesn't jar the cushion or shift your body.
"Legs up," he says gently.
You don't argue. You lift them, slowly, and he pulls them across his lap, careful not to jar your joints. His hands rest just above your shins, warm and unmoving for a moment, grounding. You sigh, and he leans back, adjusting one of the cushions behind your back until you nod faintly. His hands are calloused but soft in motion, brushing lightly over your skin.
He settles in like he's got nowhere else to be. Like there's no time but this. No place but here. He watches your face with quiet concentration, like he's studying you for signs of pain he can ease. Every breath you take, every small wince, registers with him. His gaze never wavers. You're the centre of his universe in this moment.
"You didn't have to get up," you say quietly, voice rasped and raw.
"I did," he says, without hesitation.
There's no guilt in his voice. No pity. Just certainty. A gentle, immovable kind of devotion. The kind that lives in quiet actions more than words.
Your eyes close for a moment. The blanket is soft, the room still. The silence between you isn't empty. It's full—of knowing, of years, of every night like this one that came before. Of memories held in quiet spaces and words unsaid. The ticking of the clock blends with your breathing, creating its own kind of rhythm. You hear the hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the occasional creak of the house settling. It's the sound of life continuing around your pain.
A fresh ripple of pain moves through you, and you flinch.
Aaron's hand moves instantly to your ankle, fingers curling gently around it. "Breathe."
"I am." You exhale shakily. "I just—God, I hate this."
"I know."
He doesn't tell you to be strong. Doesn't give you platitudes. He just stays. His thumb strokes slowly along your shin, an absent motion. Soothing. Steady. Present. His presence isn't loud. It's a heartbeat—subtle, constant.
Another cramp hits, sharper this time. You grimace, shifting slightly, curling in on yourself.
Aaron leans forward, voice soft. "Want me to read?"
You blink. "Read?"
He nods toward the coffee table. A book sits there—something you've both been working through together. His copy of The Secret History, bookmarked and dog-eared, pages full of his small, neat notes. There's even a scrap of paper with your handwriting tucked inside it—a quote you loved, underlined in pen. He reaches for it like it's a lifeline.
"I'll read," he says again, already flipping to the page.
You nod, just once. "Yeah. Okay."
He opens the book without fanfare, flips to the right page, and starts reading.
His voice is low and measured, the cadence of it wrapping around you like another blanket. You let the words wash over you—familiar, steady. The sharp edges of your pain blur a little under the rhythm of his voice. It doesn't make the cramps stop. But it makes them… less lonely. You focus on the timbre of his voice, on the pauses, the emphasis, the way he gives life to each line. It becomes the only thing anchoring you in your body.
You close your eyes again, and his voice keeps going. He doesn't pause when you gasp or shift. He just reads. He doesn't stop when you tense up. When you make another painful trip to the bathroom an hour later, he helps you up and waits again, and when you return, weaker than before, he doesn't comment. He just resettles you and picks up right where he left off. Like nothing's changed. Like it's normal.
Sometimes he touches your hair, smoothing it away from your face. Sometimes he just holds your hand. When the cramps come, he pauses his reading to murmur things under his breath—soft reassurances, quiet affirmations.
"I've got you."
"It's okay. Just breathe."
"You're doing so well."
"You're not alone."
And each time, those words land somewhere deep in you.
Eventually, the cramps soften. Not gone, but dulled. Your breathing slows. You feel wrung out, but calmer. Like the storm has passed, leaving you soaked but still standing. The pain hasn't disappeared, but you're no longer drowning in it. You're floating, tethered to him.
Aaron closes the book and sets it down quietly.
He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand, cradling it in both of his. His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles, grounding you all over again.
You look over at him.
His expression is so open it makes your chest ache. There's no trace of exhaustion in his eyes, even though it's nearly dawn. Just care. Just love. Just him—wholly here, fully yours. You don't have to ask if he's tired. He won't leave.
"You don't have to do this alone," he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world.
And this time—maybe for the first time—you believe him.
Your fingers tighten around his. You nod, tears prickling your eyes again, but these ones aren't from pain. You feel them catch in your lashes, spill silently down your cheeks.
"I know."
And for once, you mean it.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Then another. Slow, soft, like he's memorising the feel of you. You let your head rest against the arm of the couch, and he shifts closer, careful not to disturb your legs. His arm curls behind your back, and you feel his breath at your temple.
The sun starts to rise outside, casting pale gold across the floorboards. It paints the room in soft, warm light—transforming it from a place of pain into a sanctuary. It glows in his hair, catches on the edges of his jaw.
You don't sleep. Neither does he. You just stay like that—quiet, connected, alive. His fingers still threaded with yours, his warmth beside you a constant reminder that you're not alone.
Chapter Summary: Hotch walks you to your car in the rain. You get the sense he's not just trying to keep you dry.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, mobility aid use, cerebral palsy representation, no use of y/n, rainstorm logistics with crutches, hotch is back at it again with the gentlest attentiveness, flirting, emotional tension, lingering looks and soft silences, subtle courtship, he held the umbrella like a promise, reader is flustered and trying to play it cool, aaron hotchner sees everything and says very little but it still wrecks you, soft!hotch if you squint, crutch safety and rainy parking lot hazards, canon-typical quantico setting
Taglist: @beardedhotchner, @khaleesibeach
Rain lashes the pavement in heavy sheets, turning the Quantico parking lot into a mess of puddles and distorted reflections. You stand just inside the glass lobby doors, coat zipped up to your chin, watching the downpour through a sheen of streaked glass. The overhead fluorescents flicker faintly above you, humming in time with the storm. Your forearm crutches are planted carefully beside your boots, tips still dry, though that won't last.
You'd hoped the rain would let up. You've given it fifteen minutes already, standing there like a statue, waiting for mercy. But it's not slowing. If anything, it's getting worse. You can barely see the cars anymore through the grey curtain that's swallowed the world beyond the door. Every time a vehicle passes the main road, the splash is audible even through the thick glass, echoing like something pulled from a memory. The lobby smells faintly of coffee and damp wool, and the heater near the bench clicks on and off with a mechanical cough. You've read the same three signs on the wall at least a dozen times. You checked your phone twice. No updates. No breaks in the radar.
You're not in the handicap spot today. Someone beat you to it this morning, and with the rest of the lot already full, you had to park halfway down the next aisle, where the curb cut isn't quite level and the pavement slopes unpleasantly. It's not ideal on a good day. It means walking farther, thinking harder about every step, and knowing you'll be more sore tomorrow because of it. You don't complain—it wouldn't matter if you did—but you notice. Your body always notices. Every uneven tilt of the sidewalk, every crack in the pavement, every added strain you didn't budget for. Today it weighs a little heavier.
Your coat, bought secondhand two years ago, lost its waterproofing sometime last winter. The wind bites through the seams now, and the idea of walking all the way to your car in this storm, with no umbrella and both hands occupied with crutches, is suddenly less inconvenient and more outright dangerous. You know better than to trust wet pavement. Especially when both your hands are busy and your legs are already working overtime. Your palms ache from the pressure of the grips. You can already feel tomorrow's bruises blooming just beneath the skin. The thought of going down, of falling in front of half the building, makes your stomach churn.
You shift your weight slightly, testing your balance. Maybe if you go slow, if you angle your steps just right, you can avoid the worst of the slick patches. It'll be miserable, but you've done worse. You've weathered worse. You square your shoulders. You're just about to make your move when a voice breaks through the hum of rain.
"You planning to swim home?"
You turn, startled. Aaron Hotchner is standing a few feet behind you, umbrella folded neatly in one hand, briefcase in the other, like he's been waiting for the right moment to make his entrance. He's completely dry, of course. Crisp suit. Dry tie. Hair just slightly tousled like the wind hadn't quite dared to touch it. There's a faint smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, like he's said this line in his head already and enjoyed the delivery.
You blink at him. "What?"
He nods toward the downpour. "It's a little early in the year for diving practice, don't you think?"
You let out a short laugh, brushing your damp sleeve across your forehead. "I'll figure it out. It's just rain."
"You've been standing here long enough to grow roots."
"I was hoping the storm might get bored and wander off."
"Mm. Storms are stubborn."
He steps closer, glancing toward the doors with a faint frown. "You don't have an umbrella."
"Yeah, well." You lift your crutches slightly, just enough for emphasis. "Hard to juggle."
"Noticed that," he says dryly. His gaze flicks briefly to your hands, then returns to your face. "You really didn't think to train a third arm for this kind of situation?"
