Tangerine x Female Reader
Warnings/Genre: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Emotional Reunion • Miscarriage
Summary: After surviving the Kyoto train disaster, Tangerine wakes in the ICU—only to learn you’ve been fighting your own battle down the hall, and nothing can stop him from reaching you.
The kind that made every beep feel louder. Every breath heavier.
Hated the antiseptic smell. The low hum of machines. The way time seemed to stretch into something shapeless and cruel.
You sat curled in a chair beside Tangerine’s bed, one hand wrapped gently around his, careful of the IV taped to his skin.
He looked so unlike himself.
No sharp suit. No sarcastic remarks. No steady, watchful eyes.
Just pale skin, bruising creeping along his neck where the bandages wrapped tight, and the slow rise and fall of his chest.
You were six months pregnant.
And you’d never been so scared in your life.
The doctors said he was lucky.
The bullet had missed major arteries by millimeters.
But luck didn’t feel real when you’d watched them rush him past you on a gurney, blood on his collar, his face slack and unmoving.
The stress had been constant.
Waiting. Not sleeping. Not eating. Living in a hospital chair.
Your body kept going long after your strength ran out.
The cramps started small.
You told yourself it was stress.
The next thing you remembered was nurses, bright lights, someone calling your name, and the awful, sinking feeling in your chest before anyone even said the words.
When Tangerine woke, it was to the sound of a chair scraping.
He blinked slowly, throat burning, vision swimming.
Everything felt heavy. Thick. Like he was underwater.
A familiar voice spoke quietly.
He turned his head slightly, wincing.
Lemon sat beside the bed, arms folded, eyes tired but relieved.
“Been out for a bit,” Lemon said softly. “Gave us a proper scare.”
Tangerine tried to speak. His voice came out rough and broken.
Lemon’s expression shifted.
And Tangerine felt it immediately. That instinctive dread curling low in his stomach.
“She’s here,” Lemon said quickly. “She’s safe.”
But he didn’t stop there.
Which meant something was wrong.
Tangerine’s fingers tightened weakly in the sheets. “What happened.”
Lemon rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that didn’t exist.
“She was under a lot of stress,” he said quietly. “Being here. Waiting. Worrying about you.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
For a second, Tangerine didn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Lemon said gently. “She’s in another room. She’s alright physically. Just… resting.”
That was all Tangerine needed to hear.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Pain exploded through his neck and chest instantly, making his vision spark.
“Oi—!” Lemon shot up. “You’re not cleared to move!”
His hands shook as he pushed himself upright, IV tugging, heart monitor protesting with faster beeps.
“Where,” he demanded, voice hoarse but fierce.
Lemon hesitated only a second before sighing.
“Down the hall. Room 312.”
Tangerine was already pulling the wires loose.
The hallway felt endless.
Each step sent sharp reminders through his body that he shouldn’t be walking.
Nothing mattered except getting to you.
A nurse called after him. Someone tried to stop him.
One hand braced against the wall, hospital gown shifting with each uneven step, determination burning through the fog of pain.
The door was slightly open.
You were sitting up in the bed, a blanket pulled around your waist, staring out the window like you were trying to disappear into the sky.
You looked smaller somehow.
He’d never seen you so still.
And for a second, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes widened, immediately filling with tears.
“Tangerine?” your voice cracked. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
He just walked — slow, uneven — until he reached you.
Then he cupped your face in both hands like he needed to prove you were real.
A sob slipped out as you grabbed his wrists.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I tried to stay calm, I tried not to stress, I didn’t—”
“No,” he said instantly, voice rough but firm. “None of that. None of it.”
“I couldn’t protect them,” you choked. “I couldn’t—”
“You don’t need protecting from this,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours despite the pull in his stitches. “And you didn’t fail anyone. Do you hear me?”
You shook your head, overwhelmed, guilt and grief tangling tight in your chest.
His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping tears that wouldn’t stop.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been awake. I should’ve—”
“You almost died,” you said, voice trembling. “I thought I was going to lose you too.”
The words hung heavy between you.
For a moment, the room felt suspended in shared heartbreak.
Then he leaned carefully onto the bed, ignoring the pain, pulling you into his arms.
You clung to him immediately, burying your face into his shoulder.
He held you like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.
“I’m here,” he murmured against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You cried quietly, shoulders shaking, and he just held you — one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles over your back.
Just the quiet understanding of something lost and something still surviving.
After a while, your breathing steadied.
You pulled back slightly, eyes red but softer.
“You’re really okay?” you asked.
He gave a small nod. “Yeah. Bit sore. Bit annoyed. But I’m here.”
Your hand drifted carefully to the bandage at his neck.
“You scared me,” you whispered.
“You scared me too,” he admitted.
He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
And this time, there was no rush.
Just two people, sitting together in a quiet hospital room, holding onto each other — grieving, healing, and still here.
