shrugs and hugs

cuddly not very human using tumblr for the first time ♡ (it's been a while now lmao) I am not a minor :) but will not be sharing age for safety ;

[chrrispine]

New Year, New Gifs Challenge Day 11: Parallels

Shrek + Film References

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 33)

Lake Day

summary: you finally get cleared to live normally, so obviously, you’re uncle forces you on a lake trip.

word count: 4k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18)

thank you to @ilovesexymenonmytv for this idea, i hope i did it some justice, sorry if it's not the best, read the a/n at the end for an explaination.

_____

August starts to bring back a feeling of normalcy that you’re not sure if you can quite trust yet.

Two months ago, you were lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than you could count. Two months ago, every movement hurt. Every loud noise made you flinch. Every time someone left the room, some small part of your brain wondered if they were coming back.

Now you’re standing in a doctor’s office, listening to the words you’ve been waiting weeks to hear.

“You’re cleared.”

“Cleared?” you repeat.

“Cleared,” The doctor smiles. “You can go back to normal activity. Exercise, swimming, everything. The only restriction is that you listen to your body. If something causes pain, stop.”

Normal.

The word feels almost foreign.

“Okay,” you nod slowly.

The second you walk out of the appointment, your uncle is already making plans.

“We’re going to the lake.”

You stop walking. “What?”

Rossi doesn’t even slow down. “The lake.”

“Did you even hear what the doctor said?” you stare at him.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you already planning something?”

“Don’t argue with me. I’ve already decided.”

“You know that’s not actually how vacations work, right?”

“It is when I pay for the cabin.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

_____

Logan flies in Friday night.

The second he walks through the front door, Rossi gets one arm around him in a hug that Logan immediately pretends to hate.

It’s weird how much things have changed.

A few months ago, the thought of laughing felt impossible.

Now you’re standing in the kitchen with Spencer beside you, your brother is in the living room arguing with Rossi, and for the first time in a long time you feel like yourself.

Spencer spends the night at Rossi’s house so everyone can leave early Saturday morning. Which means, naturally, Rossi finds every possible excuse to make sure everyone is awake before sunrise.

It’s not even daylight outside when he barges into your room, turning the light on, disturbing both you and Spencer from your slumber.

Spencer gets up without any fuss. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s still scared of your uncle, or because he’s used to wakes like these due to his job. Or perhaps a mixture of both. He leaves you alone in your bed, trudging to the bathroom. You let your eyes close again, trying to return to the state you were in before your uncle so rudely ruined it.

You don’t move. You don’t care that there’s a lake waiting for you. You don’t care that your bag is still sitting half-packed on the floor. You are warm. You are comfortable. And you are absolutely not getting out of bed.

A few minutes pass. You hear movement somewhere in the room. Not Rossi, Rossi doesn’t move quietly. You peek out of one eye  to find Spencer standing beside your bed. And for a second, your brain takes a moment to catch up.

Because Spencer Reid is awake. Which is normal.

Spencer Reid being awake at six in the morning is unfortunately very normal.

But Spencer Reid standing beside your bed while he gets ready for a lake trip is something you’re not used to.

He’s already dressed from the waist down, wearing brown pants and his worn-in Converse. His hair is slightly messy, like he hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. A T-shirt is thrown over one shoulder, hanging loosely from his hand.

He’s still shirtless.

Not that he seems to notice. Of course he doesn’t. Spencer has never been particularly aware of the effect he has on people, or more specifically you.

“You know,” he says softly, “you still need to finish packing.”

“You’re wearing pants,” you say.

He looks down. “Yes.”

You let out a quiet laugh before immediately closing your eyes again.

“No,” you groan.

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re going back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Spencer steps a little closer, placing a hand on your back. 

“Y/N,” he whispers.

“You’re still shirtless,” you say.

He looks down at himself, a faint blush rushing to his ears.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants. You let yourself look at him, starting at the careful movements of his fingers as he buckles his belt, then moving up to his unclothed area.

It’s strange how different he looks without the layers he’s always hiding behind.

He’s still unmistakably Spencer. A little awkward, still standing there like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him differently, but there’s something about seeing him like this.

His hair is messy from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked from where he pushed them up too many times, and his brown pants and Converse somehow make the fact that he’s still shirtless seem even more like him. Like he got distracted halfway through getting ready because he remembered he was supposed to wake you up.

He’s lean, not in the way people expect when they picture someone strong, but in a way that makes sense for him. He’s never been someone who spends hours at a gym. He’s someone who runs through airports, chases criminals, and carries too many books at once.

“You’re staring,” he says.

Your eyes immediately snap back to his face. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re staring.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because unfortunately, Spencer Reid is very good at noticing things when he isn’t the thing being noticed.

“Put your shirt on,” you mumble.

“I was going to.”

“When?”

“Soon,” he says, looking down at the shirt hanging in his hand. You roll over in bed, telling yourself that you’ll get up when he puts it on.

_____

The first problem happens while you’re finishing packing on your floor.

“Do you have swim trunks?” you ask him.

“...I think so,” he says slowly.

“You think so?”

“I’m fairly certain.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I haven’t been swimming since I was like fifteen.”

He digs in one of his bags, pulling out a pair of swim trunks that look older than you. You can tell they’re too short for him just from looking, but the waist is stretched out and so frayed that you think they might fall down.

“Absolutely not,” you tell him.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re ancient.”

“They’d still work.”

“Spencer,” you say, taking them from him. “They’re like three sizes too small.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“You are not wearing fifteen-year-old swim trunks.”

_____

The drive starts with Logan controlling the music. For exactly twelve minutes, until Rossi reaches over and changes it.

“Hey!” Logan protests

“No.” Rossi says sternly.

“You didn’t even ask what song it was.”

“I know enough.”

Logan looks offended. “You don’t know enough.”

“I’m your uncle. I know plenty.”

You end up taking over the music. Mostly because everyone agrees your playlist is better.

Except Spencer.

Not because he dislikes it, but because he’s actually analyzing it.

“You have three songs from the same album.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s good.”

“That doesn’t explain why they’re grouped together. You also have four songs in a row that are in the same key.”

“...neat.”

On the way to the lake, you stop at one of the tourist shops.

The kind that sells everything.

Sunscreen, fishing bait, inflatable tubes, terrible souvenirs, overpriced snacks, and most important to you, swimwear.

Spencer immediately walks toward the plainest black pair of trunks imaginable.

“No,” you say, shaking your head at him.

“Why?”

“Because.”

You disappear into another aisle. A few seconds later, you return, holding two matching swimsuits. Not matching in a cheesy way, just the same pattern. They’re light blue and covered in tiny, multicolored fish. 

“Those have fish,” Spencer says, staring at you.

“They do.”

“They’re smiling.”

“They’re smiling because they’re about to be purchased.”

“I don’t know if these accurately represent my personality,” he says.

Logan walks up behind him. He looks between the trunks and Spencer a few times. 

“I think they match you perfectly,” Logan says to him.

“How?” Spencer asks, sounding slightly offended.

“Because she’s not worth arguing with,” Logan whispers, but you still hear it.

He’s right.

The rest of the drive passes quicker. The roads weave through forests and hills, the sunlight flickering through the trees. The car gets almost silent once Logan dozes off, his head pressed awkwardly against the window. Rossi drives with one hand one the wheel, occasionally pointing out things outside the window.

Spencer spent nearly twenty minutes explaining why lakes remain cooler during the surrounding area in late summer, which you’re pretty sure is what put Logan to sleep. You listen, not because you’re particularly interested in thermal properties, but because you’re particularly interested in Spencer.

_____

The cabin is smaller than you expected. Not tiny, but for David Rossi’s style, it was much smaller and more rustic than you imagined. There’s only two bedrooms, and of course, your uncle immediately takes the master. 

You expected two twin beds in the second bedroom. Or bunkbeds. Or a pull out bed. 

Something other than the singular queen bed that stares at the three of you.

“So…” Logan says, looking between you and Spencer. “There’s no couch.”

“I can sleep in the middle,” you offer, sitting your bag on the floor. 

“This is stupid,” Logan says, sitting his bag on the far side of the bed. Spencer puts his on the opposite end. “I swear to god, if I wake up to any weird sounds or moan–”

“LOGAN!” you shout.

“I’m just saying,” he argues.

“Stop talking.” you tell him firmly.

“Fine,” Logan says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m going to the lake.”

_____

You and Spencer follow a few minutes later. 

Outside, the water shines beneath the sun. Families scatter along the shoreline, kids splash near the docks. Logan is already neck deep out in the lake, while your uncle is sitting on the dock, reading some old man magazine.

You adjusted the strap of your bag before stepping out from the cabin porch. Spencer followed a second later. The matching fish swim trunks had somehow become even funnier now that he was actually wearing them. Tiny brightly colored fish smiled cheerfully from pale blue fabric that reached just above his knees. They looked ridiculous.

Somehow, he didn't. He still managed to look unmistakably like Spencer Reid.

His glasses sat neatly on his face. His hair was already falling into his eyes despite having done absolutely nothing yet. He kept glancing down at the trunks every few steps like he still wasn't convinced they belonged on his body. 

Rossi looked up from unfolding his chair. The second he noticed the two of you together, he slowly lowered his sunglasses. Very slowly.

"I don't know why I thought you two could be normal," he shakes his head.

You laughed. Spencer glanced down at himself again.

"...Nothing is actually wrong with these, right?" he asks.

"Nothing," Rossi answered.

"...That sounded sarcastic."

"It was." Rossi says.

Spencer reached over and effortlessly lifted your beach bag off your shoulder. Then your towel. Then your water bottle. Then, somehow, your sandals.

"You're carrying everything,” he says. 

"I noticed you were carrying several things, so now you aren't."

He follows you and Rossi toward the water carrying nearly everything either of you had brought without questioning it once.

Derek was right.

You really did walk him like a dog.

The shore was busier than it had looked from the cabin. Families occupied nearly every stretch of shoreline, coolers sat buried in the sand, and children ran back and forth with inflatable tubes almost as big as they were. You found a spot a little farther away from the crowds where Rossi had already claimed a pair of chairs. Logan was already out in the lake.

You knelt beside your bag and dug around for sunscreen. The bottle had somehow migrated to the very bottom.

You squeezed some into your hand and started rubbing it across your face. A shadow crossed over you. Spencer.

"Hold still,” you tell him, standing from your couched position to be able to reach his face better.

"...What?"

"You need sunscreen, you’ll burn.” You tell him, reaching toward him. Your finger brushed the bridge of his nose. You rub it down, not realizing you had some on your pinky finger.A thick white streak spreads across one lens of his glasses.

"I'm sorry,” you apologize, holding back a giggle.

"It's okay,” he says, taking his glasses off. “I can clean them when we go back to the cabin.”

“You can put them on top of my bag, I’m going to the water,” you smile.

You expect him to sit his glasses down and follow, but halfway across the dock, you look behind you and realize he hasn’t stepped on it. Instead, he’s standing perfectly stair near the end wearing a bright orange life jacket.

"Why are you wearing the life jacket already?" You shout at him.

"Because we're near water,” he answers.

You start walking back on the dock, going to get him.

"We're thirty feet from the water,” you say once you reach him.

"Exactly."

"Come on," you say, pulling his arm forward. He doesn't budge.

"A single milliliter of lake water can contain anywhere from hundreds of thousands to several million bacterial cells depending on nutrient availability, temperature, and seasonal turnover. That's not including protozoa, algae, fungi, microscopic crustaceans, nematodes, or insect larvae.”

"You will be okay," you tell him.

Out in the lake Logan surfaced again, brushing wet hair out of his face. The second he spotted Spencer he grinned.

"SPENCER!" He calls,

"...Yes?"

"GET IN!"

"I'd rather not."

"The water's three feet deep!"

"I am aware."

"YOU'RE SIX FEET TALL!" Logan shouts, dunking himself under again.

Spencer looked back at you. "I don't particularly enjoy swimming."

"I know,” you say.

"I also don't enjoy not touching the bottom."

"You don’t have to go that deep."

“Promise?”

“I do.”

You laced your fingers through his and started walking backward down the dock.

The old wooden boards creaked beneath your feet. Water lapped softly against the columns holding it up underneath. Spencer followed a step behind you. He kept glancing over the edge of the dock every few seconds, as though the lake might suddenly decide to climb out and attack him.

"I don't dislike water,” he says

"No?" you say, slightly disbelieving.

"I dislike not knowing what's underneath it."

"You can literally see the bottom."

"I can see part of the bottom."

You reached the end of the dock, Logan was already floating nearby, watching the two of you with an amused grin.

"I've seen people convince cats to take baths faster than this,” he says.

Spencer ignored him.

You stepped down first, the cool lake water climbing from your ankles to your knees before settling comfortably around your waist. It felt wonderful after standing in the sun.

You turned back toward Spencer. He was still standing on the dock. You held your hand out for him to take. 

He looked at your hand. Then at the water. Then back at you. For a long moment, he didn't move. Finally, he reached forward and took your hand.

"See? That wasn't so hard,” you smile

"I haven't actually entered the water yet."

"You will."

"I might."

"You definitely will."

Very gently, you gave his hand a tug. The second the water reached his calves, his shoulders tensed.

"It's cold."

The water reached his knees. He paused again.

"You've got this,” you squeeze his hand.

The lake rose to his waist, the bright orange life jacket bobbing slightly as tiny ripples spread around him.

"There," you said proudly. "You're swimming."

"I'm standing,” he says. A tiny fish darted between his ankles, causing him to freeze. "...Something touched me."

You immediately started laughing. “It was just a fish. It touched me too.”

"Okay.”

The whole time you were in the water, Spencer was right beside you. He never ventured farther than where his feet could comfortably touch the sandy bottom. Every so often he'd glance down through the clear water, making sure nothing unexpected brushed against his legs again.

Logan tossed him a football. Spencer caught it on instinct.

"You know, for someone who hates lakes..." you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “you seem to be having fun."

 “I don’t hate lakes,” he argues, looking around. Logan and Rossi are arguing over rules to some game that Rossi does not even care about playing. The sun is setting just above the water, the reflection making the half sun appear whole over the lake. His gaze stops on you, and he smiles. “And I suppose I am having fun.

_____

Once the sun has fully set and you guys have left the lake, eaten dinner, and showered, Rossi insists on going outside to play cards on the patio. And no was not an acceptable answer. Spencer wins game after game, causing Logan and Rossi to get annoyed at him. You get bored of cards easily, instead you sit and watch as your brother gets more drunk, Rossi drinks, but doesn’t get crazy like Logan, and Spencer win another card game. 

You smile to yourself, taking a quick photo of them to remember the moment. And for your Instagram to remember as well…

You can’t help but giggle.

"What are you laughing at?" Spencer asks.

"Nothing."

He narrows his eyes. "...That's suspicious."

"Nothing." You smile innocently. He chooses to believe that.

Once darkness fully settles over the lake, Logan drunkenly insists on ghost stories. Rossi tells one first, his sounding like it could be the plot of a novel. Spencer goes next, his version somehow becomes a detailed explanation of sleep paralysis, infrasound, carbon monoxide poisoning, and why human brains evolved to detect faces in shadows.

Logan and Rossi go inside after that. Logan being actually terrified by Spencer’s story.

“Spence,” you say once it’s just the two of you.

He looks over immediately.

“Yeah?”

There’s something about the way he says it that still catches you off guard. Like no matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s thinking about, you have his full attention the second you say his name.

“Will you sit on the dock with me?”

“Okay.”

You smile back. Of course he says yes.

The dock is quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t get in the city. There’s no traffic in the distance, no neighbors, no sounds of people moving around. Just the gentle movement of the lake beneath you and the occasional rustle of trees along the shore.

You sit beside each other at the end of the dock, your legs dangling over the water. Spencer leans back on his hands and looks upward.

For a while, neither of you says anything. And you realize you like that about him.

With Spencer, silence never feels like something you have to fill. It feels like something you’re allowed to share.

“That’s Orion,” Spencer says out of nowhere.

You follow his gaze. “The one with the three stars in a line?”

He smiles. “Yeah. Technically, those are Orion’s belt. They’re three of the most recognizable stars in the night sky because they’re relatively evenly spaced and nearly aligned from our perspective.”

You laugh quietly.

“That’s actually one of the reasons Orion is interesting. Almost every culture has some kind of mythology associated with it. The Greeks believed it represented a hunter. The Egyptians associated it with Osiris. In some Polynesian traditions, it’s connected to navigation.”

You watch him as he talks. Because this is Spencer. This is the version of him you love the most. The one who gets excited about things most people don’t even notice. The one who remembers obscure facts and somehow makes them feel important. The one who can talk about something as simple as stars and make it feel like you’re learning a secret about the universe.

“And that one?” You point farther across the sky.

His eyes follow your finger. “That’s Cassiopeia.”

“The W shape?”

He shifts slightly closer, looking up. “She was a queen in Greek mythology. Although, historically, the constellation itself is much older than the story attached to it. Ancient astronomers used patterns in the sky to organize observations, but the human brain is actually really good at recognizing patterns even when there isn’t necessarily a connection.”

You smile. He keeps going. One constellation becomes another. Then another. He tells you about distances measured in light-years, about how some of the stars you’re seeing might not even exist anymore because of how long their light takes to reach Earth.

“That’s kind of sad,” you say.

“What?”

“That we’re looking at something that might already be gone.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Not necessarily.”

You look over. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs slightly. “The fact that something changes or ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t real while it existed.”

The words settle somewhere deeper than he probably intended. Because Spencer does that. He says things that sound like simple observations, but somehow they always feel like they mean something more.

The breeze moves through the trees behind you, carrying the cool air from the lake. You, still in your fish bikini top, shiver slightly. It’s subtle, barely noticeable. But Spencer notices. Of course he does.

“You’re cold,” he points out.

“I’m fine.”

His eyebrows raise. Before you can say anything, Spencer is already moving. He pulls off the flannel shirt he’s wearing over his T-shirt and holds it out to you.

“Here.”

You look at it. Then at him.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I won’t.”

“You literally just noticed that I was.”

“Yes, but I’m wearing a T-shirt underneath. You’re wearing–” He stops himself.

You smile. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

He looks away. “I was going to say that you’re stubborn.”

He sighs like he’s annoyed, but there’s no actual frustration behind it. “Please just take the shirt.”

You do. Because you know Spencer well enough now to know that once he decides something, arguing is usually pointless.

You slip it on, pulling the sleeves over your hands. The flannel is still warm from him. It smells like him. And somehow that feels more comforting than the actual warmth.

Spencer watches you for a second. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. More like he’s memorizing the sight. Then he looks away.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

“Good.”

Spencer starts talking again.  You ask questions because you like hearing him answer them. Because when Spencer talks about something he loves, he doesn’t just give you information.  He gives you pieces of himself. 

Your gaze drifts from the sky, down to him. The way his face changes when he’s excited. The way he talks faster when he gets to a particularly interesting fact. The way his hands move as he explains things, like he’s trying to physically map out the universe in front of you. The little smile that appears without him realizing it. The way he looks happier here than he does anywhere else.

"...Y/N?"

You realize he’s stopped talking. “Yeah?”

He’s looking at you now. A small, amused smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re staring.”

Heat immediately rushes into your face. You look away toward the lake. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s smile grows slightly. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s something you do a lot.”

“What?”

“Apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.”

You glance back at him. He says it so casually. Like he hasn’t just noticed something about you that most people never do. You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. And neither does he.

The lake ripples softly beneath the dock. Crickets sing from the tree line. A fish jumps somewhere out in the darkness, sending rings across the glassy surface of the water. Two months ago, silence meant pain. It meant hospital rooms. Empty chairs. Waiting. But tonight, silence was comforting. It felt safe. Warm. Nice.

And that was all thanks to Spencer.

_____

Read Part 34 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: lowkey sorry if this part isn’t the best, i tried, but like ⅓ of the way through my mom called me and told me that my cousin literally went on a psychotic break and is in the psych ward and literally thinks he’s god so now im thinking about that LMFAO

_____

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[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 32)

Visiting Hours

summarry: one by one, the team comes to visit you as you recover in the hospital after being kidnapped.

word count: 7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), hospital setting, recovery, discussions of trauma, pain meds and IV descriptions, brief references of addict!spencer, hospital coffee

_____

You wake up to see sunlight spilling through the window of your room. Your eyes flick to the clock on the wall.

7:07 AM.

Your eyes find Spencer afterwards. He’s awake this time, sitting in the chair beside your bed, legs crossed, with a book balanced on one knee. Though from the way he immediately looks up at you at the first sign of movement you show, he clearly hasn’t been reading very much.

“Good morning,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”

You think for a second. “...Good.”

“Good?” he repeats, eyebrows lifted over his glasses. 

“Hospital good,” you say, taking a sip of your water.

He smiles, looking relieved. “Are you still okay with everyone visiting today?”

“Yeah,” you say, fondling the tube of your IV.

Spencer’s face shifts to concern. “You don’t have to if you’re tired or don’t feel good,” he tells you.

“I know,” you say, “I want to see people.”

“Garcia texted me and asked 8:00 was too early to come.”

“That’s fine,” you say, staring at him. “You should fix your hair though.”

“I know,” he says, typing on his phone, presumably texting Penelope. “You should see yours.”

“I didn’t even think about my hair,” you say, smile disappearing. “Is it tangled?”

He stares at you. Well, at your hair.

“It’s…worse than that,” he says quietly.

“How bad?” you ask.

“It resembles a moderately sized bird's nest,” he says.

You hide your face. “Everyone’s going to see it,” you say into your hands.

“They won’t care.”

“I care.”

He gives you a weak, sympathetic smile. “I can put it up for you, it would at least look…smaller,” he offers, trying to spare your feelings. 

“Do you remember what happened when you tried to braid my hair?” you ask him.

“I can do a ponytail,” he says confidently. “It’s much easier.”

“Fine,” you say, moving your hair from your shoulders. “Go ahead.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me,” he says.

“I trust you, just not with my hair,” you say as you try to scoot forward. Then immediately regret it. “Ow!”

“Hey,” he says nervously, rushing toward the bed. “Let me help you.” 

He holds his hand out for you to take, and braces your back with the other, slowly leaning you forward. It’s not painful with his help, your body just feels tense. He pulls on the knot just a little bit, to see how tight it is.

“You know,” he says, pulling out a few loose pieces from the knot. “Hair is incredibly strong. A single strand can support around 100 grams before it breaks.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better while you’re ripping it out of my head?” you ask.

“No, sorry. I’ll just put it up, I can help you brush it out later.”

“You don’t have to help brush it out,” you tell him. 

“What if I want to?” He says, finally gathering your hair together and smoothing it back. 

“I guess if you’re offering,” you say. He starts to wrap the hair tie around. “Pull a little tighter. It’s gonna fall out.”

“A-are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’ll fall out, Spence.”

He pulls tighter and begins wrapping the hair tie around your hair once. Then twice.

“How many times does this go?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” you say. “It depends on how big it is.”

“That…doesn’t help me.”

“Try one more time.”

He does one more loop then steps around so you can see him again. 

“I think,” he starts, stopping to stare at you.

“You think?” 

“I’ve achieved ponytail.”

You smile at him, reaching around behind your head to feel the finished product. It’s a little crooked, and a few hairs have escaped around your face, but it’s secure.

“It actually feels pretty good,” you say. He smiles a proud smile.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in!”

Penelope

8:00 AM

Garcia enters the room, carrying a large gift bag, three balloons, and a drink carrier, with two coffees and a bakery bag inside of it. She walks through the entry past the bathroom to where she has a good view of you.

“Oh! Look at you,” she says, her face lighting up. “You’re awake! And conscious! And making eye contact!” She sets her bags and balloons and coffees on the table and trots over to you, her heels clicking loud. “I’ve been waiting four whole days to see those beautiful little eyeballs!”

You smile, still unable to laugh. “Hi, Penelope.”

“Oh my god, she said hi,” she looks excitedly at Spencer. “She said hi to me!”

“I told you she was awake,” Spencer says, quietly sitting back down in the chair next to your bed. 

“Can I hug you?” Penelope asks.

“Yes,” you say, holding your arms open.

“Gently,” Spencer calls from the chair.

She gives you a hug lighter than you thought was possible from her. She steps back, looking at you through glistening eyes that she blinks away.

“Oh, honey,” she says, “We were all so scared.”

You smile softly. “I’m okay,” you say.

“I know,” she reaches down and squeezes your hand gently. “And I would like to officially request that you never ever do anything that terrifying ever again.”

“I don’t plan on getting kidnapped again,” you joke.

Spencer clears his throat. “...Do you like her ponytail?” he asks quietly from the chair.

Penelope looks at your hair. It wasn’t anything special. “It…looks like a ponytail…”

You contort your voice to a loud whisper, one that Spencer can still hear, but that conveys the fact that you’re pretending he can’t. 

“He did it,” you say, pointing at Spencer. “And he’s very proud of himself.”

Penelope’s eyebrows shoot up and she nods solemnly. She turns back to Spencer, who is in fact smiling with unmistakable pride.