"It's on backorder," you mutter, rolling your eyes, though you can feel your cheeks warming.
"Government logistics. Never fast enough. I should pull some strings."
"Let me guess. You know a guy in extra limbs?"
"I know a guy in everything," he replies smoothly.
You shake your head, biting down a smile. "You must have a very full contact list."
"It's organised by usefulness and sass level. You'd rank pretty high in both."
You sputter a laugh and look away, heart jumping embarrassingly fast.
Before you can recover, he adds, "Come on. I'll walk you."
You blink again. "It's fine, really. You don't have to."
His expression doesn't shift. If anything, the look in his eyes grows more pointed.
"Quantico doesn't pay you enough to break your neck in the parking lot. Besides," his mouth tilts in that dry, amused way he does when he's already made up his mind, "I've got a reputation to maintain. Can't have witnesses thinking I left someone to drown right outside the front door."
Before you can protest, he's already nudging the door open with his shoulder, unfurling the umbrella in one smooth motion. He turns back to you, extending a hand—not to take yours, just to offer space beneath the wide arc of fabric.
"I'll keep you dry. Promise."
You hesitate only a second longer before stepping forward, matching his stride as you head out into the storm together. The wind catches immediately, tugging at your coat, your hair, but you stay dry—completely, impossibly dry—beneath the canopy of his umbrella. He adjusts the angle with unconscious precision every time you shift, tilting it closer to your side than his own.
"You're sure you're not getting soaked?" you ask, frowning at the tilt.
"I've been wetter," he says casually, then gives a beat before adding, "But that's a story for another day. One that starts with bourbon."
You make a soft choking sound. He doesn't look at you, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch.
"You always this dramatic when it rains?" he asks a moment later, tone light.
"Only when it's personal," you reply, deadpan.
"Ah. So the rain's got a vendetta."
"It started this morning when someone took my parking space. The clouds clearly sensed weakness."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Remind me to file an official complaint on your behalf. Maybe slip in a request for a personal driver."
"Sure. And maybe a heated tunnel straight from my apartment."
"Now you're thinking like upper management."
You smile, heart beating too quickly. He says nothing about your slower pace. Doesn't comment when your right foot slips slightly on the edge of a puddle, doesn't flinch when you instinctively brace harder against the left crutch to compensate. Instead, he talks.
"You know, I almost stayed late," he says, as though it's a casual observation and not completely out of character. "But then I remembered something better was waiting outside."
You glance at him. "A thunderstorm?"
His mouth curves. "Not quite."
He adjusts the umbrella again, just a little, barely noticeable. You feel the edge of its cover shift slightly to the right, sheltering your exposed hand as you move the crutch forward.
"You're very prepared," you murmur, not quite able to meet his eyes.
"I try."
A pause. Then, in that same steady tone: "I like having a reason to be."
The words settle heavily in your chest, confusing and strange. You blink at the sidewalk, heart thudding, unsure if you've imagined the softness in his voice or if it's just the storm warping everything.
He glances sideways at you. "You're quiet all of a sudden."
"Just concentrating," you say quickly. "Rain and crutches aren't exactly a dream combo."
"I'd offer to carry you," he says, tone bone-dry, "but I suspect you'd hit me with one of those crutches."
You huff a breath, half a laugh. "Absolutely. Without hesitation."
"Noted," he says, but he's still smiling—barely, subtly, like he's amused with himself. "I'll have to wait for a day when you're slightly less armed."
"That's never," you murmur.
"Then I suppose I'll just have to keep earning your tolerance the old-fashioned way."
You glance at him again, brow furrowing. "With weather-related rescues?"
"With persistence," he replies smoothly. Then, a beat later, "Though umbrellas do help."
He falls quiet for a few strides, the sound of your steps and the soft thump of crutches on wet pavement filling the space. But he doesn't look bored, or restless. Just content.
"You always park this far away?" he asks finally.
"Only when I lose the disability space. Someone beat me to it this morning."
"Rough luck."
"Tell me about it," you mutter. "I thought about parking on the grass out of spite."
"Tempting," he says, then adds, "But I don't think the Bureau would appreciate your creativity."
You shrug. "Might be worth it."
"I'd defend you in the disciplinary hearing," he offers lightly.
You look at him, startled. "You would?"
"Absolutely," he says. "With great conviction. Probably even bring visual aids."
Your laughter spills out before you can stop it, warm despite the cold. He glances at you again, that barely-there smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
And then he adds, just under his breath, "Rain looks better on you than on most people."
You blink at him. "What?"
He clears his throat, looking away with exaggerated innocence. "Nothing. Must be the weather."
You roll your eyes, cheeks heating all over again, but you can't help yourself from smiling.
Your car comes into view slowly, its familiar shape outlined in beads of water and distorted reflections, headlights from the streetlamps bending across its slick surface. The tyres are half-drowned in puddles, your windscreen misted from the inside, wipers frozen mid-arc like they gave up halfway through. You slow instinctively, drawing in a steadying breath. The rain hasn't let up—it pounds steadily on the umbrella, each droplet a tiny drumbeat, rhythmic and relentless. But you barely notice now. Not with him beside you.
Hotch walks you the last few feet without a word, close enough that the edge of his coat brushes your sleeve every so often. His umbrella shifts slightly as the wind gusts, but he adjusts it with quiet precision, making sure not a drop lands on you. The path is slick, your pace slow, but he keeps step with you easily. Never impatient. Never looking ahead to where he could be, only focused on where you are.
When you reach the car, he angles the umbrella in closer still, practically wrapping you in dry silence. He says nothing at first—just moves around you, fingers brushing the door handle. Then he opens the door.
Not as a grand gesture. Not with exaggerated politeness. Just a simple, fluid motion, like he's done it before. Like it's the most natural thing in the world to open your door for you. And then he lingers.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, he stays close—one hand still on the door, the other loosely holding the umbrella between you. The rain spills beyond it in every direction, washing out the world around the small circle of quiet you occupy together. The air smells like wet pavement, cheap coffee from somewhere down the block, and something faintly citrus that might be from his aftershave. You don't look at him right away, afraid that if you meet his eyes now, your knees might give out altogether.
Then his voice breaks through the stillness.
"Consider this my selfish excuse to get a few more minutes with you before you disappear for the night," he says, voice pitched low and even, but not without a hint of something warmer curling beneath the surface.
You glance at him, startled. Your heart does something unhelpful and dramatic. "What?"
He meets your eyes without flinching. There's no smirk this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. Just sincerity, held steady in the flicker of his gaze.
"I'm just saying," he continues, voice as calm as ever, "the end of the day's a little less dull when I can end it with you."
You laugh it off, breath catching in your throat. "That sounds dangerously close to flattery, Agent Hotchner."
"Does it?" His brow arches faintly, a glint of dry amusement sliding into his tone. "Maybe I'm slipping."
"Uncharacteristically sentimental," you murmur, trying to keep the moment light. Your cheeks are warm, and it's definitely not from the weather. "Rain must be affecting your judgment."
"Could be," he says. Then, after a pause, his tone dips quieter, more careful. "Or maybe I just wanted to see you smile again."
You freeze for a second—just a second—before laughing again, nervous and a little breathless. You shake your head, brushing it off as a joke, because that's safer than asking what he actually means. That's easier than holding his gaze and wondering if you've misunderstood every careful thing he's said since the moment he walked you out.
He lets you deflect. Doesn't press. Just watches you for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. You can't decipher it, but it sits in your chest anyway, curled and heavy. The moment stretches, unspoken things rising like steam between you, and still, he says nothing else.
The rain seems quieter for it. Like the storm, too, is listening.
Then he steps back.
"Drive safe," he says, softer now, almost reluctant. Like he wants to say something else. Like he's leaving something unsaid on purpose.
You nod, lips curved in a smile you can't quite suppress. "I will."
He waits until you're seated, until you've carefully lowered yourself into the seat and drawn your crutches in with practiced ease. He shifts the umbrella to cover the door while you close it, shielding you to the very last moment. You see him glance toward your legs—not with pity, not even concern. Just observation. Attentiveness. It's nothing and everything all at once.
Then he steps back fully, rain swallowing him again.
Through the glass, you catch a glimpse of him still watching as you fumble for the keys with fingers that tremble slightly. Your window fogs at the edges, condensation curling in ghostly spirals. You hear the engine turn over, see your headlights blink to life, casting golden streaks across the rain-streaked asphalt. He nods once, just enough to be seen.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't turn away right away. He just stands there for a moment longer, watching your car idle. As though he's reluctant to let the night end. As though he's memorising the outline of you, just in case.