“Boy Genius,” she exclaims, pulling his attention to her. “You did her hair?”

“I did,” he grins.

“By yourself?” Penelope asks, stepping behind you to study your ponytail with exaggerated seriousness.

“Yes,” he says.

“I have notes,” she says, after circling you once like an art critic examining a sculpture. “I have tips,” she tucks an escaped strand behind your ear. “But for a first attempt, it looks great.”

Spencer smiles impossibly wider. looking so proud of himself. “I even got the tension right!”

You smile at him, then look at Penelope. “He asked me how tight it should be,” you explain. “Then he gave me a lecture about the strength of human hair.”

Penelope giggles, looking between the two of you. “Oh sweetheart,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed. “You have to keep this one,” she motions toward Spencer. Spencer, who looks adorably confused. 

“Keep me?” he repeats, a mix of confusion and almost offense in his voice.

“Yes, Boy Wonder,” Penelope says.

Spencer looks at you with betrayal in his eyes. “I wasn't aware I was available for exchange.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Penelope beats you to words, so you just shrug.

“Oh, you are not!” Penelope says, waving a dismissive hand. “Final sale, no refunds, no exchanges, Manufacturer warranty has expired.”

“I don’t think that’s how–” Spencer starts.

“Nope,” she cuts him off, then turns her attention toward you. “Do you know how monumental this is?”

“...The ponytail?” you ask.

“Spencer Reid doesn’t just voluntarily touch people’s hair,” she says quickly.

“That’s a misleading generalization!” Spencer says faster.

“It’s not!” Penelope rebuts.

“It is. I’ve–”

Penelope looks at you, cutting him off again.”Do you know how long I’ve known him?”

You shake your head, well, you more shake your eyes and only slightly move your head.

“Almost four years!” She holds up four fingers. “And in that time I’ve seen him touch a total of…” she pretends to calculate. “Oh! zero other people’s hair.”

“That’s–” Spencer tries to argue, but Penelope keeps talking. She’s good at that, you’ve noticed. 

“You’ve hugged me…” Penelope continues.

“Don’t.” Spencer interjects, sounding almost offended.

“...four times in those four years, and you’ve only initiated one!” Penelope says.

“One of them was a side hug,” Spencer says, like somehow that helped his case. “On Halloween last year.”

“You remember?” Penelope’s eyes sparkle as she looks at him. Spencer just widens his eyes in return, giving her a look that says ‘eidetic memory.’ Penelope softens for exactly half a second before she picks up on the look. “Right, he’s a genius.”

“What’s your point?” Spencer says, starting to sound a little bit annoyed at the attention he’s getting from her.

“My point is,” she grabs your ponytail, “hair.” She points at Spencer with her other hand. “You.” She then gently pulls your ponytail toward him, soft enough to not move your head, just to move the hair in his direction. “Personal space!?” 

“She can’t do it herself right now!” Spencer argues.

“I mean…” you finally speak quietly. “He does braid my hair sometimes…”

Penelope’s entire face lights up. She lets go of your hair and grabs your shoulders. She’s gentle, but she’s moving so quickly and erratically that it worries your boyfriend.

“Be careful with her!” he says a little too loud.

“She’s okay, Spence,” you say, not taking your eyes off Penelope, who is looking down at you like you just told her you were getting married.

“He braids your hair!?” She repeats ecstatically. You nod with a smile. “Honey, that’s Spencer Reid’s version of writing your name in the sky!”

You smile at her, then glance over to Spencer, who looks adorably mortified. His eyes are blown wide and the tips of his ears have begun to turn red in the way that you love.

“It is not!” He argues at her immediately. He shifts his attention to you “N-not that I wouldn’t w-write your n-name, Y/N, I love you!” you can visibly see his brain click on. “Skywriting is actually a very inefficient form of communication and the message is usually only visible for less than ten minutes a-and about 72% of people who see skywriting don’t actually remember what it said within an h-hour. I just think there’s more memorable ways of telling y-you that I love you. I mean if you w-want me to get a skywriter I could but it just doesn’t seem practi–”

“Spencer,” you say, stopping him from his seemingly endless spiral. “She was making a joke.”

His face burns redder as he looks down at his shoes to try to hide it.

“I knew that,” he mumbles.

Penelope tells you a few stories about Spencer avoiding physical touch at all costs, and you smile at the thought. Not the thought of him avoiding contact, but the thought that he never was weary to touch you. Even during the beginning of your friendship, he was okay with touching you. The idea that you were taking the hugs and casual hand holds for granted was something that never crossed your mind.

After about an hour, Penelope stands from the foot of your bed.

“As much as I hate to do this,” she says, smoothing out her dress. “I have to mind the visiting schedule.”

You smile at her, not thankful for her to leave, but thankful for the chance to take a nap. “Thank you for coming,” you tell her.

“Oh of course, honey. Anything for you,” she grabs her purse, then pauses as she’s reminded of the drink carrier she brought in. “That’s yours,” she says, looking at Spencer.

“...M-mine” he stutters.

“Yes, yours,” she says, handing the cup to him. She points at the bakery bag. “And there’s a croissant in there too. Make sure you’re eating.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, smiling at her.

You watch as she leaves the room, you swear you could hear her heels clicking all the way out the front door of the hospital. After a moment, you turn to Spencer.

“When is the next person coming?” You ask through sleepy, hooded eyes.

“Morgan is coming at 10:30,” he says.

“What time is it now?” Your eyes are noticeably heavy.

“9:15, are you wanting to sleep?” He looks at you with a slightly concerned face. “I can tell him to come later.”

“N-no,” you say, struggling to keep your eyes open. “J-just wake me up at t-ten.”

He smiles, reaching his hand out to hold yours again. You lazily wrap your fingers around his, not grasping, just holding. His hand squeezes yours, one of the most comforting things to feel as you fall asleep.

Derek

10:30 AM

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep for when you feel something warm brush against your cheek, but it definitely doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough. You keep your eyes closed, pretending to not have woken up. A thumb traces slowly over one of the only parts of your face that isn’t bruised or surrounding a bruise. He whispers your name, you only hum in response.

“Are you awake?” He asks softly. 

“No.” you say. He laughs softly. “...Five more minutes.”

“Morgan will be here in about ten minutes,” he says. Your head starts tipping further into the pillow like you’re dozing off again. “I can ask him to come later if you want to sleep.”

“No…” you say. Your eyes stay closed. “...want to…see him.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks you, not sounding convinced.

You sit your head up, eyeing him with heavy lids. “Yeah…just…tired.”

Your head starts falling sideways again. Spencer catches it before it falls completely. 

“I know,” he says, his hand staying lightly against the side of your head. “Come on, let’s sit you up.”

“But…comfortable,” you groan as he slips a hand behind your back. 

“Do you want to be awake when Morgan gets here?” he asks. You nod. “Then you need to sit up. You’ll be less likely to fall asleep when sitting upright.”

“You’re just…saying that,” you say.

“No, it decreases sleep onset because your postural muscles remain active,” he explains.

“...fine,” you say, grabbing his hand that’s not behind your back as he begins to pull you forward. He lifts slowly, stopping every few inches.

"Too fast?"

"No."

"Hurting?"

"No."

"You'll tell me?"

"I promise."

Once you're sitting comfortably against the raised hospital bed, he adjusts the pillows behind you until you stop squirming. Then he hands you your water.

Knock.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for a familiar head to poke through.

"You decent?"

“Come in,” Spencer calls.

You hand your water back to Spencer. He takes the cup automatically, setting it beside your bed as Derek pushes the door open the rest of the way.

Unlike Penelope, he isn't balancing gift bags or balloons or enough supplies to open a small gift shop. It's just him in jeans and a leather jacket, his hands shoved into his pockets like he'd simply stopped by on his way home.

"What's up, Kid?" he says, crossing the room. He stops beside your bed and holds out a fist. “How ya feeling?”

“Tired,” you say, bumping his fist gently. “But it doesn’t really hurt right now.”

“That’s good,” he says. His eyes drift to the IV hanging beside your bed, then back to you. “They’ve got you pretty pretty high, don’t they.” He chuckles.

“Yeah,” you grin.

Morgan laughs before turning to Spencer. “Has Pretty Boy here been taking good care of you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s been perfect.”

Spencer’s ears immediately turn pink. “I-I haven’t really done much. I get her her water and the TV remote.”

“You’ve been here for four days,” Morgan says, staring at him. “I’m guessing you’ve done a little more than handing her the remote and playing waterboy.”

“I don’t know…” Spencer says.

You know.

Sure, he’s grabbed the remote and your water the most, but he’d also held your hand through every nightmare, and he learned which side of the bed hurt your ribs less, he remembered every medication, every side effect, every nurse, every doctor, everything. He’d slept folded into that uncomfortable chair because he refused to leave the room, even when there were no signs of you waking up soon, he’d stayed.

And to you, that was way more than grabbing the remote or handing you a plastic cup.

“You have,” you say softly.

“I have?” Spencer looks over to you, confused.

You nod, opening your eyes wide at him. He smiles that shy smile you’ve started to recognize before he shrugs like none of had been anything special.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air for that genius brain of yours,” Morgan suggests, patting Spencer on the shoulder.

“No,” Spencer answers immediately, shaking his head. “I don’t want to leave her.”

“You look like hell, Kid,” Morgan says. “Just five minutes, I’ll stay here.”

“What if something happens?” Spencer argues, still not showing any time of moving. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” Morgan assures him.

Spencer glances toward you, like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Go,” you smile. He looks almost offended by your answer.

“A-are you sure?” he says. You nod at him. “W-what if you need someth– You can’t reach your water.”

“I can hand her her water,” Morgan says.

“What if her pain gets wor–” Spencer tries to argue.

“I can get a nurse,” Morgan interrupts.

“What if–” Spencer tries again.

“Go,” you interrupt. Spencer falls quiet, staring at you.

“Youll be okay?” He asks softly.

You smile. “I’ll be okay, Spence.”

He studies you for a moment before his face fills with relief. He leans down and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind your ear and presses the gentlest kiss you’ve ever felt onto your forehead. He lingers for just a moment, before exhaling. “...Okay.”

Spencer starts to leave, walking slower than you’ve ever seen him move before. He takes one last look at you as he leaves the room, as if he’s committing everything to memory exactly the way it is.

Morgan waits to hear the door click shut before he walks around the bed and sits in the chair Spencer has all but lived in for the past four days. He looks at you intently.

“He hasn’t left at all, has he?” He sighs.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “He needs to shower.”

“You know you’re going to be the only person able to convince him to, right?” he asks you.

“Yeah, I know,” you give him a half smile.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he says. “But you got my boy bad.”

You smile, unsure of what to say.

“You walk him like a dog, you know that?” he says, shaking his head with a smile.

“Nuh uh,” you protest playfully.

“You’re right,” he smirks. “The leash would mean he’d pull back every once in a while.”

“He’s not that bad,” you say.

“Kid, he’d ask for your permission to breathe if you’d let him,” he jokes. You can’t help but smile.

You notice his eyes flick toward your ponytail. He nods toward it. 

“Reid do that?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching up and squeezing the base.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Garcia wasn’t exaggerating,” he says.

“She told you?” you ask.

“She told everybody,” he chuckles. “Whole group chat knows Pretty Boy put your hair up.”

You start to laugh. Then regret it.

“Ow,” you impulsively say, grabbing your side. You squeeze your eyes through the pain.

“Easy,” Morgan coaches, the teasing tone gone.

“I’m okay,” you say while holding your breath.

“No, you’re hurting,” he points out.

You nod after a moment, the pain mostly subsided. 

“Laughing just hurts,” you say.

“Makes sense,” he nods. “You’re pretty banged up, huh?”

“Little bit,” you say, taking a deep breath to control the pain.

“Medicine wearing off?” he asks.

You nod.

“You know when you can get another dose?”

“I don’t,” you start, then remember. “S-Spencer um…he keeps a little notebook where he writes the times. It’s on that table over there,” you point to the table in the corner.

Morgan walks to the table and picks up the small spiral notebook. He flips it open to find pages after pages filled top to bottom. Medication, dosage, time administered, pain level before, pain level after, when you slept, when you asked for water; everything someone could ever need to possibly know is in here. He looks at it for a minute before carefully closing it. 

“...Huh,” he says.

“What?”

“Just forgot how…Reid he is.”

You smile, “He likes writing things down.”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting the notebook back exactly where he found it. His eyes linger on it for a moment longer before looking back to you. “You can have more meds in like fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, cool,” you nod.

Morgan settles back into the chair quietly, resting one arm over the armrest. It’s quiet for a moment.

“So,” he says, “You ever been bowling?”

“Yeah?” you say, confused.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Cause next time you decide you want attention we’re taking you bowling,” he says. “No more getting kidnapped.”

“Dang,” you say, “There goes my weekend plans.”

He smiles. “You had us all worried sick, Kid.”

“I’m sor–” you start.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I’ve been briefed by Rossi, no apologies.”

“Sorry,” you say.

“Don’t keep apologizing for something someone else did.”

“...I know,” you say, looking down at your blanket.

He lets the silence sit for a moment before bumping your knee gently with the back of his hand.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“About bowling?” you ask with a small smile.

“About bowling,” he smiles back.

One of your favorite things about most of your friends being profilers was that you didn’t always have to explain everything, they just know. 

You hear the doorknob turn, you turn to see Spencer entering, still looking like he’s been through hell and back. His eyes find yours before the door can even latch shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks, already having reached the side of your bed before you can answer.

“I’m okay, Spence,” you assure him.

“How was your walk?” Morgan asks him.

“Unhelpful,” he shrugs, then immediately turning his attention back to you. “Are you hurting?”

“...A little,” you admit.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes turning only slightly glassy.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him.

“I know…” he says, starting to lose some of the color in his face. “I just–” he sniffles back a tear.

“Have your chair back, man,” Morgan says, standing up.

“It’s okay–” Spencer starts.

“No, go sit,” Morgan says, nodding toward the chair. “I've already had to clean up your puke four times this week. Don't make it five.”

“Morgan!” He shouts, accusatory.

You look at Spencer. “You threw up four times?”

"What?" Morgan shrugs innocently. "She was gonna find out eventually."

Spencer rubs the back of his neck, refusing to look at you. "...I was scared."

Just three words, quiet and matter-of-fact. Like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

He walks back around to his chair and sits beside your bed, reaching for your hand before he's even settled all the way down. Your fingers lace together automatically. You squeeze once. He squeezes back. No one says anything for a moment.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for one of your nurses to peek inside.

"How are we doing in here?" She asks

"Good," you answer.

She smiles. "Ready for some more pain medicine?" You nod. "I'll be right back."

The door closes again. Spencer looks over at Morgan.

"Uh..." He clears his throat. "She usually falls asleep about...ten minutes after they give it to her." 

Morgan nods.

"You’re welcome to stay,” he says, “I’m not kicking you out, just… be quiet."

"Nah," Morgan stands, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. "I'll get outta your hair."

He stops halfway to the door, turning back and looking directly at Spencer. He’s not smiling, he’s serious.

“You good?” Morgan asks him, his eyebrows raised.

You feel Spencer squeeze your hand ever so slightly tighter. His eyes shift up to meet Derek’s.

“I’m okay,” he says sincerely.

“You sure?” Morgan asks.

“I am.” Spencer nods.

Morgan studies him for a moment, nodding once he seems satisfied. 

“If that changes…” Morgan starts.

“...I’ll let somebody know,” Spencer finished for him.

“Good,” Morgan says, nodding. He looks over to you. “Oh, and don’t worry about your car,” he says casually.

“My car?” you repeat, furrowing your eyebrows at him. 

“Fixed it,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You didn’t have t–” you start.

“I know,” he interrupts. “I wanted to.”

“Derek…” you say, feeling a little guilty.

“Didn’t want you stuck without a ride once you’re outta here,” he says causally. The nurse returns, pushing a little cart through the door. Morgan steps aside to let her through. “I’ll see you two later.”

He gives Spencer one last sympathetic look as he slips out of the room. The door clicks shut as the nurse begins uncapping your IV.

JJ12:30 PM

JJ enters your room quietly. She’s more calm than Penelope, but more professional than Derek. She radiates comfort. You’re already awake, absentmindedly watching whatever daytime television happens to be on. Spencer isn’t awake. For the first time since you’ve woken up, he’s asleep, curled awkwardly into the hospital chair with one arm folded across his chest and his head tipped against the back cushion. His hair is somehow even messier than it had been this morning. 

JJ notices him immediately, a smile spreading across her face.

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping,” she says, looking toward you.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him asleep while I’m awake,” you tell her.

She glances back at him. “It looks like he needs it.”

You nod. 

She walks over and quietly sits at the foot of your bed, careful not to make noise to wake him, and to not hurt you. She places a gentle hand on your shin that’s hiding under the blanket and looks at you sympathetically.

“I know you’ve heard it a million times, but I’m glad you’re okay,” she says.

“Yeah, thank you,” you say sheepishly.

She’s silent for a moment, just looking at you. “...You scared all of us,” she says. You open your mouth to speak, but she continues before you can. “You’ve made him cry more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Seriously?” you say, a little bit disbelieving. 

She nods, looking over toward him sleeping in the chair. You follow her gaze. He is completely out, his hand that isn’t across his body sits loosely wrapped around your blanket, like even when he’s asleep, he still wanted to make sure he was close enough if you needed him.

“He really loves you,” JJ smiles.

You don’t answer right away, you just keep looking at him. “...I know,” you finally say.

“He looks exhausted,” she says.

“He really needs to go home and shower,” you say. “And sleep somewhere that isn’t…there.

She laughs quietly. “I was going to ask him what he wanted to eat but he seems a little…preoccupied.”

“He’d eat literally anything you got him right now,” you smile.

“Has he eaten today?” she asks.

“Penelope brought him coffee and a croissant this morning,” you think for a moment. “I’m pretty sure he ate it.”

Spencer stirs slightly in the chair. “I can hear you guys, you know,” he grumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

You and JJ look at each other and giggle quietly. 

“So,” she says, turning toward him. “What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t want anything,” he says, cracking one eye open to look at the two of you.

“You need to eat,” she says.

“I had a croissant,” he argues.

“At 8:30,” you remind him.

He opens both eyes, giving you a betrayed look that you have to admit is absolutely adorable.

“You guys are ganging up on me,” he says.

“We want you to take care of yourself,” JJ explains. “What do you want?”

He glances between the two of you. You can visibly see his face of realization when he accepts that neither of you are going to budge.

“...Soup?” he offers cautiously.

“And crackers?” you suggest to him.

“And crackers,” he tells JJ.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” she says with a smile. She grabs her purse and starts walking out of the room. “I’ll be back with soup…and crackers,” she says as she steps out of the room.

Spencer watches her leave before he looks at you. 

“I liked it better when everyone was worried about you,” he says.

Emily4:00 PM

Emily peeks her head in your hospital room about fifteen minutes after you wake up from a nap. She steps inside, holding a cardboard coffee cup she had to have gotten from the waiting room. 

“Hey,” she says as she walks in. “How are you?”

“Hi,” you say, smiling at her.

She takes a sip of the coffee and makes a face. “This tastes like drywall.”

You let out a managed giggle.

“Where’s Reid?” she asks, scanning the room, eyes lingering on the chair beside your bed.

“I finally convinced him to go home and shower while I took a nap,” you smile.

“Good,” Emily says, sitting the coffee down on the table.

“He smelled terrible,” you say, shaking your head. “He was still wearing the same clothes.”

“I believe it,” she says, not sounding shocked at all. “I’m surprised he left you here alone.”

“It took a lot of convincing,” you say. “He really didn’t want to go, I literally had to tell him he smelled bad, then he kept apologizing.”

“I still can’t believe he went four days without showering,” she says. “Even during cases I’ve never seen him go a day without one.”

“He hasn’t shaved either,” you smile slightly. “I honestly didn’t know he could even grow a beard.”

“Me either,” Emily looks horrified at the thought of Spencer Reid with a beard.

“I feel bad,” you say, glancing over at the empty chair.

“For what?” Emily glares at you.

“He shouldn’t have slept in that chair for four nights,” you say. “I wish he would at least go home to sleep.”

“He wants to stay,” she looks at you sympathetically.

"I know, but–" you start.

"And before you apologize..." she interrupts. You immediately close your mouth. "I've noticed something."

"What?" you ask.

"You keep taking responsibility for everyone else's feelings."

You look down. "...Do I?"

"You apologized because Spencer hasn't showered,” she points out. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “Morgan says you apologized to him for being kidnapped.”

“Yeah…” you admit.

"You don't have to spend all your energy making everyone else feel better,” she says. "I've seen people do that after something like this."

She chooses her words carefully, you could tell she was purposely avoiding certain ones. 

Victim.

Kidnapping.

Your fingers twist together in your lap. "...I just don't want everyone worrying."

"I know,” Emily says it so simply that it catches you off guard. "I get it."

You look up at her. “I just don’t want to be…too much.”

"You don't have to protect them from this,” she assures you. “You’re surrounded by the best people for this, we see this everyday.”

“But he can’t even take care of himself because he’s so worried about me,” you say quietly.

Emily looks over at Spencer's empty chair that you don’t realize you’re staring at.

"He loves you,” she says.

"...I know."

"So does Rossi,” she continues. “So they're going to worry. They're going to hover. They're going to ask you how you're feeling fifty times a day."

A tiny smile tugs at your lips. "...Probably."

“Definitely,” she smiles briefly before her face goes serious again. “Eventually, you’re going to have one of those days where you can’t sleep, and where you…remember. And you’re going to tell yourself that you can’t tell Rossi because he’l blame himself, or that you can’t tell Spencer because he’s already dealing with so much…”

You stare at her. She’s exactly right, and it is slightly scaring you. You feel your throat start to tighten up.

“When that happens, call me,” she says casually, but seriously. 

“Okay…” you smile at her. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” she looks deeply at you. “No matter how early or how late it is, if you need someone who isn’t your uncle, or so…Spencer-like, or you just need another girl to talk to, call me.”

“I will,” you exhale.

She nods, letting the silence settle in the air. For a moment, the only sounds is the heart monitor beeping quietly, the hum of several machines, and the TV on the lowest audible volume level.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “When you’re no longer attached to all this crap, Morgan says we’re taking you bowling.”

You smile, “he told me.”

"I told him you'd probably still have stitches,” she says

"What'd he say?"

Emily straightens in her chair and drops into her best Derek Morgan impression. "'That's why they'll never expect her to win.'"

You laugh silently, you’ve noticed that doesn’t hurt as bad. "...That sounds exactly like him."

"I know."

Emily tells you about Garcia attempting to organize everyone's hospital visiting schedule into a color-coded spreadsheet.

"She made Hotch RSVP,” she tells you.

"...Did he?"

"He replied with exactly one word."

"What?"

"'Received.'"

You laugh silently again.

Knock. Knock.

Spencer appears from behind the door, carrying his satchel and a tote bag you recognize as your own. For a moment, all you do is look at him.

His hair is still damp from the shower, darker than usual where it hasn't dried yet. He'd changed into a red FBI Academy hoodie you'd seen him wear dozens of times before and a pair of grey sweatpants that looked soft enough to sleep in. He still hadn't shaved, the few days' worth of stubble starting to cover his jaw.

He looked tired. Really tired. The shower hadn't erased the dark circles beneath his eyes or the exhaustion that had settled into his face, but it had washed away the hospital. The antiseptic smell. The dried tears. The four days he'd spent refusing to leave your side.  He looked a little more like your Spencer again.

His eyes find yours almost instantly. 

"Hey,” he says, already crossing the room before the word is finished. "How are you feeling?"

“I’m okay,” you smile.

He sits his sachet and your tote bag beside his chair before he leans down over your bed.

"Nothing happened while I was gone?" he asks gently.

"No,” you assure him.

"No nightmares?"

"No."

"No nausea?"

"No."

"You've been okay?"

"I've been okay."

“Okay,” he exhales. You can visibly see the tension leave his shoulders. “Good.”

He stands from your bed, looking over and seemingly realizing Emily was in the corner for the first time. She’s sitting in one of the table chairs, just staring at him with her mouth so slightly agape.

“...What?” he frowns.

“You…have a beard,” she sounds distraught.

“I’ve been a little too busy to shave,” he says, immediately bringing a hand up to run along his jaw.

“And you’re wearing…sweatpants,” she tilts her head toward his lower half.

“Yes?” he questions, looking down at himself.

“I’ve known you two years and I have never once seen you in sweatpants.”

“They’re comfortable,” he shrugs.

“I’ve just never seen you dress…normal,” she says like her entire world has changed.

“I don’t think I typically dress abnormal,” he argues.

“No, you just typically dress nice,” she explains. “It’s just weird to see you in a hoodie.”

You can’t suppress your giggle at their exchange.

“...What?” Spencer asks, looking over at you.

“Nothing,” you smile. “I think you look cute.”

“Thanks,” he says, his face and ears turning a light shade of pink. He reaches down into your tote bag he sat next to the chair. “I brought you something.”

“You did?” you ask, trying to peek down into the bag. He nods, pulling your planner out and lying it gently across your body. “My planner?” you say, feeling your heart swell. 

“I thought you probably missed it,” he shrugs. He pulls out another thing from the bag and puts it across you as well. “I brought you a sweater too…the one you always steal. A-as long as you’re able to pull the sleeve up to show the IV it should fit over everything.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. Not only did he bring your planner, which you had thought about at least once an hour since you woke up, but he brought his favorite sweater of his for you to wear. The sweater that you know for a fact was in your closet.

“You went to Uncle Dave’s?” you say, looking up at him. “You didn’t even go to your apartment, did you?”

He freezes, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “...no.”

“Why?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“I just figured you’d want your planner,” he shrugs awkwardly. “And I knew I still had clothes in your room from the last time I stayed over.

You glance over at Emily, looking shocked at how naturally the words spill out of Spencer’s mouth. She looks between the two of you. 

“...Rossi lets you stay over?” she sounds, sounding disbelieving.

“Once,” Spencer answers, settling into the chair.

“After trivia night,” you add, knowing that Emily would have far more questions than Spencer, who was at the end of the day, still a man, would answer without being prompted. “He just forgot to take him home.”

“That’s insane,” Emily says, standing and starting to gather her things as the sun starts to set in the windows outside. “I think you have a second reason to call me now,” she smiles.

You nod, knowingly, and thankful for her for not mentioning the previous promise with Spencer here now. She grabs the undrank coffee from the table, and stands near the door. 

“I’m heading home before it gets too dark,” she announces. “Please take care of yourselves, both of you.”

You and Spencer both nod at her as she slips out of the room, leaving you two alone again.

HOTCH7:30 PM

You and Spencer are sitting in comfortable silence, him reading, and you watching him read, when a firm knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” Spencer calls, looking up from his book.

Aaron Hotchner steps inside. You almost don’t recognize him, not in a full suit. He’s still in slacks, but he wears a grey polo shirt rather than a white button up, tie, and jacket. You understand how Emily felt seeing Spencer in his sweatpants and hoodie now.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says first. “I had Jack today.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, walking over beside your bed. He studies you for a moment, like he’s assessing. "You look better."

"You did well,” he says. You tilt your head slightly. “...in there.”

"...I tried not to die,” you say, half smiling.

"You were severely injured,” he recalls. "And you still kept his attention on you."

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but Spencer tightening his grip on your hand makes you realize.

The unsub.

"I was just trying to keep him talking so he didn’t hit me again,” you admit.

"Exactly,” he nods. "You bought time."

"I didn't really think about it like that," you say, looking down at your blanket.

"Have you ever considered hostage negotiation?" he asks.

You laugh, but look up at him to see that he is dead serious. "...What?"

"You stayed engaged,” his tone stays perfectly even. "You regulated his emotions, you redirected his attention, you kept him invested in the conversation despite your injuries." He looks at you for another second. “Did Dave teach you to do that?”

“No, I just…did it.”

"I think you'd be good at it."

"I'll...keep that in mind."

"I hope you do."

The door creaks a little, opening without having been knocked on. A nurse wheels in a small medication cart.

"Evening meds,” she sings, coming to the side of your bed. She checks your bracelet before pushing medication into your IV. The familiar warmth spreads through your arm. Your eyelids immediately feel heavier.

"You'll probably be asleep in about ten minutes," Spencer tells Hotch.

The nurse finishes disconnecting the syringe before wishing you goodnight. By the time she leaves, you're already struggling to keep your eyes open.

"I'm not tired," you mumble.

Spencer smiles. "You've said that every time."

"I'm serious!” you argue.

"Mhm,” he hums, scooting his chair closer to you. Instead of taking your hand, he lays an arm over your body and onto your thigh in a protective way. You sit your hand on top of his.

"Night," you mumble.

"Goodnight," both men say in unison.

Hotch lingers a moment after you fall asleep. He silently watches as your breathing evens out. Once he’s sure you are out, he turns to Spencer.

“How are you doing?” He asks.

"I'm okay." Spencer says.

"Are you?" Hotch studies him.

"...I'm tired."

"I can see that."

"Are you taking care of yourself?"

"I'm trying,” Spencer nods

Hotch's eyes drift toward the table in the corner of the room. "We know about the notebook,” he says sternly.

"...I'm just keeping track,” Spencer says quietly.

"Is that all you're doing?" Hotch stares.

"...Yes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No,” Spencer says strongly. Hotch doesn’t let up his intimidation stare. "I promise."

"You're doing a good job, Reid,” Hotch says, a little softer in both his tone and his look. "I'm proud of you."

"...Thank you."

Hotch nods once. "Get some sleep."

Spencer looks back toward you. "I..."

"She'll still be here. And she'll probably sleep better if she knows you are too."

Spencer considers that. "...Okay."

"Promise me."

"I will."

Satisfied, Hotch straightens his jacket.

"Take as much time as you need," he says as he opens the handle of the door, preparing to leave.

“Thank you, sir.” Spencer answers, smiling with relief as Hotch quietly lets himself out.

The room falls silent again. Spencer looks down at your sleeping face, his arm rests across you, holding you in the only way he can right now. Your hand is still wrapped loosely around his. He smiles to himself, leaning forward and kissing your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers before lying his head across you, using your lap as his pillow for the night.

_____

Read Part 33 Here!

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: this took SO long i’m sorry (don’t tell me not to apologize i will continue to apologize even though i don’t need to) anyways um yeah idk what to really do next with this series, i think i might lowkey do like a three month time jump because i don’t want like 8 parts in a row being spencer taking care of ur broken ribs lmao thats so repetitive

_____

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[inked-with-feels]

Between Us, a Heartbeat | Marcus Baker Part Two

Word Count: 1,691 Plot: After a tense but quiet night on the roof, Y/N tries to keep her distance — from Wellsbury, from the noise, from Marcus Baker. But the silence in this town is too loud, and he’s suddenly everywhere. When a warning from Georgia echoes in her head, she brushes it off… until Marcus crosses the street and sits beside her like it means nothing. That’s when it starts to mean something. Rain falls. Secrets settle. And when he sees the part of her no one else has stayed long enough to notice, she doesn’t run. Not yet.

⤷ This is Part Two of a series. Start here: Between Us, a Heartbeat — Part One

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PART 2:

Mornings in Wellsbury came early. Too early.

The kind of early where sunlight didn’t ask permission — it just forced itself in. It filtered through the thin white curtains in a golden, overconfident way, cutting sharp lines across Y/N’s face like the town itself was reminding her: no sleeping in, no hiding out, no soft landings here. She groaned, rolling onto her side. The mattress creaked in protest, too stiff and far too clean, like it had never held anyone for more than a night. Not really. Just one more thing in this perfect little town that didn’t quite fit. Her body ached in that heavy, tired way that had nothing to do with sleep. The stale taste of last night’s joint still clung to the back of her throat. Her mouth was dry. Her limbs didn’t feel like moving. She blinked once, then let her eyes stay closed, but the silence wasn’t kind — it was thick. Loud in the wrong ways.

And her brain was too awake now. Because of him. Marcus Baker.

Her thoughts were a loop of blurry moments — a flicker of his profile in the dark, the way he didn’t flinch when she snappy at him, the silence he carried like it was armour. The faint smirk that almost didn’t belong on his face. The feeling of being seen when she didn’t ask to be. She sat up and dragged a hand through her hair, then tied it up, messy and half-hearted. She pulled a black hoodie over her head, not even checking to see if it matched whatever else she was wearing. It didn’t matter. Nothing about this day felt like it deserved effort. She didn’t bother with makeup. If Wellsbury wanted to stare, let them.

By the time she stepped downstairs, Georgia was already in full motion — humming something peppy in the kitchen, flipping pancakes like she belonged in some Hallmark movie. Y/N watched her for a second before moving toward the coffee like she lived there, too.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Georgia chirped without turning around. Y/N didn’t respond. She found a random mug and poured herself a cup, adding way too much sugar just to make it drinkable. The warmth felt good in her hands. Solid. Real. “Ginny left early,” Georgia went on, as if they were best friends and this was normal. “Yearbook meeting or iced matcha with Maxine — possibly both.” Y/N just nodded, bringing the cup to her lips. She sipped, still tasting sleep, still thinking about the roof.

Georgia didn’t let the quiet last.

“So,” she said, flipping a pancake like it meant something, “how’s our little roof gremlin doing this morning?” The coffee nearly came out of Y/N’s nose. “Excuse me?” Georgia turned with that smug, knowing look only a mom could pull off. “Don’t play dumb. Midnight roof talks, worn shingles, ashes near the gutter. It’s not rocket science.” Y/N narrowed her eyes, clutching the mug tighter. “You spying on me now?” “I’m a mom,” Georgia said with a smile. “I may not be your mom, but I am a mom. It’s part of the job.” Y/N let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Right.” Georgia leaned against the counter, still flipping pancakes like they were having brunch and not unraveling her secrets. “I’m not mad. Just…” She paused, her voice softening. “Be careful. Marcus Baker’s not the type to cause damage on purpose, but he’s got a way of leaving a mark.” Y/N said nothing. Didn’t touch the pancakes. She just let the warning settle like fog in her chest.

—

Later, she was outside, sitting on the curb with her arms wrapped tight around her knees and her hood pulled up. She pressed her earbuds in, not to listen — just to be left alone. There was no music playing. Just white noise and the hum of her own head. The air smelled like concrete and summer grass. The kind of heat that lingered even in the shade. She hated how pretty everything looked. It made her feel ugly inside. She tapped her boot against the pavement. Just to feel something. Then a sound: a creak. A door.

She looked up and saw him. Marcus.

He stood on his porch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, skateboard tucked under one arm. His hair was messy in the kind of way that didn’t look on purpose, but somehow still worked. He saw her, too — stopped just for a second. Their eyes met. She looked away first. A moment passed. And then he crossed the street. She didn’t watch him do it. Not really. But she heard the gravel crunch under his shoes. Felt his presence settle near her. “You always sit on sidewalks for fun, or is this, like… a thing?” Marcus asked, voice low and lazy. She didn’t look at him. “I was enjoying the peace.” He shifted slightly. “Sorry for ruining it.” “Didn’t say you did.” Y/N said dryly. He didn’t. But his presence was loud in a different way — one she wasn’t sure how to tune out. Marcus dropped his board and sat beside her, elbows on his knees. He didn’t make a show of it. He just… sat. Like he belonged there. Like this was nothing.

They were quiet.

She could feel the heat of him near her. Smelled the faint trace of his shampoo, some clean scent that clashed with the cigarette-and-ink energy he carried. “Don’t you have something better to do?” she muttered eventually. Marcus shrugged. “Probably.”

She waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

“You always hover like this?” she asked. He half-smiled. “Only when I’m bored.” She side-eyed him. “Right. You’re not weird at all.” “I didn’t say I wasn’t.” He said it so easily, like it didn’t bother him. She hated that.

Then he pulled a joint from his pocket. Lit it. Took a drag. Passed it without a word.

She stared at it for a beat, then took it, her fingers brushing his. It was warm. Familiar. “I thought you were with Ginny,” she said after a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “We broke up a while ago. Kind of.” “Kind of?” Y/N questioned. He exhaled slow. “It’s complicated.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.” He didn’t fight back. Didn’t explain himself. Just watched the smoke curl into the sky like it mattered more than her judgment. She passed it back and tried not to notice how natural it felt sitting here beside him.

He didn’t fill the silence. And that scared her more than anything. Because silence had always been a weapon. But with Marcus, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was.

—

That night, the rain came softly. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a steady tap against the windows and rooftops that made the town feel smaller, cozier. Like maybe the world had finally taken a breath.

Y/N couldn’t sleep.

She grabbed a blanket and climbed back onto the roof. This time slower, more careful — the shingles slick from the rain. The night air was sharp, clean, and cold enough to bite. But she liked that. It gave her something to feel. She tucked the blanket around her shoulders and stared out across the street and then she heard him.

Again.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in this roof,” Marcus said from behind her. “You’re gonna get pneumonia,” she shot back, glancing at his soaked hoodie. He shrugged and sat beside her without asking, legs crossed. His hair was damp and dripping slightly. His breath fogged the air in little ghosts between them. They didn’t say anything for a while. The silence filled in like water between stones. Then, out of nowhere, Marcus spoke again. “I don’t think you’re here to run away.” Y/N blinked, heart catching.

“What?” she asked, voice a little too tight. “I think you’re here because no one ever let you stay.” Marcus finished his thoughts.

It hit her like a gut punch.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t try to dig further. Just offered the thought and let it live. She stared down at her hands, the cold creeping in now beneath the blanket. That sentence sat in her chest like a weight, and she didn’t know whether to throw it off the roof or curl around it and hold it close.

He didn’t push. Just sat quietly. Hoodie damp. Shoulders hunched.

And she hated how right he was. She hated that he’d seen her — all the parts she hadn’t said out loud. All the pieces she kept zipped tight. And yet… a small part of her didn’t hate it.

They stayed there until the rain faded and the sky began to shift from night to morning — navy bleeding into dusty gray. Eventually, Marcus stood. He didn’t say goodbye. Just gave her a look — not a smile, not a frown — just something. A flicker of whatever this was becoming.

She waited until his feet hit the ground again. Then whispered, barely audible, “Good night.”

Not for him. For the stars. For herself. And for now… that would be enough.

[inked-with-feels]

Between Us, a Heartbeat | Marcus Baker Part Three

Word Count: 3,000 Plot: Summer in Wellsbury doesn't slow down. The rain is gone, but the feeling it left behind lingers. Y/N avoids the roof. Avoids Marcus. Avoids the memory of what he said. But Wellsbury is small, and boys like Marcus Baker don’t disappear just because you need space. When a lazy morning turns into an unexpected run-in, Y/N is forced to face something she’s spent her whole life trying to ignore: not every kind of quiet is safe. Some of it feels like falling.

⤷ Start here: Between Us, a Heartbeat — Part One

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She didn’t go back on the roof.

Not the next night. Not the one after that. The shingles still smelled like rain, and the memory of Marcus’s voice—low, calm, impossible to shake—lingered like cigarette smoke in the back of her mind. That sentence kept replaying, like her brain had looped it into a soundtrack she never asked for.

“I don’t think you’re here to run away. I think you’re here because no one ever let you stay.”

She’d barely spoken to anyone since. Georgia had noticed, obviously. She always noticed, but instead of calling her out directly, she’d just made extra pancakes, hovered a little too long in doorways, and said things like, “You’re safe here,” as if safety was something you could offer over breakfast. Y/N didn’t know how to say what she was feeling, because it didn’t feel like anything specific. It was a mix of heavy quiet and jittery noise under her skin. Like she was waiting for something to go wrong—even if nothing actually had. She couldn’t name the emotion, but it sat in her chest, restless and sharp.

The only place that didn’t feel too tight was the front porch.

So that’s where she went. Early. Before Ginny woke up. Before Georgia started humming and flipping things in the kitchen. She sat with a cup of bitter coffee and let the warm air roll over her like it could press her back into the real world. It didn’t. The porch creaked softly as she rocked the swing back and forth with one boot. Her other foot was tucked beneath her, and the hoodie she’d slept in still clung to the smell of last night—faint weed smoke and lemon detergent. Her headphones were in, but no music played. She liked the illusion of disconnecting more than the effort of actually doing it.

It wasn’t long before the sky shifted into that bright, obnoxious Wellsbury blue. Too perfect. Too glossy. Like the town didn’t know how to be anything but camera-ready. She hated it. Hated how the birds chirped like a choir and the sidewalks looked like they were power-washed daily. Nothing about it matched what she felt inside.

Eventually, she stood up, shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket, and started walking with no destination in mind. The streets were quiet, and the sun was already heating the pavement enough to make the back of her knees sweat. Her boots were too warm for June, but she didn’t care. Her playlist was paused. Her thoughts weren’t. She rounded the corner near the café and paused, heart stuttering.

Marcus.

He was leaning against the brick wall outside Blue Farm like it was something he did every morning. Headphones in. One leg bent, foot braced against the wall behind him. Skateboard resting beside his foot. He looked like he belonged there, like the world had put him in this scene on purpose. Y/N didn’t know whether to walk faster or pretend she hadn’t seen him. But it was too late. He’d already noticed her. He didn’t smile, just pulled one earbud out and raised his eyebrows slightly, like this wasn’t surprising at all.

She walked closer, slow and deliberate. “You following me?” she said, voice dry as ever. Marcus exhaled, something close to a laugh catching in his throat. “I was here first.” She leaned against the wall, leaving space between them. “Convenient.” They stood in silence. Not the kind that begged to be filled—but the kind that settled between people who knew how to carry it. She glanced over and caught the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“You avoiding the roof now?” he asked. She didn’t answer right away. Then, “Maybe.” He nodded. “Too much truth up there?” She side-eyed him. “You always this annoying?” Marcus tilted his head like he was considering it. “Not always. Just with people who look like they might actually get it.”

That made her go still. Just for a second. Because she wasn’t sure she did get it. Or maybe she did, and that was worse.

He reached into his hoodie and pulled out a folded piece of paper, held it out to her with a casual flick of his fingers. “Found this in a notebook. Thought you might want it.” She didn’t move at first. Then she took it, fingertips brushing his. The paper was crumpled and soft, like it had been carried around for a while. She opened it slowly.

If someone lets you stay, don’t leave before they know why you stayed.

The words stared up at her, familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. Marcus didn’t say anything else. He just shrugged like it didn’t matter and pushed off the wall. “Later,” he said, grabbing his board and stepping into the street like he hadn’t just handed her a grenade.

She watched him go until he turned the corner. Then she sat on the ledge, the note still in her hands, and read it again. And again.

That night, she didn’t go on the roof. But she stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the dark. Wondering if he was watching the same sky.

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💭 Got a request?

If you’re emotionally unwell after this (same), send me a prompt. I write for Marcus Baker and Stiles Stilinski — bonus points if it’s messy, slow-burn, or hurts a little in the chest.

✎ Request something here — anon is on. Be bold. I’m already spiralling.

[inked-with-feels]

Between Us, a Heartbeat | Marcus Baker

Word Count: 764 Plot: Y/N, Ginny’s sharp-witted but guarded older cousin, arrives in Wellsbury for the summer, determined not to get attached. After catching a mysterious boy sneaking into Ginny’s window, her nightly rooftop escapes are interrupted when he finally speaks to her. It’s Marcus Baker. She keeps her walls up—but he doesn’t seem put off. If anything, he stays. And that’s the first problem.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ PART 1 : Wellsbury was too perfect. Like a coffee commercial that went on too long. Y/N stepped out of the car and immediately hated how aggressively warm the sunshine was.

She wasn’t here to heal. Or find herself. Or make memories. She was here because her mom said she “needed a change of scenery.” As if scenery had anything to do with the way her heart still ached—or why she didn’t believe a single word boys said anymore.

“Y/N!” Ginny practically skipped off the porch and wrapped her in a hug before she could dodge it.

“Wow,” Y/N said dryly, “do you have cheer practice later, or is that just how you say hi now?”

Ginny laughed. “You haven’t changed.”

And that was the whole problem.

—

The first few days blurred together. Georgia was suspiciously welcoming. Ginny stayed busy flitting between her friends and her very organized chaos.

Y/N mostly kept to herself, unpacking only what she needed. Everything else—literal and emotional—stayed zipped up tight.

At night, when the house finally went quiet, she’d climb out the bedroom window and settle on the roof—not because it was rebellious, but because the stars didn’t ask questions. She also liked being able to smoke her joint in peace.

She noticed him on night two.

Tall. Dark hoodie. Slipping through Ginny’s window like it was routine. No words. No sound. Just a shadow that came and went.

She didn’t ask Ginny. Didn’t want to know. Not her circus.

But it annoyed her. Or maybe he annoyed her—the way he moved like the world owed him silence.

—

Night Four

She sat on the roof, earbuds in but no music playing—just needing the world to think she wasn’t available. Her fingers played with the zipper of her hoodie as she stared up at the sky and tried to ignore the dull ache behind her ribs.

Then: footsteps. Soft. Hesitant.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” a voice said from behind. She didn’t look. “Good job failing.”

A pause. Then the boy—him—settled a few feet away, careful, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

Marcus Baker. She recognized him now. Ginny’s neighbor. And apparently, her… whatever.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared out at the same sky she was trying to get lost in. He watched as she took a hit off her joint. Thought about asking for one. Decided against it. Made a mental note to bring his own next time.

“Don’t you have a window to crawl through?” she asked coolly. “Thought I’d try the roof tonight.” Marcus said with a shrug. Her eyes flicked to him. “Trying to expand your territory?” A beat. He half-smiled. “You’re not from here.” Marcus noticed. “Nope.” Y/N shook her head. “You don’t like talking to people.” Marcus added, about her. “Wow,” she deadpanned. “Do you use this much charm on all the girls?”

His smile twitched again. She hated that he didn’t get defensive. Hated that he didn’t leave. Part of her wanted him to.

Because if he stayed… she might let her guard slip. And people didn’t stay. Not when it mattered.

She flicked the last of her joint off the roof and watched it arc down toward Georgia’s flowerbed. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice the growing graveyard of roaches. Y/N had no idea why Georgia even liked those flowers so much. She picked at the fraying thread on her hoodie sleeve, thoughts racing despite how still she sat.

Don’t get comfortable, she warned herself. You’re only here for the summer. And he’s already someone else’s mistake waiting to happen.

He didn’t press her. Just sat there, occasionally glancing her way like he was still trying to figure her out and from Marcus’s point of view? He kind of was.

He hadn’t meant to come out here. He thought he’d maybe just say something smart, be a little annoying, and head back inside. But now that he was here, he couldn’t seem to leave. She was nothing like Ginny. Or anyone, really. A little blunt. A little guarded. And not at all interested in impressing anyone. He liked the quiet with her. He liked that she didn’t ask what he was doing, or why he wasn’t with Ginny. He liked that she didn’t look at him like she wanted something from him. Usually, he’d be riding around on his board, zoning out. Instead, he was sitting here beside a girl who barely looked at him and somehow made him feel more seen than most people ever did.

She didn’t trust him. That much was obvious. But she didn’t hate him either. The sky stretched out above them. Quiet. Cold. Comforting.

And for now, that would be enough.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

I need a drunk and emotional marcus from season 3 after his breakdown

Marcus is a character I both relate to and see people through, which sometimes make it difficult to write for him. Especially darker subjects. But it's also what I love about writing for him

Note: I have not watched season 3 yet. Just clips on youtube and tiktok

Warnings: mention of depression, mention of alcohol abuse, mention of death (Bridge),

—

On the night of Brody’s party, you were held back at Blue Farm. The girl who had the night shift called in sick and Joe asked you to stay a few hours longer.  You felt bad for leaving him in charge of the kitchen and the tables when a group of women — a book club meeting — came in and filled four tables.  

‘’Thank you for tonight,’’ Joe said for the fifth time as you prepared to leave. ‘’I assumed it would be quiet since it was Friday night.’’ He shook his head. ‘’I would not have managed without your help.’’ 

‘’Rachel was probably at Brody’s party, not sick,’’ you informed your boss, taking your car keys out of your bag. ‘’Do with that information as you will.’’

You wished him good night and walked out. 

Before starting your car, you checked your phone and saw missed calls and texts from Max saying Marcus got drunk at the party and she needed to take him home. She asked if you could pick them up, but that was over an hour ago. Her messages continued, explaining that Marcus then had a breakdown in their living room, crying and telling their parents that he hated himself. 

To Max: I just finished working. How is he doing?

From Max: Dad put him to bed From Max: It was bad. I don’t know what to do… Can you come over?

Your plans for the night was to go home, shower, and finish the book you were currently reading. You only had a few chapters left. But instead, you drove to the Bakers. For Max. 

She had been taking so much on her shoulders these past months. She meant to help by shielding her parents from Marcus’ addiction and his depression, but was it really a good idea?  

‘’I just stood there and watched,’’ Max said, emotions thick in her voice. She had been crying. ‘’I…I feel like a bad sister for not being able to help him.’’ 

You looked at her, your eyes soft as you reached out to touch her arm, offering her a small sense of comfort and reassurance. ‘’You're not,’’ you corrected. ‘’There's only so much you can do. You're his sister, not a therapist.’’ 

You felt her helplessness. Watching someone you love struggle with mental health was difficult. There were so many days you wanted to cry, and so many days you did cry. Never in front of him though. You didn’t want Marcus to mistake it for pity. 

She looked at you, the tears still in her eyes. ‘’I know.’’ She sniffled. ‘’It hurts to watch him dig himself deeper into addiction. I want to help him. I want to fix him.’’