You catch him in the rearview as you pull away—just a shape in the mist, tall and still and utterly focused. He doesn't go inside until your taillights vanish. You see that too. Somehow, you feel it.
You don't stop smiling the whole drive home. Not once. Not through the traffic lights glowing like jewels in the downpour, not through the quiet songs on the radio that suddenly all feel like they were chosen with you in mind, not through the puddles that ripple beneath your tyres or the steam that gathers gently on your windows. You find yourself humming, your fingers tapping idly against the wheel.
You think about his voice. The way it had gone softer, warmer, in the space between sentences. The way he always looked at you like he knew something you didn't. Something just out of reach. The echo of that line rolls through you again and again, setting off little chain reactions in your chest.
The end of the day's a little less dull when I can end it with you.
You keep hearing it. Keep seeing the way he looked at you when he said it. Not like you were something fragile. But like you were something important.
You wonder, not for the first time, if he's like this with everyone. But somehow, you know. You know he isn't. He isn't the kind of man who says things he doesn't mean. And certainly not like that.
The thought burrows deeper with every mile, slipping between your ribs like a secret. The way he slowed his steps for you without a single word. The way he never once made you feel like a burden. How his voice had that quiet gravity, like he wasn't just being kind—he was being deliberate.
You wonder what he would've said if you hadn't laughed it off.
Would he have admitted he liked walking beside you? Would he have lingered longer, asked for something small—a phone number, a promise to let him do it again?
You grip the steering wheel tighter. Not because you're afraid, but because you want to remember exactly how this moment feels. The weight of his words still wrapped around you like the umbrella he held, sheltering you from the cold you didn't realise had sunk so deep.
You don't even notice how soaked your coat is. You don't care. Because your chest is warm and strange and light, and every word he said replays in your head with perfect clarity.
I am in love with this series. Fuck this was so cute and oh my god the flirting and the care and the - honestly literally everything. I can’t get enough
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You didn't think an afternoon outside would hit you this hard.
Tags: disabled!reader, lupus flare, depictions of chronic pain, post-exertional malaise, reader has a complex relationship with her limits, jack being a sweet kid, aaron being the most dependable man alive, hurt/comfort, soft domesticity, reader collapses, family dynamics with chronic illness, reader doesn't have to ask to be cared for, background parenting, emotional exhaustion, physical exhaustion, flare care, aaron knows your meds by heart, reader is not a burden here
Word count: 3.3k words
You didn't think an afternoon outside would hit you this hard.
It was supposed to be easy. Lighthearted. Jack's school picnic—just a few hours on a patchy lawn with checkered blankets and sticky juice boxes, the air filled with the sharp sweetness of sun-warmed grass and children's laughter. A break, you'd told yourself. A breath. A sliver of normality, of sunshine and warmth and the feel of plastic cups sweating in your hand. You brought a folding chair with a cupholder and SPF 50 in your bag, even wore the wide-brimmed hat Aaron teased you about but still helped tie beneath your chin. You stayed in the shade. Drank water. Paced yourself. You were careful. You laughed when Jack tried to show off his cartwheel and landed flat on his back, smiled at other parents and teachers, even managed to eat half a sandwich despite the lump in your throat that always comes when you're worried about overdoing it.
But normal doesn't come easy. Not for you. Not when every day is a balancing act between participating and preserving. Not when a few hours in a park can mean days of recovery. You can feel it beginning as you pack up your things—the slight tremble in your fingers, the way your muscles pull too tightly as you stand. By the time Jack hugs his friends goodbye, there's a hollow ache spreading through your spine, a low, simmering buzz of discomfort that whispers what you're not ready to admit.
And yet.
Now, your limbs feel like wet sandbags. Heavy and unstable, shifting just enough under your skin to make every movement a negotiation. Your joints burn. A slow, steady flare that started as a whisper behind your knees and wrists but now crackles like wildfire under the surface. A deep, aching inflammation, like someone's pumping molten iron through your veins instead of blood. Your skin flushes hot and tight, too tight, like it might split with any sudden movement. Your temples pulse with the dull throb of dehydration and sun and the kind of exhaustion that feels like it's carved straight from your bones. It's not just tiredness—it's bone-deep weariness, an anchor dragging through every limb, every thought. Even your eyelids feel too heavy. Even your breath feels like labour.
You don't remember unlocking the front door.
Just the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes. The sound of Jack's voice somewhere behind you, cheerful but far away. Aaron's hand—warm, steady, firm at your lower back—guiding you with that silent, assured urgency that only comes when he's switched from husband to protector. You barely register the cool of the house as you step inside, the shift in air pressure, the way your body almost sighs despite the pain. Jack's chatter fades into the background—muffled, distant, like a radio left on in another room—as the couch appears in your vision like a lifeline. You reach for it with trembling fingers and barely make it before your legs give out.
You sink. Collapse. A gasp claws its way from your throat as gravity claims you. Your muscles seize, then release all at once, like a puppet with its strings cut. Your breath stutters. The living room spins. The ceiling swims above you in soft white static. You can barely tilt your head back to rest it against the cushion. It feels like being submerged under water, every sound and sensation warped and dulled. Your chest tightens with the effort it takes to simply exist.
Aaron is there before you can even ask. Of course he is.
He drops to his knees beside the couch with the sharp focus of someone trained to triage disaster. Shoes first—your trainers tugged off gently, as if they might bruise you with too much haste. Then a glass of water, cold enough that condensation runs down his fingers when he presses it into your palm. You don't have the strength to thank him. But you don't have to.
"Flare?" he asks softly, but there's no mistaking the edge of urgency in his voice.
You nod, barely. The motion makes your vision lurch. A sick swirl of vertigo spins your stomach. You close your eyes and breathe through the spike of nausea. One inhale. One exhale. Like waves crashing against the shore inside your skull. Your hands tremble. Even your fingertips ache. You focus on Aaron's voice, the only steady thing in the sea of static. It's tethering, that voice. Familiar and calm and so achingly kind.
He's moving before you can answer aloud. Curtains—drawn tight to block out the low autumn sun that now feels like a personal enemy. Fan—clicking on with a low hum even though you're already shivering under the heat burning in your joints. Meds—rattling in the kitchen drawer before he returns with them in his palm like an offering. The exact pills you need, no hesitation. He's memorised it all. Every bottle, every dose, the ones that make you nauseous if you haven't eaten, the ones that need to be spaced apart. He kneels down again and gently places each tablet into your hand like they're precious, sacred things.
You don't have to reach. He holds the glass steady while you sip. One pill at a time. You grimace at the taste, bitter and chalky, and he sees it—gives you the faintest half-smile, as if to say, I know, I hate it too. But neither of you says anything. You're conserving energy. He's conserving space for you to just exist. His fingertips brush your temple for a brief second, cooling your flushed skin. Then your cheek. Then your wrist, checking your pulse with the gentleness of someone who's done this a hundred times before.
From the hallway, a pair of small feet shuffle on hardwood. Jack. You feel the ache in your chest twist, more emotional than physical this time. You hate that he sees this. Hate that he knows what it means when your body betrays you. He shouldn't have to grow up with this version of you stitched into the background. He should remember the laughter, the cartwheels, the games—not the collapse, the stillness, the quiet panic behind your eyes. But children are always watching. Always learning.
But Aaron turns his head and calls to him gently, "Come here, buddy."
Jack hesitates for half a second before padding closer, a crease between his brows. His eyes dart between you and Aaron, assessing, piecing together meaning from silence. You can see his mind working, little gears turning behind his eyes.
"Is she sick?" he asks, his voice small but brave.
Aaron nods, his voice quiet but steady. "Just a flare-up. Remember what we talked about?"
Jack nods back. "That sometimes her body gets tired in ways we can't see."
"That's right. And we help her rest."
There's something so steady in the way Aaron says it. Not patronising. Not sugarcoated. Just honest. And Jack listens, nods again, and accepts it. Because that's what Aaron's taught him—how to respond to invisible things with compassion instead of fear. How to show up without demanding answers. How to be present even when things don't make sense.
Aaron takes the throw blanket from the back of the couch and passes one end to Jack, who fumbles but manages to unfold it with determined fingers. Together, they drape it over your legs. It smells faintly of lavender and the last time you did laundry, and the soft weight of it brings a flicker of comfort. Familiarity. Home. Jack tucks the corner near your foot with extra care. You offer him a tired smile. He beams in return, proud of himself.
Aaron's hand finds yours again, grounding you. His thumb brushes slow, rhythmic circles into your palm. A wordless message: I'm here. I've got you. You're safe. You can stop bracing. You let your head fall slightly to the side so it rests nearer to him. He shifts to support you, his knee nudging the base of the couch, like he needs the contact too.
"You're okay," he murmurs. "Just let it pass."
You swallow hard against the lump in your throat, your chest tightening—not just from pain, but from the intimacy of it all. From the gentleness. The way he reads you like a case file, scanning for every sign, every shift, anticipating your needs before you name them. The way Jack mirrors him, brave and solemn, like caring for you is sacred work. Reverent, even in the face of fear. Neither of them flinches. Neither of them looks away. You are not a burden here. You are not too much.
Your eyes flutter shut again. Not because you want to sleep—though your body begs for it—but because the world is quieter when you can't see it. Easier. The fan hums. The curtain edges lift in the breeze. Your breathing slows, shallow but steadier now. Somewhere in the kitchen, the fridge clicks on with a low, familiar rumble. A bird outside chirps twice before falling silent.
Jack curls up on the floor near your knees, a picture book resting in his lap. He glances up at you every so often, eyes wide, not asking questions, just watching. Learning. Loving. His thumb strokes the corner of the page like he's waiting to read to you if you ask. He hums to himself, soft and tuneless, filling the space with something that sounds like peace.
Aaron stays at your side. His hand never leaves yours. The weight of him, the certainty, the calm—it anchors you. His presence settles the air around you like snowfall. Quiet. Unmoving. Protective. His free hand strokes your hair once, twice, brushing it gently back from your temple before letting it rest against your cheek.
And for the first time in hours, you let yourself breathe.
Not the shallow, clipped breaths you've been rationing out of necessity, but something quieter. Slower. It doesn't come all at once—it trickles in, fragile and uncertain, like your lungs are remembering how to trust the air again. You're still aching. Still raw. But for a moment, there's space between the pulses of pain, and you rest inside it.
Aaron's thumb traces the back of your hand again. The blanket is warm. Jack's humming drifts into something melodic, though you can't quite place the tune. The fan continues its low whir, a lullaby in disguise.
Your body remains heavy, weighted by exhaustion that medicine can't touch. Your eyelids sag again. Stay closed longer this time. Your breath deepens without trying. Each muscle slackens by degrees, slowly, like surrender. And then you slip—gently, soundlessly—into sleep.
The soft clink of dishes is what wakes you.
Muted and methodical, ceramic against ceramic, cupboard doors easing shut, water running low. It filters through the fog in your brain slowly, like light through thick curtains. Your eyes stay closed for a few seconds longer, mind caught between sleep and waking, limbs too heavy to test just yet. There's a dull, familiar ache echoing through your joints, a lingering heat in your skin—less intense than before but still present, like the embers left behind after a fire has gone out. You shift minutely beneath the blanket, trying to test your body without waking it too much. The soreness is sharp in some places, muffled in others. It doesn't surprise you. It's just what is.
But there's calm now, threaded through the pain. A quiet steadiness that didn't exist earlier. The air in the room feels still but not stagnant, touched with the faint hum of the fan and the clean, citrusy scent of whatever soap Aaron used to wash the mugs. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear a bird call and a car driving past. Ordinary sounds. Peaceful sounds. It's not the absence of pain that grounds you—it's the presence of him, even in another room. His care lingers in the air like the warmth from a candle that's just been blown out. Not gone—just quiet. Present in absence.
You let your eyes drift open. The living room is dim, muted gold light stretching long shadows across the carpet. Jack is gone now, probably in his room or curled up with a book somewhere. The blanket's still tucked around you, the corners smoothed like someone checked them more than once. The couch beneath you is warm. The pillow under your head smells faintly of detergent and Aaron's aftershave. There's a weight in the room—not heavy, not uncomfortable, just full. Like the house is holding its breath with you.
Aaron's absence is temporary; you can feel it. The way you can feel a storm coming in your bones. You know he wouldn't go far. He never does when you're like this. You trust him in a way that is primal, instinctive. Your body relaxes even before he's back in the room, responding to something deeper than sound or sight.
You hear the sound of a kettle click off. The familiar weight of footsteps, measured and quiet, heading your way. There's a small, scraping noise—spoon against porcelain, maybe. A cupboard door shutting gently. The low creak of a drawer being opened and closed again. And then he's there—rounding the corner from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands, his sleeves rolled up, the collar of his shirt rumpled like he's been running his hand through his hair. His eyes are tired but kind. He looks like he hasn't sat down since you drifted off. There's tension in his shoulders that he's trying to hide, but you can read him like a well-loved book. He's been carrying the weight of the day in silence.
He sees you awake and smiles. It's small, but it reaches his eyes. He crouches beside the couch, sets one mug down on the table, and offers you the other, cradling it carefully in both hands like he's passing you something sacred.
"Chamomile," he says gently. "Still hot. Hold it when you're ready."
You murmur a quiet thank-you, your voice rasped from disuse and rest. He doesn't expect you to say more. Just sits down beside you, careful not to jostle the cushion, and settles one arm lightly along the back of the couch. His other hand finds your arm—fingertips brushing in slow, soothing strokes from elbow to wrist, over the blanket. The contact is gentle, grounding. It tells your nervous system it can stop fighting now.
"Next time," he murmurs, voice low and fond, "I'm bringing a beach umbrella the size of a car."
A broken laugh slips out of you. Cracked and quiet, but genuine. You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. "Next time," you croak, "I'm sending you both and watching from the window."
Aaron huffs a soft laugh, leans in, and presses a kiss to your cheek—featherlight, reverent. His thumb strokes along your forearm again, then stills. He doesn't need to say more in that moment. The warmth of him, the softness in his touch, the way he looks at you—it's all a language you've learned to understand over years of tenderness and trials.
"You scared me a little today," he says finally. Not as a confession, but a truth placed gently between you. "You hid it well, until you couldn't."
Your eyes fall closed again, not to sleep, but to bear the weight of his words. You know he's not blaming you. It's not a reprimand. It's grief—for how hard you tried. How hard you always try. He knows you don't want to be the reason a day becomes heavy. He knows you'd rather suffer silently than see it reflected in Jack's eyes.
"I didn't want to ruin it for Jack," you whisper. "He was so happy."
Aaron doesn't answer right away. Just rests his hand over yours, his fingers curling around the curve of your palm like he's holding something fragile. You feel his thumb move in small, slow circles. His silence is full, thoughtful. Not avoidance—presence. He takes a breath and presses your hand to his chest, like he's letting you feel his heartbeat in response.
"You didn't ruin anything," he says. "You were there. That's what he'll remember."
The tea cools slowly between your palms, untouched but comforting. The steam rises in soft curls, fogging the rim of the mug. Aaron leans into the cushions beside you, his body quiet, present. His presence hums at your side—warm, constant, steady. You breathe him in. He smells like tea and soap and something faintly woodsy. A clean, grounding scent. Safe.
You shift slightly, just enough to lean your shoulder against his. Not fully, not with your joints still aching and your muscles stiff, but enough to share space, to let him carry some of the weight of this quiet moment. He doesn't move, doesn't tense. He just lets you rest against him, his hand still folded gently over yours. He lets out a breath, one of those soft exhales that feels like it carries the weight of his whole day.
"Do you want anything else?" he asks softly. "Another blanket? Something to eat?"
You shake your head, the motion barely perceptible. You can't imagine eating. Your body's still locked in that strange space between survival and recovery, but you're here. That's enough. That's everything.
He nods, brushing a hand over your hair, fingertips combing gently through the strands. The rhythm is slow, meditative. He's not trying to lull you back to sleep—he's simply there. Steady. Reliable. Loved. When his hand pauses, you know it's because he's watching you again, always making sure.
Outside, the sun begins to dip lower, casting the room in richer golds. The sky out the window is brushed in soft pinks and oranges, like the world itself is winding down. A soft breeze stirs the curtain, just enough to bring in the scent of cooling earth. You stare at it for a moment, lost in the quiet. In the stillness. There's a sense of being suspended in amber, like time has folded itself around this moment and made space for it to last.
In the background, the house murmurs its familiar chorus—pipes shifting in the walls, a floorboard creaking above, the rustle of leaves through the slightly cracked window. You catch the distant sound of Jack laughing, a bright note muffled by a closed door. It doesn't draw anxiety anymore, just a small swell of comfort.