Max leaned her head against your shoulder, taking in a shaky breath before continuing. ‘’I feel like I'm constantly walking on eggshells around him and our parents. It's like they're not seeing what's happening right in front of them.’’ She sniffled once more, the tears still threatening to fall from her eyes. ‘I'm tired of trying to be strong for him and putting on a face for mom and dad. I'm tired of being the one who has to hold everything together.’’

You put an arm around her, pulling her into a hug. 

After comforting Max, you went down the hallway to check on Marcus. Surprisingly, he was not asleep.

‘’Hey…hi,’’ he slurred, sitting up. 

His hair was messy from his pillow, and his eyes half lidded. He was clearly still drunk. Drinking while taking medication was not a good idea. Alcohol amplifies your feelings, which caused him to spiral into his sadness. 

‘’Are you okay?’’ 

‘’Yeah.’’ Marcus gave you a smile, but it was clear something was wrong. ‘’Come here.’’ 

You sat down on his bed and he looked at you, eyes barely staying open. He was completely wasted. How much did he drink to get into this state? Alcohol addiction was often sugar coated, but it was very dangerous. Alcohol poisoning is a real thing.

‘’You’re really drunk,’’ you pointed with seriousness and caring eyes. 

Marcus didn’t answer your question. He just smiled down at you. ‘’You’re so beautiful.’’ He reached out and touched the lapel of your jacket gently, his touch softer than usual.  

You lifted his chin, making him look at you. ‘’Why did you drink so much?’’

‘’You were not there.’’ 

‘’You drank because I was not there?’’ 

He shook his head, then looked down again. ‘’I’m a loser. I…I failed this year.’’

You sighed, seeing how vulnerable he was at the moment. 

Although he was smart, Marcus already repeated a year before. When Bridge died, it had a deep impact on him and, in part, caused him to fall behind academically. He didn’t mind being older than everyone in his classes. Failing a second time was different. 

You moved closer and cupped his face gently. Marcus leaned into your touch, soft and vulnerable and…fragile. His face was inches away from yours. You could smell the alcohol from his breath, yet you didn't pull back. You knew he needed you.  

‘’You’re not a loser,’’ you said, caressing his cheek.

Tears filled his eyes. His emotions were raw, and without his usual walls up, he didn't bother to hide the sadness that lingered within them.

‘’You’re—You need help, Marcus. You can’t keep living like this.’’

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head against your shoulder. Being close to you made him feel safe and comforted. Being drunk also made him more emotional and clingy. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply, taking in your scent. You were his safeplace. The one he could fall back on when going through hardships. The one who always answered his calls — even at 2am. 

You swallowed your emotions and embraced him tight, trying to ignore how your heart was hurting. 

—

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[gothamgraveyard]

"Small World, huh?"

Clark Kent x reader x Lois Lane

Summary: Clark is cheating on Lois, with you. And Lois is cheating on Clark with...you, and when they find out, it's not pretty.

TW: Pretty smutty, but not smut. it's my gateway into writing smut. So, read at your own risk. Oh. And cheating.

You hadn’t planned on dating a married couple. In your defense, you hadn’t even known they were married to each other until you spotted a framed photo of them on Lois’s desk during a brief visit to the Daily Planet. By then, you were already too deep in, and frankly, the adrenaline had already taken over.

Which brought you to Friday night, and Clark dropping in completely unannounced.

"I just feel like a piece of shit," Clark muttered, taking a massive bite out of his sandwich. "Lois is so good to me. She’s so incredibly dedicated to her work, and here I am, sneaking around behind her back like a coward. I’m a reporter, for God's sake. I’m supposed to stand for truth!"

"You're doing great, babe," you said, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a slow sip of your wine. "Really. Top-tier, world-class sneaking."

"I'm serious!" Clark groaned, burying his face in his hands. "If she ever found out, it would absolutely destroy her. She’s so fragile underneath that tough exterior."

You choked on your wine, coughing violently. "Lois? Fragile? Are we talking about the same woman?”

"She has a delicate soul," Clark insisted, looking up at you with those hopelessly sincere eyes. "I just... I don't want to hurt her. But I swear to God, I can't stay away from you."

"That is incredibly sweet, Clark," you murmured.

Leaning in, you licked a stray drop of mustard from his bottom lip. Clark whined, his boy-scout restraint instantly snapping. He grabbed your waist, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and backed you into the living room. Your knees hit the edge of the couch, and you tumbled backward onto the cushions with him hovering hot and heavy over you. His massive hands were suddenly everywhere, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips as he pulled your skirt up, and desperately tugging at your zipper to rid you of your clothes. He kissed you properly, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth as his weight pressed you hard into the cushions, making you gasp against his lips.

Twenty minutes later, the click of your lock unlocking shattered the mood, sending you into instant panic. The only other person on the planet with a key to your place was Lois.

"Hide! Hide! Oh my God, hide! It’s Lois!" you hissed, violently shoving a couch cushion into his bare chest.

"Where?!" Clark panicked, his mind failing him under the sheer terror of his wife.

"The balcony! Closet! Wherever! Go!"

With a sharp gust of wind that sent your mail flying off the entryway table, Clark sprinted off. A second later, the front door swung open.

Lois walked in, looking thoroughly exhausted, her trench coat slung carelessly over her arm. She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes immediately locking onto you.

You were standing in the dead center of the living room looking like a complete and utter disaster. You were trying to look casual, despite the glaring fact that you were wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a half-undone skirt twisted completely sideways around your hips. Your hair looked like you had just survived a category-five hurricane, your lips were swollen and red.

"Hey!" you squeaked, your voice a full octave higher than humanly possible. "Hey, Lois! Wow. Look at you. Standing there. In the doorway. Hi."

Lois slowly lowered her briefcase, one eyebrow climbing straight into her hairline. She took a look at your disheveled state. "Am I... interrupting something?"

"Me? No! Never!" You quickly crossed your arms over your chest sweating profusely. "Just... lounging. Hanging out. Doing some solo adult relaxation. Alone. Entirely alone, by the way."

Lois snorted, as a smirk spread across her face.

"Alone? Right," Lois murmured, her voice dripping with dry amusement. She stepped right into your personal space, her eyes scanning your flushed skin. She reached out her index finger lightly tracing the collarbone where your skin was still hot and pink. "So you’re telling me you managed to bruise your own collarbone, and look like you’ve been thoroughly wrung out... all by yourself? I didn't know solo relaxation required so much... friction."

"I... it's a thing with a pillow," you stammered, your face burning hot. Clark owed you so much for embarrassing yourself like this.

"Uh-huh. Well, you'll have to show me those exercises sometime," Lois purred, her finger sliding down to pull lightly on the strap of your bra. "Because if you're this good at getting yourself off on a work day, I might have to start taking my lunch breaks at home." She kicked off her heels, letting out a soft sigh. "Trust me, after the goddamn day I’ve had, I get it. If I have to edit one more of Clark’s boring opinion pieces, I’m going to throw myself off the Planet globe."

"I have wine," you offered, your voice still incredibly tight as you desperately tried to body-block her view of the balcony since you didn’t exactly know where he went "So... Clark's pieces, huh? He's... he's a good guy, though. Right? Loyal. Honest. A real straight-shooter." As you shoved a glass in her hands, the same one you’d been drinking from a minute ago.

Lois snorted, walking past you into the kitchen to pour herself more because what you had in there wasn’t going to cut it. "He’s a boy scout. Honestly, it’s exhausting. The man has absolutely zero edge. That's why I need you. You have edge. You have passion. And, most importantly…..a distinct lack of flannel."

She sauntered back into the living room, her eyes lingering appreciatively on your crooked skirt., her fingers sliding under the waistband, brushing against your cunt. "Though I didn't realize you were this wet and eager for me to get home."

"I'm a very passionate person," you choked out.

Lois smiled, wrapping her other hand firmly around your waist and pulling you in for a deep kiss that tasted like wine, her tongue parting your lips easily. "Clearly. Speaking of... what are we doing tonight? Do you want to stay on this couch and let me finish what you apparently started?" her finger brushing against you again.

"Uh," you said, your eyes darting wildly toward the balcony. "I was actually thinking we could... go out? For a really, really long walk? In the exact opposite direction of this apartment?"

"Are you kidding? My feet are killing me. Let's just stay in." Lois took a long sip of her wine, her eyes scanning the room.

Then, her gaze paused on the kitchen counter.

"Did you make a sandwich?" Lois asked, her voice dropping an octave. "With... triple-layered turkey and extra mustard? I thought you hated mustard."

"Exposure therapy…?”

Lois walked closer, picking up a stray breadcrumb. Then, her eyes drifted downward. There was a pair of size-14 work boots next to the bar stool.

Lois stared at the boots. She looked back at you. Finally, her gaze drifted to the balcony doors. Through the sheer white curtains, a massive silhouette was pressed flat against the glass.

"You know," Lois said, her voice dropping to being dangerously calm "Those are very big shoes. And that is a very big shadow."

"It's a plant," you argued, your face burning. "A very big plant! I water it a lot!”

Lois didn't say another word. She marched over to the balcony doors and yanked them open.

Clark was standing there, pressed flat against the glass railing. He was completely shirtless, holding his glasses in one hand, and trying desperately to look like he wasn't about to cry. He slowly looked down at his wife.

"Lois," Clark gasped, his voice cracking "What... what are you doing here?"

Lois stared at his bare, muscular chest. Then she looked back inside the apartment, eyeing you in your bra and unzipped skirt.

"Clark," Lois said, her voice shaking with a mix of rage and disbelief. "Are you... are you fucking my girlfriend?"

Clark’s jaw dropped "Your girlfriend?! Your girlfriend?! Lois, she's my girlfriend! I’ve been seeing her for three months!"

"Three months?!" Lois shrieked, storming back into the living room. "I’ve been sleeping with her since November!"

"November?!" Clark looked as if his entire universe had just imploded into a black hole. "But... but November was our anniversary! You said you had a late-night city council meeting!"

"I lied, Clark! Because I was busy getting my brains absolutely fucked out on that very couch!"

"Lois!" Clark gasped, looking utterly horrified. "Language!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up about my language, you giant, hypocritical piece of work!" Lois threw her hands in the air.

You cleared your throat "Can we all just take a deep breath and—"

"Shut up!" they both snapped in perfect unison.

"I cannot believe this," Clark said, pacing the length of your living room with his hands on his hips, still entirely shirtless. "You cheated on me. With the exact same person I was cheating on you with." He paused, his brain struggling to process the bizarreness of the situation. "Wait. Does that mean we’re... even?"

"No, we are not fucking even!" Lois yelled. "You're supposed to be the moral compass of this marriage! I'm the cynical one! I’m allowed to have a mid-life crisis! You’re Clark Kent! You are perfect!”

"That is a massive double standard and you damn well know it!"

While the two of them devolved into a screaming match, your phone suddenly buzzed on the counter. It was a FaceTime call from Bruce Wayne, who you were thankfully not fucking. Now you wouldn’t be against it if he were to change that.

You snatched it up like a lifeline. "Hey, Bruce," you said over the screaming.

On the screen, Bruce was sitting in the dimly lit Batcave, looking incredibly brooding as he rubbed his temples.

"IS Clark there?" Bruce asked slowly.

"Yeah, he's currently getting screamed at by Lois."

"Tell him the League needs him. There's a situation in Gotham."

"Can't it wait like twenty minutes?" you whispered, panning the camera slightly to show Clark throwing his hands up before bringing them to his scalp and tugging on his hair in frustration. "They're really getting into the weeds of their marriage here."

"I don't care," Bruce said flatly. "I have known about this absolute trainwreck for four weeks. I deliberately didn't say anything because I wanted to see how long it would take for their world-class investigative journalism skills to fail them. But now it is actively interfering with monitor duty."

"You knew?!" Clark’s super-hearing picked up the audio instantly. He dropped to the floor, lunging forward to snatch the phone from your hand. "Bruce! You knew Lois was cheating on me?!"

"And you were cheating on her” Bruce pointed out, his expression entirely deadpan. "Yes, Clark. I have satellites. I also have eyes. You both smell like the exact same detergent, that doesn’t exist at your place”

Lois snatched the phone out of Clark’s grip, glaring at the screen. "Bruce, you bastard! You should have told me!"

"Why?" Bruce asked, the faintest hint of a smirk touching his lips. "It is easily the most entertaining thing to happen to this team in three years. Diana and I had a bet. I won fifty dollars."

"You bet on our marriage?!" Clark cried out wounded.

"I bet on your stupidity," Bruce corrected. "And as usual, it paid off. Now, Clark, put on a shirt and get to Gotham. Lois, go home. Reader, fix your skirt. Goodbye."

The screen went black as the apartment fell into silence. Clark stood there, looking incredibly pouty, his shoulders slumped as he stared at the floor. Lois stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes darting between Clark and you.

"Well," Lois murmured, "Small world, huh?”

"I want to go home," Clark whimpered.

[starlightinthesunshine]

Jealousy

Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Summary: You work at a bookstore Clark loves to visit, and you think you have a chance at finally getting a date with him, but he starts acting strange after a new guy starts working there...

Warnings/Tags: jealous Clark, bookstore worker reader, confident reader, fluff

WC: 1.8k

Masterlist

The door chimes jingled, and you turned from where you were placing new books on a shelf to see Clark Kent, the journalist from down the street, pushed into your bookstore.

His suit jacket was wrinkled, his hair was mussed and messy, and his white button up had come untucked, but he still looked so cute. You wished you could fix his clothes for him. Instead, you put your books down and rested your hands on your hips.

"Well, look who it is," you said, smiling brightly. "Here for another book already?"

He laughed, embarrassed. "I know, I know."

You shook your head. "Hey, I'll never complain. Just surprised you finished the last one so quickly. What was, that, three days?"

"Just about, yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Loved it, though. Do you have the sequel?"

You couldn't keep the smile off your face as you watched the blush creep up his cheeks. "I believe so, let me double check for you."

You skirted around the side of one of the bookshelves and started scanning titles, searching for the book you'd recommended to Clark a few days prior.

"Lots of business today?" he asked, browsing one of the display shelves.

"Not really," you sighed. "I think the rain earlier scared people off."

"Ah, that's unfortunate." He paused and looked over at you, opening his mouth, then closing it again.

You pretended not to notice. "You said you were looking for the sequel, right?"

He hummed in agreement. "That's right. And the third, if you have it too." He took a few steps closer, then opened his mouth again, shuffling in place.

You glanced up at him. "You alright, Clark?"

His eyes widened in surprise. "Huh? Oh, yeah, no, I'm great, I was just wondering, um, if you had any book releases you were looking forward to."

There was something about his voice, the way he spoke, that felt... off. He was always a little awkward, but this felt different somehow. You peeked over at him to see his eyes absently scanning books, looking at them but not really seeing. He looked over at you expectantly.

You shrugged. "A few. There's a new one by my favourite mystery author coming out next month. It's the last in a trilogy. Ooh, it's exciting too, because the series actually got picked up for a movie adaptation!"

"Oh that's neat. What's the series call--"

"Hey, where did you say the spare books were for that new romantasy dragon thing that just came out?" a voice called out, cutting Clark off mid sentence.

A young man's head popped out from the back and Clark froze in place. He blinked once. Twice.

You turned to the newcomer. "Over by the desk, there should be a box with all the new shipments."

The young man clicked his tongue and winked at you. "Thanks, love."

He disappeared back around the door frame, and Clark's eyes snapped to you. "Who's that?" he asked cautiously.

"That's Justin, he's a new hire. He started, what, two days ago?"

"Ah."

You continued scanning the shelves for the book, but something felt wrong. It was so quiet. You turned and saw Clark staring at the door Justin was at, expression blank, yet full of something you couldn't quite describe. "You good, Clark?"

He blinked. "Huh? Yeah, yeah, sorry, I'm alright. What were you saying?"

"I wasn't saying anything, you just... went quiet."

He chuckled awkwardly. "Sorry about that, I got, uh, distracted."

You hummed, then crouched down to check the bottom shelf. "What caught your eye?"

"N-nothing really. Just... I've never heard anyone call you that before."

You frowned and looked up at him. "Call me what?"

He gestured at the door. "Your new guy. He called you, um..." He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. "Nevermind, it's nothing."

Something was very wrong, and you paused your search, rising to your feet. When you examined Clark more closely, you could see that he refused to meet your gaze, instead choosing to become enraptured in a display from a new romance release.

"Clark, what's going on with you?"

Before he could answer, Justin popped his head back out. "Hey, how many books do we take out for a display again?"

You scrunched your face in displeasure. "We went over that this morning, dude. It depends on the display, you just have to, I don't know, fill it."

He nodded. "Ah, ok. Hey, what are you doing this Saturday?"

At that, Clark's head pops up.

"This Saturday?" you repeated. "Uh..."

"We're actually already busy on Saturday," Clark blurted out, stepping closer to you.

Justin's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Oh, really? What are you up to?"

"We're going to the aquarium," Clark continued, the words just falling out of his mouth. "There's a new exhibit they're opening and we're going to check it out."

You stared at him, eyes wide. What on Earth was he talking about? The aquarium? Since when were you going to the aquarium?

"Huh. Well, have fun on your date. I'm gonna... start cataloguing those new arrivals, I guess," Justin said, shrugging and disappearing behind the door once more.

The shop felt especially quiet in his absence, an odd tension in the air. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You didn't even move.

And then you turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "So... want to explain what all that was about?"

He groaned and hid his face behind one of his hands. "I am so sorry, I didn't mean to--Gosh, I don't know what's wrong with me right now. I'm sorry."

"You've been acting weird today, is everything alright? Can I help you with anything besides a new book?" You stepped closer to him, close enough that you could count his lashes. "Clark, look at me."

He did.

You smiled softly. "What's wrong?"

He closed his eyes and turned his head down to the ground. "I... I can't say I'm a fan of your new co-worker," he said carefully, like he was afraid he would say too much.

"Justin? Why?"

"He just... You met him, what, two days ago and he's already acting so familiar with you. It's unprofessional." He opened his mouth to keep going, but saw the way your eyebrows were both raised now and stopped, letting out a sigh. "I-I don't like the way he talks to you. Calls you names."

You snorted. "He doesn't call me names, Clark. He calls everyone love. Hell, he'd call you love if you didn't look like you wanted nothing to do with him."

A deep flush was starting to creep up his neck, his cheeks reddening as he stared at the ground. "He was going to ask you out," he mumbled, shuffling from side to side.

A jolt of shock rolled up your spine, and you stared at him in disbelief. Was he... jealous?

"Clark Kent, are you jealous because you thought Justin was asking me out?" you asked, eyes wide as saucers.

He sucked in a deep breath, then met your gaze. "And what if I am?"

You couldn't hold it in as laughter bubbled up from deep inside your core, bursting out at the seams in a loud giggle.

"And now you're laughing at me. Alright, I'm going to head home," he said, turning on his heels and starting for the door.

You quickly reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "No!" you yelped, schooling your features into a very serious expression. "Don't go, I wasn't done."

He hit you with a 'seriously' look but stopped pushing towards the door.

"He wasn't asking me out," you started. "I think he was going to ask if I could cover his shift. Saturday is his anniversary with his wife."

You watched as the loading screen in his brain got stuck on the rotating circle, short-circuiting.

"Wife?" he managed to say.

You nodded. "Yeah. Wife. He got married like, three years ago, Clark. He won't shut up about her. Here, check this out." You turned around and called out, "Justin, can you come here a second?"

You both stared at the door and waited for a moment before Justin peeked out.

"Yeah, what's up?" he asked.

"Does Melanie have a favourite book?" you asked, and in an instant, Justin's face lit up.

"Does she ever. She's been obsessed with this one sci-fi book recently. That one about the guy who goes to space, but his ship dies halfway through transit to the other planet, so he and the crew have to like, make it to another moon before they run out of oxygen. You heard of that one? She says it's the best book she's ever read. I think she's bought it as a gift for like, four of her friends at this point. She--"

You cut him off before he can keep going. "Awesome, thanks Justin!"

He nodded. "No problem, darlin'."

You turned back to Clark and crossed your arms. "See?"

Clark buried his face in his hands. "I am such an idiot," you heard him say, his voice muffled through his fingers.

You chuckled and pulled his fingers away from his face. "Not an idiot, but you should remember to maybe ask some questions before jumping to conclusions. You're a journalist, aren't you? Isn't that your whole thing?"

He let out a little laugh, eyes locked on where your hands were connected. "Yeah, I guess so."

You let go and started back on your mission to locate this book for him. "It's a shame he'll have to find someone else to cover his shift, though."

"Why? You're not going to?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

You looked at him in surprise. "I can't. I have a date."

His eyes widened. "You what?"

"A date."

"With who?" he exclaimed, panic lacing his voice.

A smile broke out across your face as you closed the distance between the two of you. "Well, unless that wasn't actually an offer to take me to the aquarium, I kind of thought you."

It looked like lightning struck him the way he froze in place. His fingers twitched. "You... really?"

"Were you just saying that to scare off Justin?"

"No!" he cried out, then pulled back. "No, of course not. Never."

"Then, yeah." You looked up into his piercing blue eyes, feeling heat enter your own cheeks. "I uh... I'd been hoping you'd ask."

His eyes softened as they took you in. "I've been wanting to for weeks," he confessed. "I'm not... good at all this."

You chuckled. "That's okay. We can learn together."

As he grinned at you like he'd just won the lottery, you could have sworn you'd never seen something so beautiful.

Masterlist

[80sfilmclub]

🐝 . *. ⋆ HONEYBEE — part one. ( the pitt x the bear. )

summary. After Mikey's passing, you try to make do as a single mom (even with your strong support system from Uncle Jimmy, Natalie, and Pete) but after a terrifying ordeal of a peanut allergy, Jack treats your baby daughter. word count. 2.8k content warnings. fluff, mentions of grief. notes. it's finally here! a bit short but i plan on expanding this into a full miniseries (anything posted for it will be tagged under as '#80sfilmclub — honeybee universe.' or on the main series masterlist!!) so keep an eye out for that! inbox is open for any ideas or blurb reqs you have for it!

—

You hate hospitals.

The ceaseless beeping of monitors and the bright lights and the never-ending shouts of the ER that swell and crest with each passing patient isn't the problem. Living and growing alongside the Berzattos had made you insensitive to chaos now.

No, it's the sterile antiseptic odor that clings to everything. It reminds you too much of the morgue, the fact that Peanut came into the world without her goddamn father—

"Hey, momma."

The nurse that enters your room wears a warm smile. Princess, she had introduced herself earlier, offers you a cup of water before glancing at the crib where Peanut's finally resting. A shot of epinephrine later and the terrifying swelling and rash had receded.

"Thanks," you whisper as your attention goes right back to Peanut. She looks just like her dad, dark tresses and that stubborn little frown on her lips.

"We'll be transferring you and Peanut to the pediatrics wing soon, they're just clearing up a room," Princess reports softly. The use of your baby's nickname brings forth a little smile to your lips; once Peanut's been stabilized, the nurses that had been assigned to you absolutely adored the cute nickname.

"Thank you," you say again. "Really— you guys have been wonderful, thank you."

Princess smiles again and her hand is gentle when she squeezes your shoulder. "Our pleasure. I'll be around but we'll have someone come in to escort you and the baby to your next room, alright? Stay safe."

The door opens and the loud atmosphere of the ER bleeds into your room before silence reigns when the door shuts behind Princess.

—

Lena's just as stubborn as Dana if not more so when it comes to juggling not just the nurses but the mental states of her doctors. Despite handoffs just being completed moments ago and day shift is finally out, she immediately sends Jack over to complete menial tasks until he's up for anything else. Arguments die on his tongue with just a sharp look and he concedes.

"South 20, Dr. Abbot. Just needs an escort to Peds, poor mom looks scared to death."

And it isn't like he's oblivious to the patient he's escorting (mom in her early thirties with an eight month old infant, admitted with a peanut allergy and administered epinephrine according to the board and her charts), except he would've liked at least a warning at the knockout sitting by her child's crib.

Jesus, Abbot. Get ahold of yourself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot," he says in a low voice, not wanting to startle you or your child but it proves futile when concern and worry filters across your features. "Nothing's wrong, don't worry— just here to escort you and your daughter here."

You relax back into your seat with a shaky smile. The presence of another doctor had your mind jumping to another conclusion. "Oh— yeah, okay. Thanks." Your gaze returns back to your sweet girl, the hives and swelling reduced to nothing (the nurses had insisted on keeping her overnight for observation) and the back of your finger glides along her chubby cheek. Her nose is a tad bit crooked. Just like Mikey's. "If your dad was here, Peanut, he would've laughed his ass off…" Even now, Michael's presence sits on your shoulders.

Jack chuckles and settles into a wheely stool, deciding to take his time to do his own vital checks. He recognizes your hesitation from moving immediately, assuming lifting your daughter out of the crib would wake her after what may have been an hour of quiet. "How come?" he muses quietly.

You open up despite your instinctive need to hold anything about Peanut or Mikey close. A smile widens upon your lips. "Before her, I thought I was pregnant and my boyfriend— Mikey— and I nicknamed them Peanut. Turns out it was just a pregnancy scare. But when I finally had this one, Peanut stuck. And the family I grew up with, we all had our own nicknames."

Jack's smile grows. "What's yours?"

"Honeybee," you reply with a little laugh. "I was, uh… seven, I think? Natalie, childhood best friend, was with me and this bee stung me. First time ever getting stung, I was crying my little eyes out and her brother Mikey carried me to the emergency room. When the swelling went down, Mikey teased me to lighten the mood. Called me Honeybee."

"Mikey…" Jack tries out the name, gives a knowing glance to your daughter, and you nod at the silent question.

"Yeah, as cliche as it is, I fell in love with my best friend's older brother."

"Lucky guy." The words escape him before his filter could catch up but before he could even apologize about the lack of professionalism, your laughter fills the small room.

You finally get to your feet to carefully lift Peanut into your arms. Jack grabs your purse and baby bag, hauling it over one shoulder with ease. "Oh, he knew it. His whole family made sure he knew it too," you say with a quiet grin, careful to not wake your daughter as Jack leads you out to the elevator.

"Is he around—?"

"No. He's … he died before he got to meet her." The words still feel too large for your mouth but they don't get stuck in your throat at least. "When she was born, I wanted her to have his last name even if I never had the chance."

"My late wife and I wanted kids but we kept putting it off, said we'll get our chance soon," he shares quietly as he hits the button that'll bring you two floors up to the pediatrics department. "Then she got sick and… well, we never did get the chance."

Your heart breaks as you unwind one arm from Peanut to rest a hand on his shoulder. "I know we've barely met but you'd be a great father, Dr. Abbot."

"Please, it's just Jack. And I know I barely know the two of you, but you're a wonderful mother. A true mama bear."

You falter but he nearly misses the way something passes through your eyes. The elevator doors slide open and he escorts you to the front desk where the pediatrician assigned to Peanut meets you. "Thank you again, Jack. Hope the rest of your shift goes by smoothly."

He gives you a crooked smile and nods, fights the sudden need to stick around until little Peanut gets discharged.

—

Throughout the length of his shift, his mind had continued to wander over to you upstairs in Peds, the way you carried yourself that isn't so dissimilar to McKay. He had jokingly called you Mama Bear during that elevator trip and the smile you'd given him after had been heartbreakingly tragic. In that short time he had you, you reminded him of himself.

By the time dayshift rolled around, his eyes flit over to the elevator.

Handoffs are painless but he tries to leave quickly, ignore Robby's questioning gaze. His friend's too observant for his damn good and Jack's not in the mood to be interrogated for his odd behavior.

"Heading out already?"

Robby has him slowing down right by the nurse's station. "Just about," he mutters absentmindedly before turning tail to circle back around. He cuts the distance through the emergency department with his backpack on to punch the 'up' button of the elevator. When he disappears behind it, the door closing and bringing him upstairs, Robby wanders off to Dana with a bemused grin.

"Did Lena say anything about Jack?"

A chuckle escapes Dana. "Not much. Maybe somethin' 'bout a cute mom… and peanuts."

"Peanuts?"

"Peanuts," Dana confirms. "Night shift's weird."

—

The elevator jolts to a stop a few floors above. The layout isn't as different to the ED, save for a few muffled wails; the Peds department is calmer than anything else. Jack steps to the closes nurse and asks for you, explaining that he's the physician that initially treated your daughter before the transfer.

"Berzatto, right?" The nurse confirms. "They're just about to get discharged—"

"Dr. Abbot?"

Despite your obvious exhaustion from spending nearly the entire night at a hospital, your smile's a lot lighter as you cradle Peanut to your chest. "Is everything okay?"

Jack smiles back, hard not to when you're looking at him like that. "Yeah, I wanted to see if you two were still here before I clocked off. Heading home?"

You give a grateful nod. "We're good, just about to order a rideshare."

"Were you two dropped off last night?"

"No, um— we got here by ambulance. We just moved here so no car yet," you admit with a little sigh.

Jack's mouth moves before his brain could keep up. "I'll drive you."

You freeze. "No—no, I couldn't intrude."

"It's fine, come on."

Eventually, you chalk it up to exhaustion when you give in without a fight. In the back of your mind, you can hear Mikey's voice, praising you for accepting help and not being a stubborn little shit.

With the help from Princess, you secure a car seat from a sweet social worker to install into Jack's truck before hopping into the passenger seat. After rattling your new address, he pauses and barks out a surprised laugh.

"You don't live too far from me" he muses and brings up the GPS on his screen to show his own address; he lives in the same building. "Nice neighborhood, good school district."

"I can't take all the credit, the condo's my uncle's," you admit with a soft laugh. "He's letting us live there. Hated that we moved so far from home but he gets it. He knows we needed a fresh start— even for a little bit."

The conversation turns light as Jack drives you and Peanut home.

—

Your condominium — or rather, Uncle Jimmy's — looks like a hotel suite … or it would be if it weren't for the smattering of unpacked boxes and baby material. Aside from that, it did look like a home owned by a man in his late fifties judging by the generically modern furniture.

Jack would know, he's almost fifty himself.

"Home sweet home," you sigh as you hang your keys by the hooks near the door. You pointed ignore the mirror that hangs in the walkway of the entrance; you know you look like shit. "Make yourself comfortable, I'm just going to put Peanut down."

Fortunately, Peanut stays asleep and you set up the baby monitor before heading back out. When you do, you find Jack in your kitchen. "Ah-ah—! No, I said I'd cook, didn't I? Go sit."

After the drive home, Jack had pulled into his assigned parking spot in the garage basement beneath when you had offered to make breakfast, thinking it's the least you could do since he'd driven you home. When he refused and countered that it hadn't been a hardship, that he was heading this way anyways, you rebutted with the fact that you were going to make food anyways and he may as well join in. Realizing that it's damn near impossible to say no to you, he had relented and followed you up into your place.

A chuckle escapes Jack as he reluctantly steps away from the stove to settle into the bar stool by your island counter. You move around your kitchen with an air of efficiency that goes beyond being a stay at home mother.

"Are you a chef?" Jack asks curiously, watches you bring out ingredients and plastic containers labelled in green tape.

"No. Well— maybe by proxy." You whisk the eggs through a mesh sieve before adding a pad of butter onto the preheated pan. "Mikey — Peanut's dad — owned the Beef of Chicagoland and he was a decent cook. He was the one that taught me how to cook my first meal."

The memory feels like a warm weight settling upon your shoulders, the edges tinged with sepia like a well-worn photograph you keep pulling out whenever Michael had begun to drift away in your heart. You were nineteen, home for the summer (home being the Berzatto household), and Mikey had been up already. He didn't ask, just started cooking, and when you lingered a little too close? He started teaching.

Jack recognizes the smile on your lips; it reminds him of the one that blooms across his lips when he thinks about his late wife. Eventually, you finish and plate at the island counter where he sits. You settle into the stool beside him, waits for him to take the first bite. When he does, he moans around his fork.

"That good?"

"Absolutely delicious."

—

When Jack returns home, he stares at your newly added contact on his phone.

"Bee, it's what everyone calls me," you had corrected him gently at the door when he addressed you by your name. "I've made you breakfast, that unlocked nickname privileges." When he asked what else he could do to unlock more privileges, you had giggled and told him to come back another time for it.

Breakfast becomes tradition now. Whether you make him something or he's cooking or even just stopping by to grab bagels, Jack is in your kitchen after his usual night shifts.

It's becoming something even day shift is picking up on.

"Is he… smiling?" Dana mutters beneath her breath as Lena packs up her own stuff, peeking above the rim of her glasses.

"He's been like that for a month now." Lena smirks as he circles around the nurse's station to prep for handoffs. "Think he's got someone?"

"Who's got someone?" Robby cuts in, his readers low on his nose as he leans against the counter, tapping away at an iPad.

Dana looks up. "Jack. Is he dating anyone?"

"Oh ho—definitely not my place," Robby chortles but there's a gleam in his eye that tells everyone he knows more than he'll ever admit. "Ask him yourself, ladies."

—

Peanut's babbling at her high chair as you and Jack eat breakfast a couple weeks later. It's become a routine of it that his presence doesn't feel so startling but rather a set piece of your mornings, his coffee mug clinking quietly against the marble counter while he peruses through the newspaper. Uncle Jimmy had bought the subscription for actual newspaper and never bothered to cancel it. While you use it as makeshift tarp when you manage to steal moments of solitude to paint, it's nice that someone is actually reading it.

"Tough shift?"

Your question, quietly posed, breaks through the silence and Jack glances up to give you a half-smile. He's been comfortable enough to show you this side of him, the brooding side that still craves company despite the horrors he might've witnessed at work. He nods. "You can say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

His hand reaches across to take yours, gives it a gentle squeeze. "I had a family arrive," he murmurs quietly, solemn and grave. "The fathers were in critical condition but the children…" You understood immediately and slide off your stool to stand between Jack's knees, carefully tugging his head into the crook of your neck for a tight hug. His breath huffs against your skin and your spine slightly bows backwards when his arms wind around you to lean his weight against yours.

"You did what you could," you whisper against his silver curls, nails dragging bluntly against the nape of his neck. You feel him shudder against you before he melts. A moment passes and he lifts his head from your neck. The look he gives you is unmatched, unbelievably raw as your hands gently bracket the sides of his neck and jaw.

"You're extraordinary, sweetheart."

He says it like fact, no room for argument as his hand clasps together at the base of your spine. "Jack…"

"No, I mean it. Extraordinary woman, amazing mother. Whole package," he says but the mood lightens, his genuine smile steadily returning as he gently rubs circles against your back. "Might even be an amazing date."

Your brow lifts in mild surprise. You should've seen it coming, him asking you out; Natalie had already maintained that your breakfasts with Jack should count as dates.

"Is this you asking me out?"

"Depends. Will you say yes?"

Peanut shrieks delightedly and the two of you turn with fond eyes, laughing as she slams her tubby little hands on her table.

"I think that means yes, mama—" Jack teases but when he catches the hesitation, his voice shifts into something tender. "I'm asking you and Peanut out, darling. Can't exclude my favorite girl."

Your heart thunders and you have to fight back tears with a little smile. "I say yes but you might have to convince Peanut," you tease lightly.

"Yeah?" He asks quietly with a little hopeful grin, leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Alright, it's a date."

thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! honeybee taglist: @generation-zero @abbotsyogamat @eugene-emt-roe @nicelittletriptotheforest @laughsandlivia @lynds-js

[whydoyouwantmyname]

We'll Meet Again, Don't Know When, Don't Know Where

Part One

Part Two

The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling the distant, soft fussing of four-month-old Eva from the nursery down the hall. Tiff stood in front of the vanity mirror, unclasping her earrings with an exhausted sigh, while Richie paced the length of the rug, rubbing his hands together with a manic, high-strung energy.

"Rich, please stop vibrating," Tiff muttered, looking at his reflection. "You’re making me anxious, and I’m already anxious about leaving the house for more than an hour."

"Tiff, Tiff, Tiff, look at me," Richie stammered, spinning on his heel and gesturing wildly. "The sister thing? The flaking? It’s a total blessing in disguise. It’s narrative symmetry, baby. It’s a literal gift from the universe dropped right into our laps."

Tiff paused, one earring halfway to the jewelry dish. She turned around slowly, her eyes narrowing as she took in his flushed, guilty face. "What did you do, Richard?"

"I didn't do anything! Yet. Well, okay, I initiated a framework," Richie said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as he stepped closer. "Listen to the vision. Who is the best babysitter for Eva? [Y/N]. She loves the kid, she’s responsible, she’s great. Right?"

"Right..." Tiff said cautiously. "Which is why I was going to call her before you insisted we try my sister first."

"Exactly! But who else needs to be in this house tonight?" Richie’s eyes went wide, tapping his temple. "Michael."

Tiff’s face dropped into an expression of immediate, absolute disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? No. Absolutely not. Richie, they haven't spoken a single word to each other since Christmas night. It’s been months of radioactive silence. You want to trap them in our living room together with a newborn?"

"Yes! Yes, that is exactly what I want!" Richie blurted out, stepping up to her and grabbing her shoulders, his cadence fast and loose. "Tiff, you didn't hear him in the truck on the way back from Gary. You didn't hear what broke out of him. He’s completely miserable. He’s a hollow shell, babe. He’s lying on that mattress in his apartment just rotting away because he thinks he’s a burning building and he’s terrified of destroying her. But he loves her! He literally told me he loves her so much it rips his ribs open!"

Tiff’s features softened slightly at the mention of Mikey’s confession, but her protective instincts immediately flared back up. She shook her head, pulling out of Richie's grip.

"Richie, I love Mikey too, but he completely dismantled her at that table," Tiff said, her voice dropping into a fierce, serious tone. "She was devastated. She’s been trying to heal from that psychic damage for months, and she finally told me just a few months ago that she still loves him so much it makes her sick, but she’s trying to move on. If we force them into a room together, it could blow up the entire house."

"Or it forces the extraction of the truth!" Richie argued frantically, his hands slicing through the air. "Think about it! If we tell them, neither of them shows up. Total standoff. But if I tell Mikey your sister flaked and you’re going to castrate me if we cancel dinner, he’ll come out of obligation. And you call [Y/N] and tell her the same thing. They both walk through that door thinking they’re the solo savior, and boom—trapdoor snaps shut. They’re stuck. They have to look at each other. They have to talk."

Tiff crossed her arms, staring at her husband as she weighed the sheer chaos of the plan against the deep, aching sorrow that had hung over both of their best friends for the last half a year.

"And what if he just turns around and walks out the second he sees her?" Tiff asked, her voice quiet. "You know how Michael is when he gets cornered. He bolts."

A sharp, devious grin slowly spread across Richie’s face. He leaned in, pointing a definitive finger at her. "That, my beautiful wife, is where you come in. Because if he tries to run... you hit him with the Gary card. You tell him he owes you for almost making me miss the birth of our daughter."

Tiff let out a sudden, breathy laugh, her eyes lighting up with a dangerous spark. "Oh, that is incredibly dirty, Richie."

"It’s a leverage play, Tiff! He can't argue with it. The guilt will paralyze him," Richie pleaded, his tone softening into something genuinely earnest. "Please, babe. We’re their best friends. We’re the only ones who can bridge the chasm. Let’s just give them the room to fix the wreckage."

Tiff looked past Richie toward the bedroom door, thinking of the two broken people who had spent almost a full year pretending they were fine. She let out a long, heavy sigh, a small smile finally breaking through her reluctance.

"Fine," Tiff whispered, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. "I’ll call [Y/N] right now and tell her my sister flaked. But if they break my TV, Richard, it’s coming out of your fun money."

"Deal! Total narrative victory!" Richie cheered, kissing her cheek before frantically pulling out his own phone. "Alright, I'm calling the caveman. Get ready to play your part."

The late afternoon sun cut through the grime of the apartment window, throwing a sharp, dusty beam of light across the hardwood floor. Mikey was splayed flat on his back on the old mattress, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the world. The room smelled of stale coffee, cold takeout, and the heavy, stagnant air of a man who hadn't left his apartment in three days. He was wearing the same faded black hoodie he’d worn for forty-eight hours straight.

On the floor beside his mattress, his phone began to vibrate, its buzz rattling loudly against an empty soda can.

Mikey didn't move. It buzzed through a full cycle, fell silent for three seconds, and immediately started vibrating again.

With a miserable, guttural groan, Mikey blindly reached his large hand out, groping around the floor until his fingers closed around the plastic. He slid the screen open and pressed it to his ear without sitting up.

"What," Mikey mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and heavy depression.

"Yo! Cousin! Wake up, baby, it’s go time!" Richie’s voice exploded through the receiver, vibrating with a frantic, high-strung energy that made Mikey wince and pull the phone an inch away from his ear.

"Rich, don't do that," Mikey muttered, closing his eyes tightly. "It's too loud. Why are you yelling?"

"Because I need a massive, life-altering favor, Mike. Massive," Richie stammered, his cadence fast and loose. "Listen to me. Tiff and I have this reservation at that nice place downtown—the one with the little plates and the candles, you know? It’s our first actual night out since the baby was born. But Tiff’s sister just completely flaked on us. Total narrative collapse, cousin. We’re stranded. I need you to come over and watch Eva for a few hours."

Mikey let out a dry, breathy laugh that sounded more like a cough. He shifted on the mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. "Are you out of your mind? No. Absolutely not."

"Mikey, come on, man! Don't do this to me!" Richie pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. "It's just for a few hours. She's mostly sleeping anyway. You just gotta sit on the couch and make sure the house doesn't burn down."

"Richie, I don't do babies," Mikey said, his tone dropping into a flat, unyielding line. "I don't know what to do with them. They’re small, they leak, they cry for no reason. I’m a six-foot-four mistake waiting to happen around a newborn. I'll break her. Call someone else."

"There is no one else, Mike! Everyone is busy, and Tiff is already putting her heels on. If I have to tell her we're cancelling this dinner, she's going to castrate me. Literally. With a kitchen knife."

"Then get used to a higher voice, cousin, because I’m not coming," Mikey muttered, preparing to lower the phone and hang up. "I'm in bed. I'm not moving."

"Yo, give me the fucking phone," a sharp, distant voice echoed on Richie's end. There was a brief sound of muffled fabric and shuffling, a frantic 'Tiff, wait, let me just path-etic-ie him—' from Richie, and then the line cleared.

"Michael," Tiff’s voice boomed through the speaker, cold as steel and utterly unyielding.

Mikey instantly went rigid on the mattress, his jaw clenching. "Tiff, look, I was just telling Rich—"

"I don't care what you were telling Richie," Tiff interrupted cleanly, cutting through his defense before he could even start. "Let's review the tape, Michael. Four months ago, I was screaming on my kitchen floor because my water broke at exactly 5:15 PM. And where were you? You had my husband trapped in a dive bar in Gary, Indiana, riding some chaotic high and acting like a lunatic. He almost missed the literal birth of his first child because of you."

Mikey rubbed his hand hard over his face, his chest tightening with a familiar wave of guilt, but his stubbornness flared up through the depression. "Tiff, come on. That’s revisionist history and you know it. Richie didn't almost miss it. He got to the hospital with plenty of time. You didn't even give birth for four hours after he got there! You guys were just hanging out in the delivery room!"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?!" Tiff shouted, her voice rising to a dangerous, terrifying register. "I was in active labor, Michael! Four hours is nothing! The point is, you took him to Indiana on the day my daughter was due! You owe me. You owe me for the rest of your natural-born life, and today is the day I am collecting the debt. You are going to get out of that pathetic bed, you are going to put on some clean clothes, and you are going to drive your ass over to my house to watch your niece. Do you understand me?"

Mikey opened his mouth to argue, to throw up another wall, to say he was a burning building and shouldn't be near a child—but the sheer, absolute authority in Tiff's voice stripped the oxygen right out of his lungs. He looked around his messy, dark apartment, completely defeated.

He let out a long, ragged, miserable sigh.

"Fine," Mikey whispered, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "Fine. I'll be there in twenty."

"Good. Don't be late," Tiff snapped, and the line went completely dead.

Mikey stared at the blank screen for a second before letting his arm drop heavily back over his eyes, the crushing weight of the world settling right back onto his chest.

The heavy front door of Richie and Tiff’s house swung open, and Mikey froze on the welcome mat. He was holding a duffel bag, dressed in the same faded black hoodie, looking exhausted. He took one step into the foyer, his eyes flicking toward the living room, and instantly stopped dead in his tracks.

You were sitting on the rug, folding a small pink fleece blanket. Your eyes met his, and the entire room seemed to lose its oxygen.

"Nope. No way," Mikey muttered, his jaw tightening as he immediately spun on his heel to face the porch. "Richie, you motherfucker, I’m going to kill you."

"Hey! You aren't going anywhere, Michael," Tiff’s voice boomed from the kitchen. She stepped into the hallway, completely ignoring her husband, who was hiding cowardly behind her shoulder, looking incredibly guilty. Tiff crossed her arms, fixing Mikey with a look that could melt steel. "You think you’re just going to walk out? Absolutely not."

"Tiff, I can't do this," Mikey hissed, his voice dropping into a low, desperate register as he gestured wildly toward the living room where you sat. "You guys set me up. Rich, you told me Tiff’s sister flaked. You didn't say she was going to be here."

"Because if we told you, neither of you would have agreed to come!" Richie blurted out from behind his wife, gesturing frantically. "It’s a literal narrative arc, Mike! We need a night out, Eva needs her favorite aunt and uncle, and you two need to fix the wreckage!"

"Richie, shut up," Tiff commanded sharply, before training her gaze back on Mikey. She stepped right up into his space, pointing a definitive finger at his chest. "Let me remind you of something, Michael. Four months ago, I was screaming on my husband's car, being driven by that absolute angel because my water broke, and you had my husband trapped in a dive bar in Gary, Indiana. He almost missed the birth of our daughter because of your chaotic, self-destructive bullshit. You owe me. You owe me for the rest of your life. So you are going to walk into that living room, you are going to sit your ass down, and you are going to babysit our child."

Mikey stared at her, his chest heaving under his hoodie. He looked like a trapped animal, his bloodshot eyes darting back to you. You hadn't moved from the rug. You were just watching him, your face entirely unreadable, though your heart was hammering violently against your ribs.

Slowly, Mikey let out a ragged, defeated breath. He dropped his duffel bag onto the floor. "Fine," he whispered.

"Good," Tiff said smoothly, snatching her purse from the counter. "Eva’s asleep in her bassinet. There's milk in the fridge. Do not burn my house down."

Richie shot Mikey a sympathetic, slightly terrified look, mouthing 'I love you, cousin' before Tiff practically shoved him out the front door, slamming it shut behind them.

As soon as the door closed, as if she sensed the absence in the houseof her parents, Eva began to scream. You stood up immediately, the fleece blanket dropping from your lap, and moved toward the kitchen to prep the bottle. Mikey didn’t follow you. He couldn't. His joints felt like lead, the weight of the depression dragging him down into the couch cushions, but his eyes tracked your every movement.

When you returned with the warm bottle, you went straight to the upstairs nursery and lifted Eva into your arms. She was a tiny, warm weight, rubbing her face against your chest before her small hands found the bottle. You carried her down the stairs and sat back down in the armchair across from the couch, cradling her close, rocking her with a natural, gentle rhythm.

Mikey just stared.

His chest ached with a physical, crushing pressure. He watched the way the soft lamplight caught the side of your face, the way your thumb stroking Eva’s cheek was so fiercely tender. A dark, suffocating wave of grief washed over him because he knew exactly what he was looking at. He was looking at a ghost of a future he had personally executed. He wanted it to be you. He wanted it to be your baby you were holding, your shared life, a home built out of the wreckage instead of just more debris. But as he sat there, cold and entirely sober, the absolute finality of it pressed into his ribs like a knife.

He had no escape tonight. No distraction. When Eva was born, he had looked Richie in the eye and given him a solemn, unshakeable promise: he would never, under any circumstances, be around the baby with a chemical shield on. He was completely, devastatingly raw.

You could feel his gaze burning into you. You looked up for a fraction of a second, catching the pained, crumbling expression on his face. He looked gaunt, his eyes hollowed out by months of sleepless nights and self-loathing. A part of you—the old part that had loved him until it made you sick—wanted to say something. To ask if he was okay, to throw him a lifeline.

But you didn't. You forced your eyes back down to the baby. You refused to open that door again.

Once the bottle was empty, you picked up a small, brightly colored board book from the floor. Without looking at Mikey, you began to read aloud, your voice low and melodic in the quiet room.

"The little bear went up the hill, under the stars so big and still..."

You kept your focus entirely on Eva, tapping the pages, letting her small, uncoordinated fingers swat at the cardboard. Mikey didn't move an inch. He just listened to the sound of your voice—the voice he used to hear in the dark, the voice that used to soothe his own manic mind—now being given entirely to someone else. He looked like a man watching his own execution in slow motion, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching violently in his hollow cheek as he endured the beautiful, agonizing torture of your proximity.

When Eva’s eyelids finally grew heavy and her limbs went completely slack, you closed the book with a soft click.

Carefully, you stood up, supporting her head, and carried her back up the stairs towards the nursery. Mikey’s eyes followed you until you disappeared. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands, breathing in the stale fabric of his hoodie, utterly spent.

In the nursery, the room was bathed in a soft, ambient blue from the nightlight. You gently lowered Eva into her crib, pulling the pink fleece blanket up to her chest. She let out one final, contented sigh, settling into the mattress.

You leaned over the wooden railing, watching her sleep for a long moment. The weight of the evening, the suffocating presence of the broken man in the next room, and the memory of everything you had lost crashed down on you all at once.

Right next to the crib, the glowing green lights of the baby monitor hummed faithfully, sending every ambient sound straight back to the living room speaker.

You leaned down a little closer to the sleeping baby, your voice dropping into a barely audible, heartbreaking whisper.

"Grow up strong, sweet girl," you murmured, your thumb brushing her tiny forehead. "And be so, so careful who you fall in love with."