And though your body still protests, and the fatigue hasn't left, you feel something else settle in your chest. Not relief. Not ease. But something softer. Not quite peace—but something adjacent to it. Something that says: this moment is yours. And you are not alone in it.
And with Aaron beside you, with the last of the light slipping over the horizon and the scent of tea curling into your nose, you let yourself stay there. Not because it's perfect. Not because the pain is gone. But because here—cocooned in quiet and warmth and the steady rhythm of someone who loves you—you can finally exhale.
You lean your head a little further into him. He doesn't shift, doesn't speak, just presses a kiss to your hairline and lets you settle. Your breath begins to slow again, your body loosening in increments. The ache is still there, the fog still clinging to your muscles, but sleep is creeping back in with the weight of a wave.
And this time, when it pulls you under, you don't resist.
You just let go. Safe in the warmth of Aaron's presence.
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
Headcanons for being Tony’s child and attending MIT
Tony Stark x child!reader
warnings:
a/n: literally wrote half of this with riri in it and then realized she wouldn’t have been at MIT in 2016 you dont know how mad i was. also i haven’t seen cacw in so long so the timeline may be a lil off. ig this has little to do with MIT. it’s short.
prompt:
you showed up to the presentation for your dad
he presented the "B.A.R.F." device and announced his grant to your classmates
truth be told it was eerie seeing your father's younger self and your dead grandparents as a hologram in front of half the school
you ran to catch him in the service hallway sitting on the floor clutching a photo of a stranger
“dad? what are you doing?” -you kneeling beside him “what is that?”
“we killed him” -tony holding the picture of charlie spencer “he was in sokovia and we dropped a building on him”
“dad, cmon, don’t think like—” -you, getting cut off
“you weren’t there, y/n!” -tony shouting “ultron wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me. for the avengers.”
you stared at him wide eyed. he looked so guilty and shaken. you knew he was still hurt over the pepper break (up)
“his mom told me his story. i thought she was gonna kill me” -tony
“i don’t know what to say” -you
“not your responsibility” -tony “classes going okay?”
“going just fine” -you “the grant you just gave out is gonna help a lot of people”
“it’ll never be enough” -tony staring at the picture “alright, kid. nice visit, but i gotta get going. work and stuff”
“sounds about right. i have finals next week then i’ll be home for the summer” -you
“we’ll do something fun, i promise” -tony “love you, kid. be good”
“love you too. and you be good too.” -you
“you know i wont” -tony, leaving on the elevator
was cool and all until u checked the news later and saw all the anti wanda headlines
call that family drama
with tony already on a downward spiral with the added factor of more innocent casualties on an avengers mission, you knew shit was going down
and no one was answering your messages
the first person to call you back was steve
“hey, what the hell? no one wants to pick up my phonecalls? i’m worried about you guys. what’s going on?” -you
“i can’t really tell you that, y/n. it’s…grown up stuff” -steve
“last i checked, i am an adult in college. so let me ask again—what’s going on?” -you
“it’s not my place to tell you” -steve
“so then tell my dad to pick up his goddamn phone before i say to hell with finals and come there myself” -you
you got the call from your dad within minutes
“hey kid! nothing to worry about over here. why don’t you just focus on school and i’ll take you to dinner sometime this weekend, okay? okay” -tony, about the hang up
“can you just give me like, five seconds of your time? how hard would that be?” -you
“pretty hard, actually. dealing with a lot of grown up shit. legal shit.” -tony
“family shit” -you
“last time i checked, your family was just me. maybe happy, too” -tony
“and pepper” -you
“don’t start. fact of the matter is, this doesn’t concern you. it’s under control. that means you focus on school and i focus on the avengers. kay?” -tony
you took all your finals the next day without studying and took your private jet to the avengers compound
(you passed your finals)
“y/n! what are you doing here? you have school, no?” -wanda
“i did, but i was able to…wrap up the semester early. i came because i was worried. dad’s being a little shady about everything” -you
“he’s mad at me. they all are” -wanda
“no! no, he’s just stressed out. i’m away from home and—and that lady found him at MIT. it shook him is all” -you
“no…no, this is different. they’re going to sign some ‘sokovia accords’ to sanction us. i don’t think im safe” -wanda
“they’ll protect you, wanda. i have no doubt. now let’s do something fun tonight! get our minds off of everything. hey, i passed my classes! that’s cause for celebration” -you
“let me cook dinner for you then, we can celebrate with a nice meal” -wanda
the compound was quiet and amidst your traveling, you fell out of the loop again. until your dad called
and even more hell broke loose
the UN conference was bombed. nat’s okay. steve and sam went AWOL to protect the suspect: bucky barnes, and you were begged not to get anywhere near this
“you are not to be apart of this. this is not a family, this is business. i will not have you putting yourself in danger, i need you focused on school” -tony
“yeah, about that. took my finals! i passed…and i’m at the compound with wanda” -you
“god i hate how much you remind me of me. how is she, is she okay?” -tony
“she’s just down. feeling guilty. she’s cooking me a celebratory dinner for passing my classes this semester, i think it’s just a way she can get her mind off things” -you
“well, good. i guess a little company couldn’t hurt anyone. stay. there. please, it will ease my mind” -tony
“i’ll do my best” -you, hanging up
yeah you ended up jailbreaking wanda with clint and running to germany
tony was exhausted with you but wanda was like one of your only friends at this point and you thought this was bullshit
“are you trying to kill me?” -tony
(remains to be seen)
oh yeah spiderman webbed you to the wall immediately you were simply not apart of this
you were #grounded tony didn’t care how old you were
and when you got home he gave you a piece of his mind
“that guy you were trying to defend—barnes, yeah, he killed your grandparents. betcha didn’t know that, huh?” -tony “i thought i told you to stay out of this, stay put! but no, you show up to an avengers battle as a civilian like you’re trying to get yourself killed!”
“i—i don’t—dad, this isn’t fair” -you
“oh, life isn’t fair!” -tony
“can you just grow up! it is always something with you!” -you
“no, you need to grow up! you’re in college now, you have responsibilities—but you’re ditching class to play besties with wanda. you don’t understand the repercussions of your actions and you have never had to because i have always been there to bail you out!” -tony
“you mean pepper has always been there to bail me out” -you
“what did you say?” -tony
“you heard me” -you
“you’re gonna wish i didn’t” -tony
mf took away the credit cards 💔
u had to get a JOB
you thought he was bluffing but he really made you start paying for your own shit. like everything.
you decided it was good, you didn’t need him. he shook up your world enough and you’d had enough
after the first month he felt guilty, but you wouldn’t take his calls. you were on your own
and you…managed. it was hard at first. minimum wage job (service job no less), classes would be hard to balance, you’d have to cut back on a lot of things.
tony showed up to your work
you wouldn’t budge. you cut him off. you finally proved to yourself you could be on your own and you were gonna stick with it. get your degree soon and get your life started
tony kept his eye on you though
he tried to right his wrongs, but after your last fight you had a lot to reflect on
pepper tried to reach out soon after they got back together, tried to defend him and get you back in their lives
you went nearly two years without talking to him
and he would regret it every day after you vanished in the blip. he’d take back everything just to be able to see you one last time
Headcanons for being Henry Creel's child from Hawkins Lab (Part 1)
Henry Creel x child!reader/Eleven Hopper x Creel!reader
warnings:
a/n: im using the “peter ballard” alias for orderly!henry if that makes sense. this got SO long if this one gets good feedback i’ll make a part 2 🥰 hopefully more to come!
prompt: anonymous: "Hii! Hope you're having a good day! can you please write a season 4-5 headcanon like the reader is vecna/henry’s child from stranger things (her mum is one of the first experiments of brenner and died), like El and Kali, she grew up in the lab, so she also has powers. And she is also a member of the party."