In the living room, Mikey’s hands froze against his face. The words cut through the static of the monitor, clear and sharp as cracked ice. He didn't move, he didn't cry out; he just let the words sink into him, sealing the tomb of what used to be.

The first hour after Eva went back to sleep was a nightmare of absolute silence.

The only sound in the house was the rhythmic, soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the faint hum of the baby monitor on the coffee table. You stayed on one side of the living room, ostensibly organizing a stack of children's books, while Mikey sat on the far edge of the couch. He was staring blankly at his boots, his large frame hunched over, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. The manic, aggressive shield he usually wore around the world was completely gone, leaving behind the raw, hollow exhaustion that had settled into his skin since Christmas night.

Every time you shifted or moved a book, his shoulders tensed. Every time he took a heavy, ragged breath, your stomach flipped. It was a suffocating standoff, the weight of seven months of silence pressing down on the room like a physical force.

Finally, the baby monitor let out a tiny, soft coo. Mikey jumped slightly, his eyes instantly flying to yours. The ice broke, but the tension remained thick enough to choke on.

Mikey cleared his throat, a rough, grating sound in the quiet house. He rubbed his face with both hands, shifting uncomfortably on the cushions before his eyes locked onto yours.

"Are you..." Mikey started, his voice cracking slightly before he lowered it into a quiet, hesitant rumble. "Are you seeing anyone?"

You paused, a children's book frozen in your hands. You looked at him, taking in the jagged baseline of his posture, the desperate, aching look hidden deep behind his eyes. You let out a slow breath, setting the book down.

"Yeah, actually. I am," you said, keeping your voice entirely steady, your face a perfect mask of casual indifference. "I'm dating this new guy. He’s about 6'4", built like a tank. Long, dark hair, wicked tattoos everywhere, kind of a rugged, wild-man vibe. Absolute sweetheart, though."

Mikey’s entire body went rigid. His face dropped into a dark, hollow mask of pure, unadulterated misery, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaped violently in his cheek. He looked like he had just been physically struck in the chest, the oxygen completely leaving his lungs as he stared at his boots, unable to even meet your eyes.

Watching his armor completely crumble, a soft, familiar warmth tugged at the corners of your mouth. You let your lips curve into that intoxicating smile he used to worship, the tension in your shoulders giving way.

"I'm fucking with you, Mikey," you said softly, shaking your head as his eyes snapped back to yours, utterly bewildered. "I'm not seeing anyone. Because, you know... my ex kinda fucked me up." You leaned back against the armchair, crossing your arms. "Are you seeing anyone?"

A massive, shaky exhale rushed out of Mikey’s lungs. His shoulders dropped as a weak, slight smile finally broke through the exhaustion on his face, a fleeting glimpse of the man he used to be.

"No," Mikey murmured, his voice thick with a mix of relief and lingering ache. "No, see... I'm still kinda not over my ex."

You paused, letting the echo of his confession settle into the quiet room. Looking at him now—devoid of his usual hyper-aggressive armor, just a large, broken man drowning in a faded hoodie—the cold wall you’d built up over the months cracked just a fraction. You didn't want to care, but the history between you was too heavy to entirely ignore.

Against your better judgment, you let your shoulders drop, letting your guard down just enough to throw him a muted lifeline.

"How are you doing, Mike? Really?" you asked softly.

It was a loaded question. You already knew the answer—Richie, Tiff, and Sugar had kept you thoroughly informed over the months. You knew about the days he didn't leave his mattress, the stale coffee cups accumulating by his bed, and the hollow, radioactive depression he was letting consume him. But you wanted to hear it from him. You wanted to see if he was capable of honesty.

Mikey shifted uncomfortably on the cushion, pulling his hands out from between his knees and rubbing them nervously against his thighs. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to yours and then quickly flitting away, completely thrown off by the sudden, quiet softness in your voice.

"I'm... you know. I'm hanging in there," he mumbled, his voice a rough, uncertain rumble. He cleared his throat, his chest heaving with a nervous, shallow breath as he tried to navigate the shift in the room. He looked at you, his bloodshot eyes wide and vulnerable. "How... how are you doing?"

You didn't answer.

Instead, you just looked at him, your expression slipping back into something quiet and guarded. The small window of vulnerability closed as quickly as it had opened. You simply picked up the children's book from the floor, resting it on your lap, leaving his question hanging in the thick, silent air between you.

"Why did you do it, Mike?" you asked finally, the question cutting through the quiet hum of the monitor. "Christmas night. Why did you say those horrible things to me? Why did you stand there and tear my soul apart in front of everyone?"

The air he was breathing hitched in Mikey’s chest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes filling with tears as he looked across the room at you.

"Because I'm a burning building, [Y/N]," Mikey replied softly, the raw truth finally bleeding out of him. "I'm a fucking bomb. My whole life, everything I touch, I ruin. I looked at you, and you were so radiant, so perfect, and I realized that the longer you stayed with me, the more I was going to drag you down into my gutter. I was going to burn you alive."

A hot tear spilled down his cheek. "I lied to your face. I told you that filth at the table because I knew it was the only thing sharp enough to make you run. I made you hate me because I loved you too much to let myself destroy you."

By the time he finished, your own tears were falling, wetting the fabric of your jeans. You looked at this massive, chaotic man completely dismantled on the couch, weeping over the pieces of what he had broken out of a twisted, terrifying sense of love.

But as you looked at him, the old urge to run over, wrap your arms around him, and fix his broken pieces didn't come. Instead, there was just a profound, exhausting clarity.

"You don't get to decide what burns me, Michael," you whispered, your voice trembling as you wiped your face. "You don't get to make that choice for me. But you did burn me. You completely blew up my life."

Mikey winced, nodding rapidly as the tears kept falling. "I know. I know, cousin. I'm so fucking sorry."

"I hear you," you said, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. "And I believe you. But I can't go back there, Mike. I can't step back into the blast zone. The trust is gone. What we had... it's dead. I can't be with you anymore."

The words hung heavily in the space between you. Mikey froze, his chest heaving under his hoodie. He looked at you, searching your face for any sign of a bluff, any lingering trace of a negotiation. But he only found a calm, heartbreaking finality.

Slowly, the frantic desperation left his eyes, replaced by a quiet, devastating acceptance. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and let out a long, ragged breath.

"Okay," Mikey whispered, his voice cracking. "Okay. I get it. I understand."

An hour later, the front door unlocked, and Richie and Tiff tiptoed into the house, bracing themselves for a crime scene. Instead, they walked into a strangely peaceful living room.

The radioactive silence was gone. You and Mikey were sitting in your respective spots, a comfortable distance apart, quietly talking about a documentary he had watched on television. The raw wounds weren't healed, but the air was clear. The bridge hadn't been rebuilt, but the screaming had stopped.

"Oh, thank God, the drywall is still intact," Richie breathed, clutching his chest.

You stood up, offering Tiff a warm, tired smile. "Eva slept the whole time. She's an angel." You gathered your jacket, turning toward the couch. "Bye, Richie. Bye, Tiff." Your eyes lingered on Mikey. "See you around, Mike."

Mikey looked up, offering a small, fragile, but genuine nod. "See ya, [Y/N]. Drive safe."

After the heavy front door clicked shut behind you, the silence in the living room shifted, losing its suffocating weight but keeping its deep, aching sorrow.

Mikey didn't move from the couch. He remained hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the empty spot on the rug where you had just been sitting. His chest felt hollowed out, but for the first time in months, the chaotic, burning static in his head had gone quiet.

Richie walked over, collapsing heavily onto the opposite cushion, as Tiff went to go check on Eva. He watched his best friend for a long moment, noting the lingering evidence of tears, the lack of yelling, and the simple fact that they had actually spoken like human beings.

Richie shifted, rubbing his hands together before dropping the manic energy entirely. "Hey," he muttered, his voice dropping low so it wouldn't carry down the hall to the nursery. "So... what happened, Mikey? You guys actually laid some track, or what?"

Mikey let out a long, ragged breath, rubbing his palms hard over his face until his skin went red. He let his hands fall, looking over at Richie with total, unvarnished exhaustion.

"She told me it's dead, Rich," Mikey whispered, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of the finality. "She said she believes me... she knows why I did it. But she can't come back to the blast zone."

Richie winced, his features softening into a rare, genuine look of sympathy. He opened his mouth to offer some grand, cinematic narrative pivot, but looking at the raw, quiet acceptance in Mikey's eyes, he stopped himself.

"But she talked to you," Mikey added quietly, a fragile, bittersweet shadow of a smile touching his lips. "She messed with me. She used to do this thing where she'd smile... fuck, Rich, she smiled at me. We aren't together. We're never gonna be. But we aren't screaming anymore."

Richie reached out, clapped a heavy hand on Mikey’s shoulder, and gave it a solid, supportive squeeze.

"Hey," Richie said softly, his voice unusually grounded. "Something is better than nothing."

[whydoyouwantmyname]

Imagine the Trip to Gary

part one

The air inside Richie and Tiff’s kitchen was thick with the scent of maple syrup and the heavy, buzzing tension of an unspoken standoff.

Richie was pacing a tight line across the linoleum.. He kept glancing toward the front window, then back to where you stood by the counter, calmly wiping down the edge of the sink.

"I'm just saying, cousin, it’s a quick run. In and out. Gary, Indiana," Richie pleaded, his voice hitting that fast, desperate cadence he always got when he was trying to manifest a miracle. "Jimmy specifically said it’s a two-man job, but we all know three is our magic number. The trinity. You, me, and Mikey. Come on. The truck’s got plenty of room. You love the open road."

You didn't even look up from your wiping. "No, Richie."

"Why not? Since when do you miss a drop? We’re a team, [Y/N]! It’s weird if you’re not there. Mikey’s gonna think it’s weird."

"This is the first trip for Jimmy I’m skipping, and it’s for a very good reason," you said, finally tossing the rag into the sink and turning to face him. You pointed a definitive finger toward the living room, where Tiff was heavily, uncomfortably nesting on the sofa. "Look at her, Richie. She is very pregnant. She’s practically a ticking clock. I am not leaving her alone in this house today just so I can ride shotgun while you and Mikey argue over a mixtape, who by the way, will not think my absence is weird."

"I made a special CD!" Richie argued, gesturing wildly, ignoring the last part of your statement, "It's got a whole narrative arc!"

"I don't care about the narrative arc," you countered smoothly, walking past him into the living room to check on Tiff. "I care about making sure your wife doesn't have to drive herself to the hospital if her water breaks early. I’m staying right here."

Before Richie could launch into another frantic counter-argument, a loud, obnoxious blare cut through the morning air.

HOOOOONK.

Richie stiffened. "Go time. Ooh." He looked down at his clothes, smoothing his jacket. "You look good. Yeah?"

Tiff smiled softly from the couch, her eyes warm but anxious. "I am proud of you."

"I’m proud of you. I love you," Richie murmured, leaning down to press his forehead against hers.

"I love you so much. Mmm," Tiff whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck for a long, tight second.

Richie detached himself, but his eyes instantly flicked to you, standing guard right beside the couch. He reached out, grabbing your shoulder. "And I love you." He chuckled, pulling you into a quick, rough squeeze, followed by a forehead kiss.

You caught him by the lapels of his jacket, planting a firm kiss on his cheek. "And I love you."

Richie grinned, leaning back down to give Tiff one last press of his lips. "M m m."

"Mwah," Tiff kissed him back, but the sheer gravity of his lingering was starting to wear on her nerves. She let out a soft chuckle, pushing at his chest. "My God, just fucking go before he starts..."

HOOOOONK. The truck horn outside vibrated through the windowpane, cutting off Tiff.

"Doing that more," Tiff urged.

"Richie go, and you better be home by 5:15," you reminded him sharply, basically pushing him towards the door

HOOOONK. HONK.

The honking outside was getting rhythmic, relentless, and entirely impatient. Mikey was sitting in the truck, his hand practically glued to the steering wheel.

"No problemo, Cousin," Richie yelled over his shoulder, as you pushed him towards the door.

HOOOOONK.

Richie threw the door open, stepping out onto the small porch into the biting Chicago air. You stood in the open doorway, watching from the threshold as Mikey’s massive truck sat idling at the curb, exhaust pluming into the sky.

Richie cupped his hands around his mouth. "Yo, stop, stop! You’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood!"

Mikey didn't lower the window, but the honking finally ceased. From the porch, Richie turned back to give you one last wave. "Be fucking on time," you called out to him, your voice cutting through the cold.

Richie nodded, turning around to jog down the steps—and stopped dead in his tracks. His hands flew to his pockets, frantically slapping his thighs.

"Shit, I forgot s…" Richie muttered, his face falling into absolute panic. He looked back at the house, then down at his empty hands. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What did you forget?" you asked as Richie yelled back, already spinning on his heel. "Motherfucker. Damn it."

"Fucking… oh yeah, there it is." Richie screamed, turning to Mikey with his finger sticking out of the zipper of his pants, you could just imagine that his tongue was out as he pointed towards the truck.

"Would you get in a fucking truck!" Mikey roared across the snow-dusted lawn, his eyes locked onto Richie, before his gaze briefly, heavily flicked to you standing in the doorway, he wanted nothing more than to tell you to get your ass in the truck, but he knew you wouldn't.

"Get in the fucking truck!" Richie mimicked back

HOOOONK.

"Get in the car Richie!," you shouted, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips despite the heavy weight in your chest.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," Richie scrambled, throwing himself into the passenger side of the truck and slamming the door. Through the windshield, you could see his mouth moving a mile a minute as he buckled his seatbelt.

As the truck shifted into gear, Richie’s laugh echoed faintly across the yard. "Let’s go."

Inside the cab, Mikey’s hand reached for the radio, but Richie quickly slapped it down, pointing a warning finger at his friend. "J-Just nothing loud yet, all right, just…"

The truck pulled away from the curb, leaving a cloud of white exhaust in the freezing air. You watched it disappear down the block before slowly closing the front door, shutting out the cold, and turning back to the quiet house to wait.

--------------------

The truck cab smelled of stale upholstery and lukewarm paper cups as Mikey shifted into gear, the engine roaring as they hit the open road toward Indiana. He threw a furious glance at the cup sitting in the center console before grabbing it and taking another harsh sip.

"How terrible is that fucking filth?" Mikey spat, grimacing as he swallowed.

It had been six months since you walked out of his life. Six months since he made breakfast for himself, and for six months, nothing tasted right. Every morning he tried to make coffee the way you used to—measuring the grounds, trying to get the temperature right—it always came out bitter, hollow, or burnt. You had this way of making it that he couldn't replicate no matter how hard he tried. And this morning, out of pure frustration, he had given up and driven to the drive-thru.

"I got it from fucking GoGo’s," Mikey muttered, glaring at the logo on the cup like it had personally insulted him.

Richie, sitting in the passenger seat with his knees practically touching the dashboard, took a thoughtful sip from his own cup. "I think it’s pretty good. What is it, hazelnut?"

"And they’re debit only now," Mikey snapped, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "What if you don’t have a debit card, right?"

"Then you’re fucked if you don’t have a debit card," Richie said logically.

"You got the debit card. You got to pay a fucking fee," Mikey grumbled, staring straight at the highway ahead.

"They fuck you in the ass either way," Richie reasoned, leaning back. "Yeah, because if they do the credit card, then they got to pay a percentage to the credit card."

"I understand, but why fuck the customer? It’s just for no reason," Mikey growled, tossing the cup back into the holder with enough force to spill a little onto the plastic.

Richie watched him closely for a long moment, the banter fading into something heavier. He saw the shadow over Mikey's eyes—the exhaustion, the unspoken grief that always surfaced whenever Mikey had to face a morning without you.

"Got to tell you, Mike," Richie said softly, dropping his voice a notch. "It’s kind of like a little bit of a glass-half-empty kind of energy you’re working with for this mission."

"00-fucking-suck-my-dick. What do you mean a mission?" Mikey barked, deflecting instantly.

"Yo, we’re fucking transporting some goods across state lines," Richie insisted, gesturing toward the back.

"We’re taking a fucking tape box to Gary, Indiana. Gary, fucking Indiana. That’s where we’re going."

"What’s in the box?" Richie asked.

"I don’t know what’s in the fucking box. It’s taped. I just said it’s taped."

"You can tell me," Richie pushed gently.

"All right, fair enough. I don’t need to know," Richie relented, before pausing. He leaned in slightly, shifting the subject back to what was actually eating at Mikey. "Look, Mike... the coffee sucks because she didn't make it. You know that, right? You're spiraling over a five-dollar cup of GoGo's because you miss her. You gotta call her, man. Just fix it. Patch it over."

Mikey’s jaw worked silently, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes didn't fill with tears—there was no soft, quiet grief in him, only a raw, jagged wound that burned hot behind his ribs. His voice dropped, losing all its manic volume, hardening into a quiet, devastating certainty.

"I can't patch it over, Rich," Mikey said, his chest heaving with a heavy, dry breath. "She would never forgive me for what I said at that dinner. She shouldn't."

"Mikey, she loves you—"

"I said those things to rip her away from me!" Mikey cut him off, his voice thick with a fiercely guarded emotion, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the asphalt. "If someone said that filth to me? If someone stood in front of a whole room and tore my soul apart like that? I would never forgive them. Not in this lifetime. I'd hate them until the day I died. So don't tell me to fix it. I gave her every reason to lock the door, and I have to live with it."

The heavy silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Richie swallowed hard, realizing he couldn't break through the wall Mikey had built. He forced a sudden, sharp shift in energy, falling back on their old defenses.

"You’re a fucking donkey. That’s what you fucking are," Richie declared, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "That’s what you are, you fucking haul… You don’t even know what you’re fucking taking. You’re just fucking moving. Donkey. Fucking pack mule donkey."

Mikey let out a rough, humorless bark of a laugh, the tension breaking just enough for him to breathe again. "I am a donkey. Yeah."

"You ever see what a donkey’s packing downstairs?" Richie grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mikey smirked, shaking his head as he stared at the road ahead, the awful taste of the coffee still lingering on his tongue. "Did you see that donkey downstairs?"

Richie chuckled softly. "Hee-haw."

The tires of the truck hummed against the asphalt as the Chicago skyline slowly shrank in the rearview mirror. Mikey kept his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed forward on the open road, while Richie fidgeted in the passenger seat, already restless.

"Come on," Richie said, gesturing broadly to the windshield. "We’re having a great day. Bop down to Gary. Little bada bing, bada boom, bop back out of here. We’re fucking home by 5:15, the latest."

Mikey didn't turn his head, his jaw tight. "5:15? Why 5:15?"

"It’s just a thing with Tiff that she’s got superstition about."

"Superstition about what?"

"Her mom went into labor at 5:15 and she got it in her head that she’s gonna, you know, the same thing’s gonna happen to her," Richie explained, leaning forward. "And look, if I’m not through that door by 5:15, [Y/N] will literally kill me. She'll bury me in the yard and Tiff will help her."

A heavy, sudden shift passed over the driver's side of the cab. Mikey’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. A hollow, aching look crossed his face, his eyes dropping to the road as a sad, bitter smile touched his lips.

"She wouldn't kill you," Mikey whispered, his voice dropping an octave, completely losing its edge. "She’s too sweet to kill you, Cousin. She'd just look at you... and you'd wish you were dead instead."

Richie quieted down, the mention of your name casting a long, sobering shadow over the dashboard.

For the next few minutes, a suffocating silence settled into the truck. The hum of the engine felt incredibly loud. Mikey stared blankly through the windshield, the manic energy he’d been forcing all morning completely evaporating, leaving behind a raw, exhausted grief. The weight of the silence—of everything he had thrown away on Christmas night—seemed to physically press down on him.

Finally, Mikey let out a ragged breath, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the vents.

"I really fucked up, Rich," Mikey whispered into the dark space of the cab, his voice cracking slightly. "I really... I really fucking broke it."

Richie swallowed hard. He looked at his best friend, seeing the dangerous, dark downward spiral starting to pull Mikey under before they’d even crossed the state line. Desperate to keep the train on the tracks, desperate to yank Mikey back into the light before the shadows took over completely, Richie frantically reached for the console and slammed a CD into the player.

"Why would the same thing… I know," Richie blurted out loudly, trying to force the conversation back to safety as the music kicked in. "‘Cause literally, how many minutes are in a fucking day? There’s like thousands of fucking minutes in a day!"

Mikey didn't bite, still staring out at the grey horizon, so Richie leaned over, clearing his throat and singing along to the track with an aggressive, exaggerated theater-kid energy, practically shouting over the speakers to drown out the quiet.

"♪ With my Kansas City baby! And a bottle of Kansas City wine! ♪" Richie belted out, clapping his hands against his thighs. "♪ Well, I might take a train, I might take a plane, but if I have to walk, I’m going just the same! ♪"

Mikey’s eyes closed for a brief second, the corners of his mouth twitching against his will.

"♪ I’m going to Kansas City! Kansas City, here I come! ♪" Richie sang at the top of his lungs, pointing dramatically at the green highway signs flashing past. "♪ They got some crazy little women there, and I’m gonna get me one! ♪"

Richie slapped the dashboard, leaning back in his seat with a heavy breath. "Yo. Welcome to Indiana. There you go. You’re a fucking world traveler. Congratulations. Let’s go." He nudged Mikey’s shoulder roughly. "Oh yeah, you feel different?"

The music kept playing, a bright, loud shield against the heavy truth riding in the truck with them.

--------------------

The clock on Tiffany’s kitchen wall ticked down with agonizing precision, its steady click-click-click the only sound cutting through the heavy afternoon heat.

You sat at the small table, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had long since gone cold. Across from you, Tiff shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her hands cradling the massive, round slope of her stomach. She let out a sudden, deep breath, her face twisting into a sharp grimace.

When the phone on the counter suddenly buzzed, vibrating violently against the wood, both of you jumped.

You reached it first, grabbing the receiver before Tiff could awkwardly push herself up. "Hello?"

"[Y/N]! Hey, cousin, thank God," Richie’s voice boomed through the line, layered over the low, ambient hum of a highway. He sounded slightly out of breath, his characteristic manic energy buzzing through the static. "Listen, how’s Tiff? She alright? She having contractions yet? Put me on speaker."

You hit the button, holding the phone between you and the couch. "Hey! Hi hon," Tiff breathed, her voice a little ragged.

"Hi. Hey. How are you feeling?" Richie asked, the underlying panic in his voice completely transparent.

"Uh, um, I, you know, I think I’m good," Tiff said, though she winced slightly as she leaned back against the cushions.

"What do you mean?" Richie groaned.

"I don’t know. I’m not sure how to describe it," Tiff sighed, looking at you helplessly. "It’s just like, it’s like…"

"What?"

"It’s like, I feel like I have to shit really bad, but I don’t know," Tiff admitted, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping her. "I can’t tell if this is what the doctor said to look out for."

"Okay. Contraction? You think it’s like… like Braxton Hicks? Okay." Richie was clearly hyperventilating on the other end.

"Uh, yeah, probably," Tiff said, trying to soothe him. "But you know, I’ll be okay. It’s not close to 5:15 yet, so. Yeah? Yeah, don’t worry, I’m okay. Did you do the drop-off?"

"Uh, almost. We’re crossing state lines, just hit Indiana," Richie said. "Jimmy’s got us on this crazy errand, some delivery in Gary. Mikey’s driving the truck like a maniac, but we're on track. Hey, speaking of, Mikey wanted to—"

"Tiff just drank some water, Richie," you interrupted cleanly, cutting him off the exact millisecond his name left his lips. Your voice didn't waver, but your grip on the phone tightened until your knuckles turned white. "She’s trying to stay hydrated. She's resting. How’s the drive? Are you having fun?"

"Yeah, yeah, we’re having a good time," Richie said, momentarily derailed by your sudden interjection. "I got the mixtape going, we're making time. But look, [Y/N], about Mikey... he’s been real quiet, and he actually said—"

"Did you remember to pack the hospital bags in the trunk of your car like I told you?" you asked smoothly, steering the conversation completely away from the ghost that had been haunting your life since Christmas.

"Yeah, yeah, it’s in the back, I checked it twice," Richie sighed, a heavy, frustrated note entering his voice as he realized what you were doing. "But seriously, cousin, he’s really hurting, he looks like shit, and I think you two need to—"

"Well, I’m proud of you," Tiff chimed in, giving you a sympathric look. "I’m really proud of you. But don’t smoke any cigarettes though, honey. Promise me, right?"

"Right. Okay," Richie muttered.

"Listen, I’m gonna call you back, okay?" Tiff said, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave of discomfort hit her.

"All right. I love you," Richie said softly. "Okay, I love you so much. And [Y/N]—"

"Just make sure you’re back by five-fifteen. Be safe," you whispered, and pressed the button to hang up before he could say another word.

You hadn’t seen Mikey since Christmas night. Since the moment you walked out the door it had been deafening silence from Mikey, who was your best friend in the world. You were to the point where you didn't want to talk about him, because in your mind, if he wanted to make it right... he would.

-------------------------

The booth at the Koney King smelled of old grease and cold wind. Mikey leaned his forearms against the table, staring down at the beverage the server had just set in front of him.

"Appreciate it," Richie told the woman, before sliding his own drink closer. He took a long sip of his lemonade, smacking his lips. "Yo, Mike, you’re missing out. Missing out, huh?"

"Nah," Mikey muttered, his eyes fixated on his glass. He had specifically ordered an Arnold Palmer—half iced tea, half lemonade. He picked up the straw, swirling the ice around in a slow, rhythmic circle. "I like the tea in it. Cuts the sugar."

Richie stopped mid-sip, his eyes narrowing as he watched the dark swirl of the tea mixing with the yellow juice. A sharp, knowing look crossed Richie's face, his tone dropping the casual banter.

"An Arnold Palmer, Mike? Seriously?" Richie called him out, leaning over the table. "Since when do you drink those? You fucking hate iced tea. You’ve said a million times it tastes like dirt."

Mikey’s fingers tensed around the glass. He didn't look up. "Changed my mind."

"Bullshit," Richie saw right through it, his voice softening into something heavier, more cautious. "That’s her drink. Every time we went out, every single diner drop for Jimmy, she ordered an Arnold Palmer. You’re ordering her drink, Mike."

Mikey’s jaw clenched, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He aggressively took a deep drag through the straw, swallowing the liquid before shoving the glass away from him entirely. "I just wanted the fucking tea, Rich. Drop it."

The silence returned, thick and suffocating, until the bell above the door chimed and they headed back out to the truck.

Back on the open road, the heavy atmosphere from the diner lingered, trapped inside the small cab of the truck. Richie was trying desperately to shift the energy, flipping through his mind for anything to talk about.

"Cousin, what do you think of the name Annie?" Richie asked, looking over at Mikey. "Throw some names at me you like. Hit me."

Mikey kept his eyes on the grey Indiana highway. "Call me crazy, but I actually like the name Althea."

"Althea? Althea sounds like the name of like somebody that’s getting their ass kicked all the time," Richie scoffed, shaking his head. "Nah. Althea? Sounds like a nerd."

"Nah, Althea. Real strong," Mikey murmured, a faint, distant memory flitting behind his eyes. He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register as he stared at the dashboard. "Or... Eva. I met this, uh, Eva that I liked once. Eva."

Richie frowned, turning in his seat to look at his best friend. "Eva? Where the fuck did you meet an Eva?"

Mikey’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white against the leather. He didn't look at Richie. "We didn't meet her, Rich. It was... it was the name. Last year, when [Y/N] had that scare. Before everything went to hell. We sat up until three in the morning in my kitchen, talking about what we'd do if it was real. She said if it was a girl, she wanted Eva. After her grandmother."

Richie went completely quiet. He looked away, staring out his own window as the weight of what Mikey had thrown away settled into the truck again. Mikey’s voice was barely a whisper now, the manic edge totally gone. "She loved that name."

The music in the cab shifted, the energetic beat filling the tense space between them.

"Yo," Richie said, breaking the silence. "You see that sign?"

"Huh?" Mikey muttered, his posture rigid. "Cousin, you see that sign over there?"

"Yeah."

"I think… Did you… Did you see it before?"

"What you talking about?" Mikey asked, his patience wearing thin.

"I’m saying there is no way… The two of us are sitting here for over an hour and neither of us have seen that fucking sign right there."

"Yeah, Rich, it's a fucking sign."

"I think that bar just appeared—"

"Shut the fuck up," Mikey cut him off, staring straight ahead.

"Yo, for real. For real though. Shut the fuck up," Richie insisted, leaning closer to the windshield. "I think that bar just fucking appeared, Michael."

Mikey let out a dry, exasperated chuckle. "Okay, bar just fucking appeared, Rich."

"You don’t think that’s crazy?"

"Uh… It’s a fucking bar. It’s a sign. Mmm."

"It’s a sign 'Open.' That sign is a sign. That sign is a sign. We’re going in there."

"Are you fucking retarded? Are you fucking…" Mikey sighed, turning his head to glare at him. "We’ve been sitting here an hour. He’s gonna call any minute. We’re not going in a fucking bar."

"What’s the big deal? We run in with a little fucking shot of rhythm and blues."

"We’re not going in the fucking bar, Rich. Just sit down and do your fucking job. Listen to what I’m telling you."

"Michael, that sign is a sign. Okay, it’s a fucking sign. Some things are bigger than you and me and fucking Jimmy. We are going in there."

"We’re not going in the fucking bar. Just sit the fuck down. Oh, man, I hate when you get like this."

"I get like what?"

"I fucking hate it."

"Don’t hit the fuck… What are you doing? What are you fucking doing?" Mikey snapped as Richie reached for the door handle. "All right. You’re right. You’re right."

"Damn it," Mikey muttered. "You’re right."

"We can’t go in. Right." Richie paused for a second as the song continued to play. Suddenly, he threw the passenger door open and stepped out into the nature of Gary.

"What are you doing? Hey, Richie, get in the fucking car. Rich!"

Richie ignored him, walking around to the driver's side window with a bizarre, deadpan look on his face. He tapped on the glass. "Sir, can you please step out of the vehicle?"

Mikey just stared at him, incredulous. "Sir, please, I’m not going to ask you again. Please step out of the vehicle. License and registry. Okay, that’s it." Richie suddenly lunged slightly, pointing a fake finger-gun. "Put your vagina where I can see it! Put your vagina right where I can see it!"

"Stop! There’s fucking houses," Mikey hissed, half-laughing but deeply embarrassed. "Stop. Yo. Yo, come on."

"What do you mean come on? We’re not going."

"Yo, come on, let’s just go."

"I’m not going. No. One bourbon, one shot, one beer. Just a little shot of rhythm and blues and we come back."

"We’re not doing it. Come on."

"Your fucking hand… Are you fucking cra… You fucking do a shot of fucking cocaine, you think you can fight a fucking tiger? Come on. Stop."

"It’s fucking terrible," Richie said, his face falling into deep, dramatic disappointment.

"What’s terrible?"

"I’m like genuinely inspired here and you’re just shitting all over my fucking dreams. It’s terrible. I hope you feel good about yourself right now."

"Why are you pressuring me?" Mikey growled.

"Come on."

"All right, fuck you."

"Fuck," Richie sniffled, pulling his jacket tight. "I’m going in."

"Go in."

"I’m going in."

"Go in."

"Oh, shit," Richie muttered, checking his reflection in the truck's side mirror. "Yo, I’m good? How do I look?"

"You look like a fucking barbarian. You look like my father."

"All right, I’m going to go. Honk if you need anything. Yeah!" Richie exhaled, letting out a sharp trill as he walked away. "You’ll fucking see. You’ll fucking see. You’re gonna remember this fucking day. That’s a fucking sign!"

The heavy door of the bar slammed shut behind him.

Mikey sat alone in the quiet cab of the truck, the ambient noise of the highway suddenly feeling distant. He looked around the empty street, the silence pressing into him. With a shaky breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

He scrolled through his contacts until he found your name. He tapped it, and your contact photo filled the screen.

He stared at it, a genuine, soft smile finally breaking through his hard exterior. In the photo, you were sitting effortlessly in a sleek leather chair in front of your massive apartment window, the bright Chicago skyline stretching out behind you. Your hair cascaded perfectly over your shoulders, framing your face as your dark, painted nails lightly brushed against your cheek. You were wearing a white lace strapless corset top that beautifully contrasted your normally dark attire, and a pair of heavily distressed, ripped blue jeans that bared your knees and feet. You looked radiant, confident, and completely out of his league.

A wave of profound longing hit his chest. His thumb hovered directly over the green call button. He wanted to hear your voice so badly it physically ached. He just wanted to press it, to take back everything he had thrown away.

His finger descended, millimeters away from the glass—

Knock, knock.

A sharp rap on the passenger window shattered the quiet. Mikey jumped, instantly locking his phone and sliding it flat onto the center console, face down. He looked up to see a woman with dark hair peering in at him, a knowing grin on her face. Sherri.

He took a ragged breath, the heavy shield sliding right back over his eyes as he rolled down the window.

Inside, the atmosphere was loud and smoky. Richie was in his element, holding court with a group of local women, aggressively acting out the story of his high school math tutor, Roxelana, and his own humiliating digestive betrayal. The table was roaring with laughter, shouting "Fact!" and slamming their glasses down.

Mikey sat on a stool slightly removed from the inner circle, a heavy, dark cloud hanging over him. Sherri stood nearby, teasing him, trying to bait him into the game of fact or fiction, but Mikey was completely shut down.

Richie, riding the high of his successful storytelling, raised his beer mug toward Mikey. "Sadly, sadly, it is a fact! That is a fucking fact! But yo, if you think that's crazy, you should hear the stories from back when the three of us were kids. Me, Mike, and [Y/N]—"

"Richie," Mikey interrupted.

The word wasn't loud, but it was incredibly sharp. It cut through the laughter at the table like a razor blade. Mikey’s eyes, bloodshot and wild with the pressure building in his head, locked onto Richie with a cold, terrifying rage.

Richie blinked, caught off guard. "What? I'm just saying, cousin, she used to—"

"Shut the fuck up, Richie," Mikey spat, standing up so fast his barstool rattled against the floorboards. The friendly, melancholic pining from the truck was entirely gone, replaced by a volatile, defensive fury. "Don't say her name. Do not say her fucking name in here."

"Mike, calm down, I’m just talking about—"

"I said drop it!" Mikey roared, leaning over the table, his chest heaving as he targeted all of his internal agony straight at his best friend. "You don't bring her up in a place like this. You don't bring her up to these people. You don't get to say her name to me. Keep your fucking mouth shut."

The women at the table went completely silent, the fun instantly evaporating from the room. Mikey stared Richie down for one more agonizing second, his hands trembling with a toxic, unbridled anger, before he turned on his heel and stormed toward the back hallway, desperate to escape the ghost he had spent the whole day invoking.

-----------------

The phone on the kitchen counter buzzed again, cutting through the thick, tense quiet of the afternoon. You snatched it up instantly, checking on Tiff, who was now breathing through another sharp wave of discomfort on the couch.

"Richie?" you said into the receiver, your voice tight.

"Tiff, it’s me. It’s Richie. Wait. No, I can barely hear you," Richie’s voice blared over the line, completely drowned out by the thumping bass of a jukebox and a chorus of loud, laughing voices.

"Richie, it's [Y/N]," you said, pressing the phone hard against your ear to block out the noise on his end. "Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."

"Tiff, it’s me, Richard!" he shouted anyway, entirely missing what you just said.

Tiff leaned forward from the cushions, her face pale. "Oh, hi! Where are you?"

"I’m in fucking Gary," Richie yelled back over the racket.

You frowned, your eyes narrowing as you caught the loose, slightly slurred cadence of his voice. "It’s so loud there, Richie. You sound like you’re in a bar. Are you in a bar?"

"It’s going so good," he evaded, his tone a little too loose, a little too manic.

"Richie, look at me—well, listen to me," you snapped, your internal radar instantly pinging. You could tell right away that he was either drunk or riding some kind of high, even if he wasn't about to admit it to you. "Why are you in a bar?"

"‘Cause the clients," he stammered quickly.

"What clients? What clients are you meeting there?" you demanded, crossing your arms.

"They’re clients from Jimmy. Tiff, it’s going so fucking good. Mikey is so smooth, he’s so fucking smooth. It’s… Mikey is so smooth! I can’t really–"

"Richie, shut up and listen to me," you interrupted cleanly, cutting through his rambling before he could drag you into talking about Mikey. Your voice went dead serious, dropping into a sharp command. "Tell Mikey to hurry the fuck up and get his ass in that truck. You need to get home right now."

"We’re having such a good time—" Richie’s voice started to crackle as the reception wavered.

"I don't care about the good time!" you shouted back, leaning over the counter. "Tiff is probably going to have to go to the hospital soon to have your daughter. The 5:15 thing is becoming a reality, Richie. Tell him to drive!"

"Okay, can you hear me? ‘Cause I can’t really hear you," Richie's voice started chopping up through the static, the bar noise fading in and out. "Hello? Hello? How are you feeling?"

"Richie! Do not hang up—"

But the line went completely dead. You stared at the receiver for a second, your heart hammering against your ribs, before slowly putting it back on the cradle and turning to face Tiff.

Tiff would likely lean back against the cushions, letting out a heavy, exhausted sigh, and look at you with a mixture of intense irritation and disbelief.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? A bar? In Gary? He knows exactly what today is. He knows how terrified I’ve been about this timing, and he decides today is the perfect day to drag Richie into some local dive? I swear, Mikey has zero concept of anything outside of his own chaotic world. Richie is about to become a father—any second now—and Mikey is treating this like some completely reckless high school road trip. If Richie misses the birth of his daughter because he's sitting in a bar with Mikey, I will never, ever forgive him. And you can tell him I said that."

Your chest tightening with a familiar, bitter mix of anger and exhaustion. You set your cold tea down on the end table located next to the recliner, your voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective tone.

"You’re one hundred percent right, Tiff. It is reckless, it’s selfish, and it’s classic Michael," you say, the use of his full name tasting like ash in your mouth. "He’s a burning building right now, and he doesn't care who he traps inside with him. Richie knows better, too, but he always lets Mikey pull his strings."

You walk back over to the couch, gently sitting beside her and putting a reassuring hand on her arm, your expression hardening as you address her last point.

"But I’m not telling him shit. I haven't muttered a single word to him since Christmas night, and I am not breaking my silence to beg him to do the right thing. If he wants to ruin his relationship with Richie, that's on him. I'm not playing the buffer anymore. I’m done saving him from himself."

You take a deep breath, forcing your own anger down to focus entirely on her. "Right now, fuck both of them. You need to breathe. Do not let his chaotic bullshit stress you into labor right here on the living room floor. If Richie isn't back, I will be the one in that delivery room with you, holding your hand and cutting the cord. Let's just focus on getting you through the next hour."

---------------------

Richie burst through the door into the bathroom, his chest heaving, the frantic energy of a man completely out of time radiating off him. He looked at Mikey and Sherri in the stall, his face tight with panic.

"I’m sorry to interrupt you guys," Richie blurted out, stepping up to them. "Cousin, we gotta… we gotta go. Okay, we’re going. We gotta go. Like, now."

"Rich, don’t do that," Mikey said, his voice low, a dangerous warning vibrating in his chest. "I said I’m coming."

"Mike, I’m serious. Okay, we’re fucking going!" Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes wide. "Cousin, Jimmy said he hasn’t heard from you all day. This guy is waiting."

"Okay. I heard you. Cousin, I’m coming. All right," Mikey muttered, his head swimming as he tried to stabilize himself against the wall. He gave Sherri a small, heavy look. "I’ll be, uh, right outside. Fuck man, that’s… Hey, I’ll come back. Fiction."

The intricate, heavy progressive rock of “Heart of the Sunrise” began to swell from the jukebox as they spilled back out into the main bar area. Richie was practically vibrating out of his skin, grabbing Mikey’s arm to pull him toward the exit.

"Yo, Cousin, it’s go time. We gotta go," Richie muttered, eyeing Mikey's flushed, sweaty face. "You look like fucking Ronald McDonald. What’s wrong?"

"No," Mikey muttered, shaking him off.

"Yo, Michael, come on."

"Us staying is not a capital crime. What’s the problem?" Mikey snapped, turning on him. "Yo, Cousin, we got this meeting in ten. Where’s the fire? Where’s the fire?"

"We’re going, we’re going. Okay, okay. All right. Hey, let’s hit it. Yeah. Yo, we’re out of here." Richie waved frantically to the women at the table. "Nice to meet you guys. It’s been a pleasure to meet y’all. Wow. Wow. Wow."

"Hang on," Mikey interrupted, his voice suddenly booming over the music as he spun around to face the room. The manic, toxic pressure in his head was reaching a boiling point. "What about my turn? Fact or fiction? Hey, we’re in America though, right? Last time I checked, Gary, Indiana is in the sovereign United States. Is it not, Vanessa? Are we not in Amer…? Everybody get a turn. Everybody gets a turn. Fucking, don’t… All right."

Mikey threw his arms out wide, addressing the entire room. "How great are you fucking people? How great is this fucking… This place got fucking heart. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Magic. This place is magic. All right."

The patrons cheered, fueled by the wild energy vibrating off the tall Chicagoan.

"Yo," Mikey continued, his eyes glassy, his smile terrifyingly bright. "We’re just a pair of fucking wired and worried travelers, and we fucking love it here. We thank you. We thank you, Gary fucking Indiana. We thank you."

As the crowd roared, Mikey stepped closer to Richie, clapping a heavy, bruising hand onto his shoulder. "Magic, magic. Thank you. Thank you. I just want to take this opportunity because right now, my, uh, my fine furry Cousin right there, my fucking best friend. Any second now, he’s gonna be a dad."

The women cheered loudly, raising their glasses. Tiff's face flashed in Richie's mind, a heavy anchor of guilt pulling at his gut. "Hang on. Hold on," Richie tried to mutter, but Mikey drowned him out completely.

"Not only that. Not only that. Not on… Hey, he’s happy. He’s happy. Rich, you’re happy. Right now, I swear this is… this is the most… It’s, like, the most healthy and, like, you’re-you’re… you’re full. You’re full and I love it. He’s in love, you know. Fucker cannot wait to be a father either. I mean, he can’t fucking… he can’t… he can’t fucking wait. I mean, he-he’s got this pride. You’re glowing, Rich. You’re glowing. I love you. It’s my fucking boy. I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Fucking love you. Look at him, he’s gonna be a dad. Look at him. Look at this fucking… That’s going to be a father. That. That right there is going to be a father, right?"

Mikey’s face shifted instantly. The warmth dissolved, leaving behind a cold, hollow sneer that stripped every ounce of oxygen from the room.

"Fucking kid’s gonna end up abandoned and alone just like he was," Mikey spat, his voice dropping like an anvil.

Richie froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Mike—"

"But hey, shit, hey, at least you went into it with a good fucking mindset, right, kid, huh?" Mikey let out a dry, manic chuckle. "I mean, no, no, no, no, no, it’s okay. No, I love it. That’s-that’s the thing. That’s the thing you got to know about Rich, man, is that the one thing that you can absolutely fucking depend on with this fucking guy is that if he is involved, he’s going to fuck it up. I mean, he is going to fuck it up and everybody knows it. I mean… nobody says it, right? Nobody says it because everybody’s a fucking coward and a fucking liar."

"Michael, shut the fuck up," Richie warned, his face turning red, his hands clenching into fists.

"But this isn’t going to be any fucking different. I mean, he’s going to fuck this," Mikey shouted, stepping right into Richie’s space, completely unhinged. "He’s got his entire life is a fucking bed that he took a shit in the middle of and he just smears it right and that’s what’s beautiful. Hey. Hey. Look at him. He’s beautiful. But he’s got to fuck this up too, right? No, no, no, no, no, no, it’s okay. It’s okay. Everybody knows it. They don’t say it, but they look, look. Ooh. Oh, look at his eyes. Look at those beady little fucking eyes. He knows it too. That’s the fucking thing."

"All right!" Richie yelled, pushing his shoulder. "We gotta go. We gotta."

"Where are we going? Where-Where are we fucking going?" Mikey roared back, towering over him.

"Yo, we got this meeting!"

"Yeah. We got it. You know what you ought to do? You ought to get in the fucking truck and just start fucking driving. Just fucking bolt, Rich. Just fucking… you wanna do that kid of yours a favor? Just fucking bolt. Just fucking hit the fucking road and do not come back. You wanna do her a favor, right?"

"Okay. Okay," Richie said, trying to de-escalate, his heart breaking for his friend.

"No, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth," Mikey ranted, sweat dripping down his temple. "It’s the truth. What, you’re gonna be a good father? Is that what you got to be? Huh, Ronald McDonald, you’re gonna be a good father? Are you gonna be a good father? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Just say it. Just say you’re gonna fuck it up, right? Come on, you’re not mad. Don’t be mad. You’re not mad."

"I’m not—"

"You’re not mad. Are you mad? Are you mad? Stop. Stop. You’re not mad. You’re not mad. No, just say it—"

SMACK.

Richie’s hand flew across Mikey’s face, a sharp, deafening crack that echoed through the bar. "Stop that!" Richie breathed.

"Oh, my God. Stop it," someone from the crowd whispered.

Mikey didn't even flinch. He just stared at Richie, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and entirely unglued. "No, no, no, no, no."

SMACK.

Richie slapped him a second time, harder, his own tears pricking his eyes. "Stop!"

"Ah!" Mikey threw his head back, a terrifying, breathless laugh ripping from his lungs. "He’s telling the fucking truth finally. He’s telling the fucking truth. Say it again. You hate me? You hate me, Rich?" Mikey spat on the floor. "You gonna fuck this up, Rich. Just say that and we’ll go. Say it and we’ll go."

"All right. That’s an… I don’t know. Stop," Sherri tried to step in, but Mikey shoved his way past her, stepping entirely into Richie's face.

"At least you’re not lying anymore," Mikey hissed, his voice trembling with a violent, agonizing vibration.

"Why are you doing this?" Richie sobbed openly now, his hands shaking. "Why are you doing this, Mike?"

"I love you," Mikey mocked softly. "I love you. You’re a coward, Rich. You’re a fucking coward."

"I’m a coward?" Richie choked out. "You’re a coward."

"I’m a coward. A coward. I’m a coward," Mikey repeated like a mantra, his manic pressure completely rupturing now, spilling over the edges. He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched Richie's, his teeth bared. "And you wanna know who else I lied to? You wanna know the real fucking fiction, Rich?!"

Richie stared at him, terrified.

"I lied about her!" Mikey screamed, his voice cracking, tearing raw in his throat as the agony of Christmas night finally broke through his chest. "I lied about [Y/N]! I didn't pathetic-ie her into my bed! I didn't feel fucking sorry for her! I fucking loved her! I loved her so much it was ripping my ribs open, Richie! I wanted to marry her! I wanted the flowers, I wanted the courthouse, I wanted the fucking kitchen floor!"

The bar went dead silent, the raw, bleeding trauma of his voice paralyzing the room.

"But look at me!" Mikey wept, a terrifying mix of a laugh and a sob ripping out of him as he slammed his hand against his own chest. "Look at this fucking house! I'm a burning building, Rich! I'm a fucking bomb! I lied to her face and told her she was nothing to me so she would run! I broke her heart at that table so she wouldn't stay and let me burn her alive! I made her hate me because it was the only way to save her from me!"

Richie stood completely frozen, the sheer, devastating weight of Mikey’s self-destruction crashing down around them. Mikey didn't give him a second to process. He blinked away the sweat and tears, the heavy, defensive shield sliding right back over his eyes as he looked at Richie with total detachment.

"Kid’s gonna hate you, Rich," Mikey whispered, his voice turning cold as stone again. "Kid’s gonna… This is..."

He turned on his heel, leaving the shattered pieces of his confession on the bar floor, and marched out into the cold towards the truck.

---------------

The clock on the microwave shifted to 5:15 PM. Right on cue, a sudden, sharp gasp cut through the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of splashing liquid on the hardwood floor.

Tiff froze, her hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter so hard her knuckles turned white. She looked down, her eyes wide with a mixture of pure panic and blinding fury.

"My water just broke," Tiff whispered, her voice trembling before it instantly hardened into steel. "It’s 5:15. It’s exactly what we said. And where the fuck is my husband? He’s in Gary. In a fucking bar. Because of Michael."

"Tiff, look at me," you said, forcing your own voice to remain dead calm as you grabbed a clean towel and a jacket. "Do not focus on him right now. Look at me and breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just focus on your breathing."

"I am going to kill him!" Tiff screamed, completely ignoring you as a massive contraction hit her, causing her to double over against the counter. "I am going to absolutely destroy Mikey! This is the most important day of Richie's life, and Mikey just had to drag him down into his own miserable, pathetic gutter! He is ruining the birth of my daughter!"

"Tiff, stop talking about Mikey! He doesn't matter right now," you commanded, wrapping an arm around her torso and carefully guiding her toward the front door. "Lean on me. We are getting into Richie's car right now and I am driving you to the hospital. Let's go. Just breathe."

You hoisted her weight against you, navigating the steps out to the driveway. You unlocked Richie’s car, opening the passenger door and carefully helping her lower herself into the seat. Another contraction seized her body, and she let out a ragged, agonizing cry, slamming her fist against the dashboard.

"I hate him! I hate him so much for doing this to us!" Tiff sobbed, her face red with sweat and tears. "You need to call him again and tell him—"

"I’m not calling him, Tiff!" you finally snapped, the dam inside you completely rupturing as you stood in the open car door.

The weight of the silence since Christmas night, the agonizing restraint, the raw wound of his betrayal—shattered your composure. Your voice cracked, echoing loudly across the quiet driveway.