part 2 (tbd)
you grew up in hawkins lab among the many other children with extraordinary abilities
your whole life spent among those white walls full of darkness
you knew little of where you came from, but it never mattered much to you or the other kids
the only thing that truly mattered was to excel, and that you did
the kids noticed early on that you got extra attention from dr. brenner, noticed you had more control over your abilities, that they developed earlier than the rest. almost like they came naturally and weren’t honed by rigorous experiments
“hello, little one” -orderly
“hi” -you
“it’s nice to finally meet you” -orderly
“who are you?” -you
“i’m just a friendly face, i’ll be working here from now on. maybe we can be friends, if papa doesn’t mind” -orderly
“i think it will be okay with him” -you
“is it okay with you?” -orderly
you nodded, he smiled, he peered behind you to see brenner supervising this visit. theyre was a hint of a smirk on his face when he reunited you two, but you were none the wiser
the orderly was known to you as peter, a kind face in your everyday. always giving you that push to be your best self and was there for you when you fell
brenner watched closely, though. he gave this orderly a privilege that could be taken away if he made one wrong move
“y/n deserves to know the truth about me, they don’t know anything about their life. you won’t let them have a life” -henry
“oh, you’ve named them, i see. that is what gets people attached, you know?” -brenner, locking the door “y/n is not your child. y/n is a test subject. my test subject. this is your only chance to drop this, before you’re permissions are revoked”
“you exploit me to create this child, run tests on the surrogate until she’s too weak to go on, then take away my own flesh and blood for your selfish needs. y/n is obviously the strongest of the pack because they are my child. they need me” -henry
“your little one being the strongest is of my design and the exact reason you have no powers right now. you will not influence them in any way or you will never see the outside of a cell ever again” -brenner “is that understood?”
henry realized that this was no way to live. his power and yours combined…the possibilities were endless
thats when the planning started
the hushed conversations, building trust, encouraging greatness. he needed you to get him out
but there was another child in the rainbow room he took notice to
number 011, meek demeanor, easily influenced. reminded him of himself before he learned to embrace his power.
“maybe you should give eleven some tips, you want to have friends, yeah?” -henry
“i already have a friend. you” -you
“well, yes, i am your friend, but eleven can be your friend, too. would it be so bad to have two friends?” -henry
“well, it’s just that everyone here is so competitive. i’d rather not make either of us a target” -you
“no one will do that, y/n. not as long as i’m here. and eleven needs a friend, too. you can stick together” -henry
“i guess” -you
you and eleven began to train/play together and you tried to help her with her power
and soon realized she had potential, whether she was hiding it or couldn’t hone it
“eleven, are you distracted or are you scared?” -you
“…i don’t know” -eleven
“it’s good to be strong, especially because the other kids pick on weaker ones. maybe we’ll stand up to them” -you
“is that why they don’t pick on me? because you scare them?” -eleven
“they know i could hurt them, but i would rather not” -you
then something happened, eleven pushed herself and showed the whole lab her power. you proudly watched her win against some of the more powerful kids. she smiled at you as if you were the reason. maybe she just needed a friend all along
later that night, you were interrupted in your nightly routine by the orderly, peter
“we have to go, eleven and you are in danger” -henry
“we are? why?” -you
“you helped her get stronger, the kids are threatened. they’re going to hurt her while she’s in the rainbow room alone. brenner feels that the only way to solve this is to get rid of both of you” -henry
“why are you helping us, you work for papa?” -you
“brenner is not your papa. i am.” -henry, lifting his shirtsleeve to reveal his 001 tattoo “you are my flesh and blood, that is why you’re so much stronger than the others. brenner inhibited my powers and locked me away to keep you from the truth”
“no…that can’t be true” -you
“you’re my litte one. your name is y/n. you and i can do so much good outside of the lab. and eleven can join us, we’ll be unstoppable. i just need my powers back” -henry
as you began to locate the chip in his neck, someone approached the door and henry hid under your bed. another orderly doing bed checks, then left
“we should go” -you
henry snuck you and eleven down to the basement, but he was eager the get the chip from his neck. something felt off, though. maybe it was from disobeying papa, or finding the truth. or maybe it was that he just lied to el about what the chip in his neck actually was. for some reason he didn’t ask you to pull it out again after you were interrupted. told el it was just to track him. she did the honors and as you were all about to escape you’d been caught
but you wanted out
maybe you would have done the same for freedom if you had to, but you couldn’t fathom what you saw next
henry began his massacre without issue and you realized why this didn’t feel right, you stepped into the rainbow room where all the other children laid lifeless on the floor, you could barely stand to look
“you two weren’t supposed to come in here…” -henry
you didn’t like this, didn’t want it. this sweet orderly you’d grown fond of was your dad and a monster.
“you killed everyone” -you
“they would have done the same to you if they could” -henry
“would you do this to me?” -you
“of course not, i want you to join me” -henry
you took eleven’s hand and shook your head, driving henry into a rage
he attacked eleven, avoiding hurting you. he wanted her out of the picture so he could take you
you fought back with her, distracted by the idea of escaping this place, having a father, running away, becoming powerful
your distraction cost you, you were pulled forward by his powers and were nearly taken as eleven ripped a hole in the wall—a portal to another dimension
you escaped just in time, losing your father as fast as you gained him
brenner found you both and decided it was best to separate you as you were trained, not wanting to lose any more of his experiments
but you and eleven communicated, you learned to talk to her in your head—but she was different. changed. she couldn’t remember and it drove her crazy
“eleven, do you remember? do you remember me?” -you “you’re my sister”
“i’m…sister?” -eleven
“yes, we grew up together. we play together, train together” -you
“papa says…you’re not real” -eleven
“papa lies! i’m right here!” -you
you’d soon be scolded by papa and restrained just as your father was
“your father was difficult…you share that trait. this was to make him easier to work with” -brenner, injecting you with the soteria chip
you’d no longer be able to talk to eleven and she’d forget who you were, brenner would erase you from her mind
you spend countless days and nights helpless, locked in a tiny room with nothing to do and nowhere to go
no siblings, no rainbow room, no training, nothing
brenner would visit from time to time to update you on eleven
“if you just behaved, you could come back out. but eleven is delicate, she doesn’t remember. maybe it’d be easier if you didn’t remember, either” -brenner
“i will never forget what happened that day. or what you did to number one” -you
“i had to do that to protect you all. and look what happened, he killed all of your siblings. now it’s just you and eleven” -brenner
“and eight” -you
“eight is gone” -brenner
“eight escaped, didn’t she? she outsmarted you and got away” -you
“that’s enough! either you stay locked in here or i take away your memories and you can start fresh and be with eleven again. end of story” -brenner
you stopped talking, just stared at him until he left
it was a long time before you saw the outside of that cell again. left you lots of time to think
then one day the alarms went off, blaring through the whole lab. it was terrifying.
“let me out! let me out! what’s happening?! eleven! help!” -you
eleven had escaped. she got out. she was free.
“you will help us locate eleven, understood?” -brenner
“how? i don’t have powers” -you
“we can fix that” -brenner
they removed the chip from your neck and you had powers again, but they restrained you so that you couldn’t use them against anyone
but you’d been plotting your escape for months. this was no way to live and you had to get out and get to eleven
so you led them on a wild goose chase
“i dont know, i’m weak. i haven’t been able to use my powers in so long. i don’t remember how. i think i can find her. she’s at a radio tower. she’s at a hospital. she’s at a house. i’m not sure.” -various answers you’d given
or you’d pretend to faint from straining yourself
“you and eleven sent henry to another dimension. henry had his full powers back as soon as the chip was removed. why can’t you use your powers?” -brenner
“i don’t know, i guess i’m not as strong as he was” -you, lying
you’d never seen the outside of the lab until he brought you to hawkins middle school to apprehend eleven. and when you met face to face she took down all of the government agents that were using you, freeing you from your restraints
“eleven…i missed you” -you
“you are…like me?” -eleven
“it’s me, y/n. i’m your sibling” -you “i’ve been trying to see you again, but papa wouldn’t allow it”
“no more papa” -eleven
the kids who’d been helping her were in awe
“there’s another one of you..? that’s so cool!” -dustin
“can you do what el does? you have powers?” -mike
“i do…and they tried to get me to use them to find you, but i tricked them. i thought they were going to hurt me, but i didn’t want them to hurt you too” -you
“we have to stop the demogorgon” -eleven
“what? what is that?” -you
“it is from the upside down” -eleven
“the what?” -you
“we’ll catch you up later, let’s just kick it’s ass!” -lucas
with you teamed up, you and eleven banished the demogorgon back to the upside down and went with it, deciding to run away together for now. you’d try to get her to see that you were her sibling…but you didn’t want to tell her about the others…or your father.
you thought that she’d think you were like him. even though you barely knew him. you didn’t even know his real name. only “peter”
eleven told you about her new friends, how she escaped the lab, the demogorgon and the upside down. you wished you could have done this all with her
you spent the next few weeks fending for yourselves until the chief of hawkins police lured you two out of hiding
“you two wanna stay with me a while? get out of the cold?” -hopper
“he is…a friend” -eleven
you accepted, figuring you wouldn’t get far without him. moved into a cabin in the woods that was…well, it needed word
“you can talk, why can’t el? you’re about the same age, so what’s her deal?” -hopper
“we saw bad things. she can’t remember them, can’t even remember me. doctor brenner, he convinced her i wasn’t real and took my powers to cut us off from each other. only let me out in hopes that i could catch eleven. threatened me, threatened her. she was easier to manipulate without torture.” -you
hopper was disturbed by your stories, but you’d just scratched the surface. the rest wasn’t important, you didn’t want to burden anyone with that knowledge
“i want to see my friends!” -eleven
“you have a friend right here! isn’t that right, y/n?” -hopper
“she wants her other friends” -you
“well, we can’t see your other friends right now, it’s not safe. there’s bad men looking for you” -hopper
John Shen 1000% trauma dumps to the cashier at Dunkin when she asks how he is.
Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical medical situations, fluff
There's a script.
Some customers follow it, or something close to it. It goes like this. You say, "Hi, how are you?"
Most customers just order.
The nice ones say, "Fine," and then order.
The really nice ones say, "Fine, how are you?" and then order.
Dr. Shen is one of the really nice ones—usually.
But one morning, well. He goes a little off-script.
It's pretty rare that you're on the morning shift. You swapped around a couple of shifts around with one of your coworkers (her daughter's childcare was out of commission, she couldn't afford to miss the hours, but needed to be home in the mornings for the next week—long story).
You see Dr. Shen most nights when he comes in for his large iced regular with three sugars and two pumps of caramel. Truth be told, you've sort of missed seeing him for the last couple of days. You've had a couple of conversations with him when the shop was on the slower side, tried to work up the courage to flirt properly, but—well, you've never quite been able to get there.
Besides, if he's not interested and he comes in, it could just make his coming in awkward.
So seeing Shen turn up at 7:13 in the morning on a Thursday catches you off-guard.
It's in the middle of a lull—everyone at the hospital coming in for the early shift has already come and gone, a few leaving have either ordered ahead or just headed home, bypassed the Dunkin completely.
You can see that something's off the second he comes in.
You're a little embarrassed at the fact that you can tell, but the clues are all there: the mismatched scrubs, the slightly off-kilter slant of his badge, the way he digs the heel of his hand into his right eye as he almost blindly finds his way to the counter.
"Morning!" You greet as he comes closer.
"Hi." Slightly muffled as he drags his hand down his face.
"How are you?"
You're expecting the brush-off, given how tired he seems, but he answers:
"Not good."
Your mouth is open before you can stop it, an answer of, "Great!" on the edge of dropping inappropriately from your lips—but Shen seems to not catch it as he continues:
"Three different people threw up on me, one of my socks has pee on it, a dementia patient tried to knock out one of our residents—"
"Oh—"
"Which isn't that new or that unexpected, I mean, my god, day shift said she was the sweetest little thing, but at night? Fragile little bones with the strength of Andre the Giant—"
"That's a lot of strength."
"—Pair that with the triplets that all came in with what turned out to be colic, swear to god that's impacted how I feel about having kids—Do you have kids?"
"No."
"They're loud. I know that seems obvious, one is loud, but three? Three was a lot."
"Right."
"Lost a bet, too."
"To who?"
"Just a general bet, among the...It's a whole thing."
You nod a little, let your eyes sweep from where he's planted his hands on the counter, up to the slight hang of his head. You can tell he needs a minute, so you ring up his order the way you usually do, unasked.
You can feel your coworker watching the two of you, but you work as quickly as you can, making his coffee before you turn, putting an assortment of donuts into a bag. You set the coffee down on the counter, nudging it toward him, along with the bag. He seems to start a bit at the sight of them.
"Oh—I—"
"Large iced regular, three sugars, two pumps of caramel?"
He blinks at you surprised, then gives a small nod.
"Yeah. And the—"
"You had a long night. And," You shrug, "We always have extra. Don't worry about it."
He gives a small nod, drawing his phone out and paying for the coffee.
"Thank you."
"Yeah, sure," You nod. He takes the coffee and bag up, stepping aside and letting the next customer step forward. You're halfway through taking their order when the doctor steps up again, interrupting,
"I—Hey, sorry, man," He shoots the man a quick smile before meeting you again. "I'm John, by the way."
You bite down on the inside of your cheek to tamp down a smile, nodding. You raise your hand, pointing at the name tag on your shirt as you offer your name.
"No, I know, I've read it, just never, uh...Haven't introduced myself properly, you know."
"I know," You chuckle. "It's nice to meet you—properly."
"You, too. Have a nice day."
"Thanks. Get some rest."
"Yeah."
You nod, turning your attention back to the impatient customer in front of you—and desperately trying not to notice the way John glances back at you one more time before he leaves.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Derek helps you through a difficult evening when your body refuses to cooperate.
Tags: disabled!reader, fibromyalgia, depictions of chronic illness, hurt/comfort, derek being the most patient and loving partner, reader's body is being dramatic, soft domestic vibes, derek quietly taking care of you, platonic touch as comfort, reader struggling but trying to push through, small acts of love, fluff, no use of y/n, no established timeline, reader has a bad pain day, derek knows exactly how to help, slow and steady comfort, subtle intimacy, quiet love, hot chocolate and warm blankets, bad day turned softer
Word count: 2.3k words
You're already curled into the corner of the couch when the kitchen light clicks off, the room settling into that soft, in-between glow that makes everything feel quieter than it really is. The blanket is bunched around your legs in a way that only makes sense to you, folded and refolded to keep pressure where it helps and not where it doesn't, and you tug it a little higher when a slow, familiar ache crawls up your calves and settles in your hips like it's decided to stay the night. The fabric scratches a little where your skin is too sensitive, so you smooth it down again, fussing with it until it stops feeling like too much, until it's just another layer between you and a body that won't quite cooperate.
Your body feels… loud today. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that constant, background-hum way, like someone left a radio on in the next room and you can't quite tune it out. Your shoulders ache in that deep, stubborn way that never quite shows up on the outside. Your wrists feel strangely heavy, like they're filled with wet sand. Even your skin feels off, too tight in some places and too sensitive in others, like the air itself is one long, drawn-out sigh against you. You're aware of every point where you touch the couch, every place where your weight settles wrong, every tiny complaint your body decides to voice.
You try to get comfortable anyway, because that's what you always do. You shift, then immediately regret it, because your lower back complains and your knee answers back, sharp and insistent, a bright little spark of pain that makes you freeze for a second. You close your eyes, breathe through it, count like you were taught, then try again more carefully, stacking pillows the way you know helps, even if it never fixes anything completely. One pillow under your knees. One behind your back. You still can't quite find the sweet spot, and the effort alone leaves you feeling a little more tired.
You think, not for the first time, about how strange it is to be this tired without having really done anything today. About how your muscles feel like they ran a marathon without telling you. About how even resting sometimes feels like work. About how you're already exhausted and the evening has barely started, and how unfair that feels in a quiet, resigned way.
Derek appears in the doorway, doing that careful juggle he always does: a bowl of popcorn tucked against his side, two mugs of hot chocolate balanced in one hand. Steam curls up toward the ceiling, and the smell hits you before he does—chocolate and butter and something warm and safe that makes your chest loosen a little. His eyes find you immediately, like they always do, and his smile softens when he sees how you've already claimed the corner of the couch.
"Wow," he says, pausing there for a second. "Didn't even pretend to leave me a spot, huh?"
You tilt your head, doing your best innocent look. "I was here first."
"Uh-huh. Sure you were." He sets the mugs down on the coffee table with exaggerated care and drops onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. "Pretty sure this is still my couch, though."
"Finders keepers," you say, and you can't help smiling when he snorts and reaches for you anyway.
He pulls you in like it's the most natural thing in the world, like you belong there by default, and you shift closer with a quiet, relieved sigh that you don't quite manage to hide. The movement pulls a little at your hips, and you hiss under your breath before you can stop yourself, but his arm is warm and solid around your shoulders, and that helps more than you want to admit. You adjust the blanket again, because of course you do, and he helps without being asked, tucking it back over your legs so it doesn't pull at your knees or press too hard on your shins.
"You're practically nesting," he says lightly, smoothing the edge of the blanket like he's sealing you in.
"Strategising," you correct. "There's a difference."
He laughs and presses a quick kiss to your hair. "Whatever you say, general."