"I am tired of hearing his name! I am so fucking tired of it!" you yelled, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes as your chest heaved. "You think I want to think about him? Every single time his name comes out of your mouth, it rips my fucking soul apart, Tiff! It tears me to pieces!"

Tiff went completely still, her tear-streaked face looking up at you in shock, the sheer force of your pain temporarily eclipsing her own agony.

"I haven't talked to him since Christmas," you whispered, your voice shaking violently as you gripped the edge of the car door. "I told myself I was done. I told myself I hated him. But I am so sick of lying to myself. I still love him. I love him so much it’s making me sick, and hearing that he's destroying his own life and Richie's life in some dive bar is killing me. But he is not here. Mikey is not here, and Richie is not here. I am here."

You wiped your face fiercely with the back of your hand, pulling yourself back together by sheer force of will. You leaned into the car, gently but firmly pulling the seatbelt across her torso and buckling her in.

"So we are done talking about Michael," you said, your voice dropping into a fierce, protective whisper as you looked into her eyes. "He doesn't get to be a part of this day. Now, breathe through the pain. I'm getting behind the wheel, and we are going to go have your baby."

You slammed the passenger door shut, ran around to the driver's side, and started the engine.

The tires squealed slightly as you pulled Richie’s car out of the driveway, the engine roaring as you accelerated down the street. Tiff let out another sharp, ragged groan from the passenger seat, clutching her stomach as the car hit a bump.

With one hand firmly on the steering wheel, you used the bluetooth system to dial Richie’s number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. You were just about to hang up and call the bar directly when the line finally clicked open.

"Richie!" you shouted over the hum of the road.

"Yo," Richie’s voice came through the speakers. He didn't have you on speakerphone on his end—his voice sounded muffled, distant, and completely hollow, completely stripped of the manic energy he’d had just twenty minutes ago. He sounded profoundly upset, his breathing heavy and ragged, like a man who had just been completely dismantled.

"Richie, listen to me," you said, your eyes locked on the road ahead. "You need to tell Mikey to drive you straight to the hospital. Tiff’s superstition was right. Her water broke at exactly 5:15 PM."

There was a sharp, sudden gasp on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of shuffling fabric. "What? Oh my god... oh my god, Tiff? Is she okay? [Y/N], is she okay?" Richie’s voice cracked, a thick, devastating wave of panic and raw emotion breaking through his tone. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, completely choked up and drowning in whatever venom Mikey had just poured into his chest back at the bar.

"She's having a massive contraction right now, but I have her in the car and we are heading to the hospital," you told him, steering hard around a corner.

Through the phone, you could hear the heavy silence of the truck's cab, and Richie's shaky, hitching breaths. He was completely spiraling, the brutal weight of Mikey's words clearly suffocating him.

"Richie, look at me—listen to me," you said, your voice softening but remaining fiercely firm. "Whatever Michael just said to you in that bar? Whatever he just did? You need to let it roll right off your back. Do you hear me?"

Richie let out a miserable, choked sound, but didn't speak.

"Whatever he said, it isn't really what he feels, Richie. It isn't the truth," you insisted, your heart aching as you defended the man who had broken you, knowing exactly how Mikey's self-destructive defense mechanisms worked. "It is just the drugs talking. He's spiraling, he's high, and he's striking out at the person he loves most because he's terrified. Do not let his chaos ruin this day for you. Put it away. Put it all away and just focus on getting to your daughter."

A heavy, shaky exhale came through the line. "Okay," Richie whispered, his voice trembling but settling, a fraction of his focus returning. "Okay. We're coming. We're fucking coming right now."

"We'll meet you there," you said, and hung up the phone, hitting the gas pedal harder as Tiff braced herself for the next wave.

--------------

After that phone call, the drive back to Chicago was a nightmare of silence, the suffocating tension inside the cab stretching tighter with every passing mile. The heavy quiet was broken only by the sharp, plastic snap of Richie taking his favorite mixtape CD, shoving it out the passenger window, and letting it shatter against the dark Indiana asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, the mocking whistle of a freight train wailed across the flat landscape, a cruel confirmation that they were in a race against time.

Mikey gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white, his jaw clamped shut as he stared blindly at the grey highway, the remnants of his raw, bleeding confession still vibrating in the air.

Richie sat pressed against the passenger door, staring out into the passing blur of trees. He swallowed hard, his breathing finally slowing down from the panicked spiral of the phone call. He looked over at Mikey’s rigid, tense profile. The anger from the slaps was gone, replaced by a heavy, profound sorrow for his best friend.

"Mike," Richie said, his voice quiet, muffled, and incredibly thick with emotion.

Mikey didn't move a muscle, his eyes locked straight ahead.

Richie shifted in his seat, turning to face him fully. "Listen... I have no idea what is going on in your head right now, but I need you to know I love you."

A muscle jumped in Mikey’s cheek. He didn't look at Richie, he couldn't, but his grip on the wheel faltered for a fraction of a second as the words hit him. He just hit the gas pedal harder, tearing through the dark toward the hospital, leaving the wreckage of Gary behind them.

By the time Mikey’s truck finally screeched into the hospital parking lot, the sun had long since set. Richie didn't even wait for the vehicle to fully stop; he threw the door open and bolted inside, frantic, desperate to find his wife and his newborn daughter.

Mikey followed at a slower, heavier pace, his boots dragging against the linoleum floors of the hospital hallway.

He rounded the corner to the maternity waiting room and stopped dead in his tracks.

There you were.

You were sitting in one of the vinyl hospital chairs, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You looked exhausted, your hair slightly disheveled from hours of waiting with Tiff.

The universe, in its ultimate, cruel irony, had emptied the room. It was just the two of you.

Your head turned when you heard his boots. Your eyes met, and for a fraction of a second, the agonizing separation dissolved. The raw pain, the longing, the unspoken truths Mikey had screamed in a Gary bathroom hung heavily in the air between you. But neither of you moved.

Mikey swallowed the lump in his throat, his pride and his shame keeping his boots glued to the floor. He slowly walked over and sat down three chairs away from you, staring straight ahead at a framed poster of a sunset.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It was thick, heavy, and agonizing, pressing down on the chest of the universe.

To break the crushing weight of the quiet, you reached down into your bag and pulled out a small, vending-machine bag of potato chips. You opened it with a sharp, plastic rip that sounded like gunfire in the silent room.

You pulled out a chip and bit down.

Crunch.

Mikey’s jaw tightened. His foot began to tap an erratic rhythm against the floor.

You pulled out another chip.

Crunch.

Mikey closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. The sound was like a drill to his already fraying nerves. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the proximity, the silence, the fact that he wanted to crawl across the vinyl chairs and bury his face in your neck, but knew he had completely forfeited the right to.

"Stop crunching your chips so loudly," Mikey muttered, his voice sharp, defensive, and completely devoid of the warmth he used to possess.

You paused. The chip was halfway to your mouth.

Slowly, you turned your head and looked at him. You took in the sight of him—the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands, the stubborn, arrogant tilt of his chin. You remembered the kitchen floor, the promise of spring flowers, and the absolute destruction of Christmas night.

You didn't lower the chip.

Instead, you looked him dead in the eyes, locked your gaze onto his, and purposely bit down on the chip with an aggressive, thunderous CRUNCH.

You kept your eyes wide open, staring him down, and proceeded to chew the chip loudly, with your mouth wide open, making every single bite as obnoxious and deafening as humanly possible.

Mikey’s mouth twitched, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaped in his cheek. He stared back at you, a volatile mixture of fury, heartbreak, and a sudden, devastating spark of recognition passing through his eyes.

Post by @whydoyouwantmyname · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 1  ❤️ 5 · We'll Meet Again, Don't Know When, Don't Know Where · Part One Part Two The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling the dista

[whydoyouwantmyname]

Imagine being at the Christmas dinner

“Donna, do you need any help?” you offered for the hundredth time.

She lifted her head, slightly frazzled, eyes wide and frantic. “No, darling. Please, go enjoy the party.” She forced a smile as you grabbed your drink.

“Well, if you need me, I will be—”

“Cousin!” Richie chirped, sneaking up behind you and lifting you clear off the ground. His arms snaked around your middle as you yelled playfully, your feet kicking the air.

“Richie! My drink!”

“Your drink will be fine! It’s not like Dee Dee doesn’t have more for you and the rest of this crazy bunch to drink,” he joked, putting you down to kiss the side of your head. You turned to Tiff with open arms and engulfed her in a hug.

“How you deal with him, I will never know,” you joked as she hugged you back.

“I could say the same to you,” Tiff laughed softly. “I mean, you are actually planning on marrying into this bunch.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” You smiled as Natalie entered the room, with Lee trailing not far behind.

“Hi, Sugar!” you called out over Richie’s loud storytelling, walking toward your future sister-in-law with open arms. Natalie wrapped her arms tightly around you, whispering in your ear, “Is it really as bad as the boys say?”

“Oh, yeah,” you whispered back. “Better flee the kitchen before Ma loses it completely.”

She took your hand and dragged you out of the chaos just as Donna started to yell about too many people crowding her small kitchen. Natalie looked at you like you were psychic.

“She has been doing it all day,” you explained, leading her toward the back door. “Mikey, Carm, and I have been helping in shifts because she doesn't want to ask for help. So we’re basically asking first and then forcing our help upon her based on her response.”

“That sounds like madness.”

“It is,” you replied, pushing the door open and stepping out into the biting Chicago snow.

The backs of Carmy and Mikey faced you as they looked out over the street, a plume of cigarette smoke rising into the freezing air as they passed it between themselves. As soon as Mikey took it from Carmy, you stepped up and cleanly snatched it from his fingers. He spun around to yell, but the moment he saw it was you holding the cigarette between your red-painted lips, his face instantly softened.

“You okay, baby?” he asked softly.

You took a drag, the warmth hitting your chest, and handed it back to him. “Course. Donna is nothing compared to my mom. However, what’s with the seven fishes? No one ever eats it.”

“I tried to tell her,” Carmy muttered, shivering, “but if she doesn’t follow the Italian tradition, she thinks Christmas will be ruined.”

“You should have tried harder, Carmy,” you joked, nudging his shoulder.

Natalie sighed, looking at the boys. “So, should I go back in and ask—”

“No,” Mikey cut her off, his voice dropping to a sharp, defensive edge. “Whatever you do, don’t do that to yourself, because she will fucking spiral.”

“Is she always like this?” Natalie asked, her eyes searching her older brother's face.

“Every day,” Mikey answered, staring blankly into the snow. “Honestly, I am surprised I even have a girlfriend still, seeing how she’s now seen Ma at her absolute worst.”

“You forget I’ve known you your whole life, Mikey. I know exactly how your mom is,” you reminded him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Mikey passed the cigarette back to Carmy, who took it silently, watching the two of you.

“Well, now that I have verified that you both are actually here, I am going back inside to maneuver whatever the hell is going on in there,” Natalie replied, turning back toward the house.

“Good luck, Sis,” you called out.

As the door clicked shut, Carmy looked at the stub in his hand. “She’s gonna do the thing, isn’t she?”

You took the stub of the cigarette from him and threw it onto the snowy ground, crushing it with your boot. “Oh, she is definitely going to do the thing. And then Donna is going to harp down on all of y'all. Thankfully, I am spared from her wrath because she loves me.”

“It’s hard not to, darling,” Mikey murmured, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as he pulled you flush against him and kissed your temple.

You leaned into his warmth, but your chest tightened. You looked up at him, trying to catch his eyes, but his gaze was restless, darting around the yard. “Also... please don’t get into it with Lee. Just this one time. For me?”

“No promises,” Mikey muttered, his jaw clenching. “I mean, the guy is a total fucking ass.”

A little later, you were seated beside Richie on the couch, your legs thrown carelessly over his lap as Mikey sat in the chair in front of the Christmas tree. His smile was wide, his hands moving animatedly as he told a loud, sweeping story to the crowded living room. You and Richie kept cutting in, adding ridiculous minor details, keeping the rhythm going.

The three of you had been thick as thieves growing up. There was never a time anyone could remember where you weren't helping the Berzatto boys do something entirely insane, or where they weren't aggressively threatening the newest guy who dared to ask you out. You were the girl who cleaned their scraped knuckles, who hid their secrets from Donna, and who loved them fiercely.

But when you were sixteen, you had made a beautiful, terrifying decision. It was 2:00 AM in Donna’s kitchen, fueled by cheap beers and late-night sandwiches. Richie had passed out on the couch, his heavy snores filling the silent house while you and the eldest Berzatto boy giggled at some stupid joke, tossing Doritos onto a mountain of ham and cheese. Mikey had suddenly gone quiet, his intense gaze trapping yours, and before you knew it, the sandwich was abandoned and he had you pinned against the fridge, kissing you like his life depended on it.

Moments like that became your secret universe—a decade-long situationship that finally shifted into something real just a few months ago. You had been standing in your kitchen, wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts and nothing else, stirring his signature spaghetti sauce. The tile was freezing against your bare feet, and Mikey had been backseat-cooking from the table.

“I know, I know,” you had snapped playfully, “you can hear the sauce sticking to the pot, but I promise I’m stirring it enough.”

“Let’s get married,” he had replied.

Your spoon had stopped mid-air. “'Cuse me?”

“Yeah, let’s get married. Not right now, obviously, but next year. In the spring. We can get those stupid flowers you like, drag Richie to the courthouse with us, and just do this thing.”

“Mikey, you sound nuts.”

“No, I sound logical.”

“Am I crazy though if I say let’s do it?”

The plan was to tell the whole family tonight after dinner. Only Richie and Tiff knew the actual wedding plan, and while Tiff wasn't great at keeping secrets, the rest of the Berzatto family was usually too chaotic to notice her slip-ups.

You were pulled from the memory when you felt Richie gently tap your ankle. “You okay, Cousin?”

“Course, Richie.” You smiled, looking up to lock eyes with Mikey, he flashed you that charming, toxic smile you absolutely adored.

But as the minutes ticked by, that smile started to feel heavy. It was too bright. Too forced. Sweat was dampening his hairline, and his foot was tapping a frantic, erratic rhythm against the floor. He wasn't acting like himself. He was vibrating at a frequency that terrified you, a manic energy masking a deep, hollow exhaustion. You were always the anchor that pulled Mikey back to reality, the one person who could quiet the storm in his head—but looking at him right now, you felt completely powerless.

When Mikey stood up to wander back toward the kitchen, you slipped your legs off Richie's lap and followed him into the quiet hallway. Before he could retreat, you caught his arm.

"Mikey, hey. Look at me," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He turned, but his eyes were glassy, looking right through you. "I'm good, babe. Just checking on Ma. Keeping the train on the tracks, you know?"

"Mikey, you're shaking," you said, your voice trembling as you reached for his hands. They were ice-cold. "Talk to me. Please. Just breathe with me for a second."

He pulled his hands away with a forced, booming laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine! Seriously, stop worrying. Go sit back down with Richie." He blew past you, leaving you standing alone in the dim light.

Panic clutched at your throat. You turned around and saw Richie and Natalie standing near the edge of the dining room, watching the exchange with tense, worried expressions. You walked over to them, your vision blurring slightly with unshed tears.

"Hey," Richie said softly, his usual bravado completely vanishing. "What's going on with him?"

"I don't know," you confessed, your voice breaking into a whisper as you looked between Richie and Natalie. "I don't know what to do. He's... he's slipping, and every time I try to grab him, he pulls away. Guys, I'm trying to be his anchor, I am, but I have no idea how to save him from himself right now. I'm so scared."

Natalie wrapped a comforting arm around your shoulders, her own eyes filled with a familiar, helpless dread. "It's not your fault, [Y/N]. You've always looked out for him. We all know you're the only one who keeps him grounded."

Richie swallowed hard, staring toward the kitchen where Mikey's loud voice was rising again. "We've got your back, Cousin. We'll get through dinner, alright? Just stay close."

Dinner was a battlefield. The tension in the dining room was thick enough to choke on. Donna was unraveling at the head of the table, and across from Mikey sat Uncle Lee, his smug, judgmental presence fueling the fire that had been brewing all day.

You sat tight between Richie and Mikey, your hand resting on Mikey’s knee under the table. You could feel his muscle fibers twitching, a ticking time bomb. The family’s love for you was the only thing keeping the peace at your end of the table; Carmy kept giving you appreciative glances, and even Uncle Jimmy softened his voice when he spoke to you. You had spent years being the buffer, protecting Richie and Mikey from the worst of the family's critiques.

But then Lee opened his mouth. He started condescending to Mikey about his business ideas, his lack of follow-through, his continuous failures.

"You're a joke, Michael," Lee sneered, swirling his wine. "You sit here and tell the same stories because you got nothing else."

Mikey’s face went entirely blank. The toxic smile vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying rage. His hand gripped the fork on his plate.

Clink.

He chucked the fork across the table. It struck Lee’s plate with a sharp, deafening rattle. The table went dead silent.

"Mikey, don't," you whispered under your breath, gripping his thigh tightly. "Please."

"You think I'm a joke, Lee?" Mikey asked, his voice dangerously low. He picked up another fork. Clink. He threw it harder this time, narrowly missing Lee’s face.

"Michael, stop it!" Natalie begged from down the table.

"He's a fucking loser," Lee barked, leaning forward, completely unfazed. "Throw another fork. Show everyone what a child you are."

Mikey grabbed a third fork, his knuckles turning white, his chest heaving as he prepared to hurl it with everything he had.

"Mikey, stop!" you shouted, finally cracking under the pressure. You stood up halfway, putting your hand directly over his trembling wrist, desperate to break the trance. "Look at me! Drop the fork. Please, Mikey, this isn't you. Just stop!"

Slowly, Mikey’s head turned toward you.

You expected to see the man who loved you, the man who had begged you to marry him in your kitchen. Instead, you were met with a venomous, unbridled hatred that made your breath catch in your throat. The manic pressure in his head completely ruptured, and he directed all of his agony and viciousness straight at you.

"Shut the fuck up, [Y/N]," Mikey spat, his voice cutting through the silent room like a razor blade.

You flinched, your hand dropping from his wrist. "Mikey..."

"No, seriously, I am so fucking sick of you acting like you're my savior," he laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed off the walls. He leaned back in his chair, looking at you with pure disgust. "You want to know the truth? You want to know why we're 'dating'?"

"Michael, don't you dare," Richie warned, slamming his hands on the table, his face turning red.

"No, Richie, let her hear it!" Mikey yelled, his eyes locked onto yours, stripping away every ounce of safety you had ever felt with him. "I only started fucking you because I felt fucking sorry for you. You've been pathetically, deeply in love with me since we were kids, trailing after me and Richie like a lost puppy. I felt bad! I pathetic-ied you into my bed, [Y/N]. I will never feel the same way about you. You're nothing to me but a charity case."

The words hit you like a physical blow. The dining room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Down the table, Carmy stood up, knocking his chair back. "Yo, Mikey, what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"Get the hell out of this house, Michael!" Donna screamed, suddenly snapping out of her own haze, her protective instincts for you overriding her own madness.

But you couldn't hear any of them anymore. The entire family was shouting, Richie was over the table shoving Mikey, and Natalie was reaching for you, crying your name. You stood there frozen, staring at the stranger sitting next to you. Mikey didn't look remorseful; he just stared blankly ahead, breathing heavily, completely consumed by the darkness he had let win.

The anchor had snapped. With a choked sob, you turned on your heel and fled the dining room, running out into the cold Chicago night, leaving the shattered pieces of the Berzatto family behind you.

Post by @whydoyouwantmyname · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · Imagine the Trip to Gary · part one The drive back to Chicago was a nightmare of silence, the suffocating tension inside t

[icybarness]

The Art of Loving

Pairings: Clark Kent x Reader | Wc: 900

Notes: Currently at her concert the moment this is posted hehe...Inspired by Olivia Dean's Art of Loving album!! Check out my masterlist and Kent Fam of 3 masterlist!!

Summary: The art of loving between you and Clark. The beautiful moments of loving.

Warnings: Fluff, Clark and readers' beautiful and difficult moments, small mention of the passing of a sibling, yet 2 lovebirds loving each other through everything <3

Meeting Clark was one of the best moments in your life, you would say. Two kids, the boy who helped you with a scrape on your knee at the playground in kindergarten. The boy who told you it’s okay when tears rushed to your eyes from it.

The care and compassion that sparked between the two of you. Something so beautiful, yet you couldn’t exactly point out this feeling. Where love comes in all different forms, and you were ever so grateful you got to experience every single one of them with your forever lover.

The love he had for you since crossing paths with him in the playground, loving you for who you are, as he got to grow with you, experiencing the great moments, and yet the hard moments.

And he still loved you through it.

Moments of achieving an exam, or getting into the dream job you wanted. Where he supported and cheered you on. “I’m proud of you always sweetheart always,” he said lovingly before kissing a small peck to your temple, a proud grin on his face that he got to celebrate with you. "Italian tonight?"

"You know too well, Smallville," before reaching into his lips in a fits of giggles.

Or when grief took over, he was there when you lost your sister. Being there in every moment to make you meals when you forgot to eat, or when silence filled the air, he was there to talk about his day, to help you feel that you weren't alone in your own thoughts.

As he took the time listening to you when you wanted to ramble about how you felt, and always opened his arms whenever you needed a shoulder to lean on, even just to cry. Wanting to take away your pain, to do anything to ease you.

"I got you, I got you," whispering soothingly, letting you cry it out, knowing how grief shouldn't be kept in. His hand rubbing up and down your back, reassuring you it's okay to cry it out, where it shouldn't be shamed upon.

But it went the same for him. His awards from high school—where you were there for him within every ceremony, cheering and supporting him within the crowds. His eyes that land on yours proudly. Happily.

And moments when he discovered his powers. His fears and questions—but you loved him through it. Through the questions, through the learning. “I still love you, Clark. You're just as human, I’m with you in this, I promise okay? I’m proud of you,” as you brought him to your arms, holding him closer for him to know you're not going anywhere.

Where that itself helps him keep doing what he does, because you were proud of him.

When he finally asked you to be his. He was nervous. Cause Superman never gets nervous, right? But with you, it was different. Someone he loved to the point he couldn't speak. His love for you bloomed more and more when your eyes caught his. Just the farmboy who always tripped over his shoes with you.

And you were bubbling with so much love. Knowing you wanted him just as much, where you knew he was only just nervous. 

The planned date on the other side of town, the small diner that you mentioned briefly one time, the one you always wanted to go to. 

And he remembered.

Pink lilies in one hand, as he was met with you when your front door opened, being beautiful as ever. Your light yellow sundress, the softness of your skin, your eyes that glimmered with love just like his. “U-Uh hey,” he said nervously before composing himself. “These are for you,”

“These are beautiful Clark thank you,” as you took the flowers from his hand, then reached in for a hug of thank you for his kindness and for his love that he continually poured for you. But also for the love you had for him, too.

His cheeks blooming into a pink hue, a feeling he would never get sick of. “Anything for you.”

And throughout the years of loving each other you had a hidden surprise you always dreamt of. Something that shook you to the core one night. The pregnancy test that lied on the bathroom countertop, your tears that washed over you in joy.

 Clark catching  you in the bathroom, noticing your tears, the worry until his eyes shifted—to the test. His heart fluttering in joy, looking back at your gaze for confirmation that if he was seeing thing’s right. “R–Really?”

“Y-Yeah I–I can’t believe it were having a baby,” you hiccuped in between tears, the joy that washed over you in the best way possible. Before presenting the test closer to him. “Another one to share the love too.”

His heart that warms up, as his tears reflected yours, wrapping his arms around your waist to lift you up in bliss. Spinning you as you both giggled through the tears, his lips capturing yours. “I love you always, thank you for letting me in your life, for trusting me in everything,” you murmured against his lips.

“Golly I love you much more—and I can say the same for you honey, so much more. Thank you for believing in me,” he said before going back to connect his lips with yours once more.

Where loves never wasted when it was shared between the both of you, and more love to share to your future family.

That was the Art of Loving.

Taglist: @clarknsun @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @anon-188 @orobaxis

[jamesbbdoll]

Fool - Marcus Baker

Pairing: Marcus Baker x F!Reader

Synopsis: Marcus didn’t do girlfriends. You knew it. Then why did it hurt so much when you found out about him and Ginny? You were just hooking up, after all.

Warning: Use of YN, angst, mentions of sex and weed.

A/N: First fic ever, hope this doesn’t entirely suck. Also, I’m sorry for eventual mistakes, English is not my native language, so I’m trying my best. Happy reading!

Keep reading

[navs-bhat]

Armand says it wasn't his love for Louis but it was love

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.

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DEVIL'S MINION CONFIRMED???????

[navs-bhat]

MY GOD REGINA WHAT WHY WOULD YOU 😭😭😭😭

When I first saw her I almost cried but uh 😭

Anyways-

Ep3 was so peak and I wondered what would top it and then ep 4 was watched by me

Damn they ARE leveling up lol

Ep 3 was wonderful with the bruce montage and so much information

But truly the Magnus music video killed me