The film starts—something easy, something neither of you has to think too hard about—and for a few minutes you just sit there, listening to the opening music and the quiet clink of mugs when he nudges one toward you. You take a careful sip, then wince a little when the heat surprises your too-sensitive lips, and you pull the mug back with a small, annoyed sound.
He notices immediately. He always does. "Too hot?"
"Just… my nerves are being dramatic," you say, blowing on it before trying again. "They've been like that all day. Everything feels either too much or not enough."
He hums like he's filing that away, then shifts a little closer, close enough that his shoulder presses into yours in a way that feels steady instead of crowded. His hand finds your knee without any real thought behind it, like it's been waiting there all along. His thumb moves in slow, lazy circles, and the tension in your leg eases a little, like your body's finally unclenching its jaw.
It doesn't make the pain disappear. Nothing ever really does. But it takes the edge off, and right now, that feels like a small miracle you don't want to question too much or jinx by thinking about it.
"You okay?" he murmurs, eyes still on the screen, but his attention is very obviously on you.
"Define okay," you say, and he huffs out a quiet laugh.
"Fair." His hand slides up to your shoulder, and he starts working gently at the tight spot there, the one you've been pretending isn't bothering you all day. His fingers are warm, careful, and you can feel each small knot slowly give way. "You've been quiet. That's usually not a great sign."
You shrug, or at least you try to. It comes out a little stiff and crooked. "Everything kind of hurts," you admit. "In that annoying, everywhere way. Like my body woke up and chose violence."
"Rude of it," he says. "Very disrespectful. I'll have a word with it."
You snort despite yourself, then sigh when you feel your shoulders finally start to drop under his hands. "It's been one of those days. My skin feels too tight. My joints feel like they're full of sand. And I'm so tired, but also somehow wired. Like I could fall asleep standing up and also cry if someone looks at me wrong."
He makes a soft, sympathetic sound and presses a kiss to your temple. "You should've said something earlier."
"You would've worried," you say. "And cancelled things. And hovered. And tried to fix it."
"Yes," he replies easily. "That is kind of my thing. I'm not even a little sorry."
You let out a small laugh and lean into him a little more, your forehead brushing his shoulder. "You're spoiling me."
"You deserve to be spoiled," he says, like it's obvious. Like it doesn't even need to be said. "You don't get extra points for suffering quietly."
You want to argue, because some stubborn part of you always does, because it feels safer to downplay it, to keep things light. But the way he says it—simple, steady, no drama—makes your throat tighten instead. So you don't. You just rest your head against his shoulder and breathe him in, let yourself be held, let yourself stop bracing for a minute.
The film keeps going, but you only catch bits and pieces of it. Your focus drifts in and out, pulled away by the steady ache in your lower back, by the way your hands feel a little too heavy in your lap, by the faint pins-and-needles in your feet that never quite goes away. At one point, your fingers start to tingle like they've fallen asleep, and you flex them slowly until it eases, shaking out the weird, buzzy feeling.
Derek shifts occasionally, careful and slow, like he's constantly checking in without making it obvious. When you wince at a louder scene, he turns the volume down without asking. When you fidget, he adjusts his hold like it's second nature, like he's been doing this forever.
You shift, trying to find a position that doesn't pull at your hips, and he notices immediately.
"Need to move?" he asks.
"Just… adjusting," you say, a little apologetic without meaning to be.
"Hey," he says, gentle, and he shifts with you, no fuss, no questions, just making space where you need it. He tucks a pillow behind your back, then another under your knees, like he's building you a small, very specific fortress of comfort. He even re-folds the blanket, slower this time, checking your face like he's waiting for you to tell him if it's wrong.
You wince, then relax. "A little more to the left," you say quietly.
He fixes it immediately. "Like that?"
"Yeah," you say, after a second. "Better. Thank you."
A few minutes later, your knee starts to throb again, sharp and insistent, and you wince before you can stop yourself. It's like your body keeps changing the rules without telling you, like it's bored and looking for new ways to be difficult.
He catches it. Of course he does. "Hey. Talk to me."
"It's fine," you start, then stop and sigh, because lying feels like too much work. "Okay, it's not fine. It's just… loud. My knee. And my back. And kind of everything. Even my hands feel weird, like they don't quite belong to me."
He nods, serious but calm, like this isn't new or scary to him. "Do you want me to grab your heating pad?" he asks. "Or we can pause it. Or we can stretch you out a little. Or we can just sit here and complain about it together."
You snort softly. "Very tempting. Especially the complaining part." Then, quieter, "Just… stay. This helps. You help."
His thumb presses a little more firmly into your knee, not enough to hurt, just enough to be grounding, to remind your body where it is. "Okay," he says. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We've got time."
You swallow and nod, because for some reason that simple sentence hits harder than it should, settles somewhere deep in your chest and stays there, warm and steady.
The room feels warm. Safe. The kind of quiet that doesn't ask anything from you. Your hot chocolate goes a little forgotten on the table, cooling in a thin ring of steam, but you don't really care. Your eyelids start to feel heavy, and your thoughts get fuzzy around the edges, like someone's slowly turning the volume down on everything that hurts.
At some point, your head ends up on his chest instead of his shoulder. You don't remember deciding to move. You just remember the steady sound of his heartbeat under your ear and the way his hand keeps moving, slow and patient, like he's afraid to break the moment if he stops.
"You falling asleep on me?" he asks quietly.
"Maybe," you mumble. "Don't get cocky."
He laughs under his breath. "Too late. This is my greatest achievement."
You shift again, because your hip starts to complain, and he adjusts with you, one arm tightening just enough to keep you close, the other smoothing over your arm in long, easy strokes. Your skin still feels a little too sensitive, but his touch is familiar enough that it doesn't set everything off, just steadies it, like a hand on a railing when the ground feels uneven.
The film reaches its ending, but it's all noise and light to you now. The credits start to roll, but you don't notice right away. You're warm. You're tired. The pain is still there, but it's farther away, like it's been turned down a few notches, like it's been wrapped in cotton and tucked somewhere less sharp.
Derek doesn't move. Not even when the screen goes dark and the room gets quieter again.
"Derek?" you murmur.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For… this. For being patient with me. For not making it weird when I'm like this. For not acting like I'm made of glass."
His hand stills for a second, then resumes its slow, familiar motion. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You don't need to thank me for that," he says gently. "I love you. This is part of it. All of it. The easy days and the hard ones. The annoying days. The days where everything hurts for no good reason."
Your chest feels tight in a different way this time, softer, almost ache-sweet. You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "You don't have to make a whole speech about it, you know. We've been doing this a while."
He huffs a quiet laugh, his arm tightening around you just a little. "I know," he says. "I'm not trying to be dramatic. I just want you to hear it. Sometimes you forget you don't have to earn being taken care of."
You swallow, because he's right, and because he always seems to know exactly where to press. "I do hear it," you say softly. "I just… don't always believe it right away."
He shifts his head and presses his forehead briefly against yours. "That's okay. I'll keep saying it."
You let out a quiet breath that turns into something like a laugh and close your eyes, your body heavy and aching and finally, finally a little calmer, and you let yourself sink into him, into the quiet, into the simple comfort of being exactly where you are, exactly as you are, without having to apologise for it or explain it to anyone. For once, that feels like enough.
Peeta was never really the same after the Capitol took him—hijacked him and used him as a pawn against the rebellion. But nevertheless, you persisted and the two of you made it out alive, creating memories that would haunt you for the rest of your life.
Some days were better than others, but the worse ones usually involved Peeta struggling to keep lucid or even just level. You assured him you didn’t mind being his buffer, but he always put your wellbeing before his own. You awoke one night to screaming from the other side of the house, which meant he went to sleep on the couch because he wasn’t feeling well. You ran to his aid, finding him in tears, “I lost control.” He panted, steadying his breath once he felt your hands on either of his cheeks. “I’m fine now. I promise.” You looked in his eyes and knew he wasn’t, and his heart was still racing, you didn’t think he was quite back yet.
“Wait here.” You brushed your fingers over his hair and he reluctantly let go of your other hand. The bathroom was dark, which you fixed with a few candles after you turned the faucet on. The bath was drawn, now you led Peeta in, helping him undress and slip into the tub. This was something you’d do to ground him, ease his troubles. He closed his eyes and you decided to leave him be for a few moments.
“Stay.” He mumbled. “I’m not ready to be alone yet.” You agreed, pulling a stool beside the tub and reaching into the water to hold his hand. “I’m sorry.”
