Hi! Can I request a batfam x batmom. But batmom's not that quick to catch on, but it comes to a point where all the boys know she's pregnant, they are all treating her different. Damian (#1 momma's boy) is sucking up to her even more. So when she does announce it, everyone's like "Um we've known for a long time now..."
the secrecy
Bruce Wayne x reader
Summary: You're not quick to catch your family's sudden protectiveness. So when emotions run high, you're left with a test.
Warnings: the feeling of sadness... and that's it.
"Hmm, hmmm,hmmmm, mmm"
They watched as you danced around in the kitchen, slowly humming a melody you adored and sang to the kids when they were little.
"It's kind of bittersweet, you know," Dick grinned, watching you all happy, unaware of your stalkerish kids.
"Yeah, and demon spawn here is no longer going to be the baby of the family," Jason smiled devilishly, seeing Damian frown. "How does it feel?" Jason hinted mockingly before cooing at Damian.
"Stop... teasing him," Tim bantered, punching Jason in the arm jokingly. It was as if he didn't want him to stop, but he had to show some type of empathy, even if it was fake.
"Look, we can all agree that we need to take care of Mom," Dick interrupted, hoping to shift Jason's teasing off of Damian. They all agreed for the first time ever.
𐙚
It began as a simple task, you know. Helping out more around the house.
This also included becoming a personal chauffeur and enduring many hours of shopping, ensuring you were okay. Because they would do anything for their mom.
You arrived back at the Manor after the long and intensive grocery shopping. You parked the car in the garage beside your husband's extensive vehicle collection. You open the trunk, glancing at the number of grocery bags there are.
Jason heard the garage door opening and went to see if his mother was home. On the walk to the garage, the first person he saw was Tim, and like any normal circumstance, he dragged him to the garage without any warning.
"Damn it, Jason, a little warning next time", Tim shouted out before harshly yanking his arm out of Jason's grip.
Both Jason and Tim walked out of the garage towards their mother. "Here, Ma, we'll help you.",
Jason smiled at you before gently grabbing the bags from your hand, and Tim, who took more bags from the car.
"Oh, umm...thanks", honestly, in that moment, you didn't know how to react. I mean, your kids were usually busy saving the world or with their own lives, but you were thankful nonetheless.
𐙚
"Gosh, my feet are killing me", you groaned quietly to yourself before sitting down and rubbing your feet. "I should probably do some stretches in the morning,, you coaxed on the idea. "Ugh, I'm too lazy for that," you whined in the throw pillow next to you.
Dick came down from his room; it was as if he had some supersonic senses whenever you required help. Also, he had decided to stay in the manor for an extra couple of weeks and then return to the Teen Titans.
"Here, Mom, I will massage it for you", Dick grinned, making your heart melt at the thoughtfulness of your son.
"Thank you, baby, but you don’t have to do that", you assured Dick, not wanting to take so much time out of his busy schedule. But all those thoughts quickly melted away when Dick started massaging your feet…you were in paradise.
As quickly as Bruce entered, his mouth was agape at the sight before him. His son is massaging his wife's feet for free…what is he trying to achieve?
"Son, why don’t you-"
Bruce started to speak, but he was quickly interrupted by Dick. "Dad, I am fine", Dick finished with a glare at his father. Bruce watched his wife be completely oblivious to this interaction. What can you do? Bruce sighed before leaving somewhere…anywhere but there.
𐙚
Alfred was already a big help around the manor. There was really no difference except...
As usual, everyone had dinner together as a family, you set the rule so everyone can talk about their day and get some quality time together.
"This was delicious, Alfred, thank you," You happily exclaimed to Alfred beside you. He made your favorite food.
"You're welcome, Missus Wayne", he politely said as always, refusing to call you by your first name. No matter how much you tried to convince him, these were the times he would refuse.
You had persuaded Alfred to eat with you all because Alfred was family, no doubt about it. Although it took a long time to convince him to eat with you, because of his constantly refusing. But you were not going to take no for an answer this time.
You saw Alfred getting up, so you stood up from your seat, hoping to return the favor.
"No, Missus Wayne, there is no need to perform such duties", Alfred assured you. But you didn't listen and continued to pick up the dishes and help clean the table.
The kids could not watch you and Alfred do it all by yourselves. "Alfred, where do you want these dishes?" Jason asked, seeing Alfred point in that direction. It became some kind of family bonding.
Dick and Jason washed and dried the dishes, Tim was mopping, Damian decided to help you clean the table, and Bruce even helped sweep around.
𐙚
Finally, it was just you, I mean, can you blame yourself, your kids had become a whole new level of weird and protective.
The wonderful movie of Cinderella, you have absolutely adored the movie ever since you were a little girl, hoping to become a princess. You sighed as your favorite part came into the scene. "Gosh, so beautiful", you breathed as Cinderella twirled around and forged a magnificent dress that you had only dreamed of wearing,
Nothing can ruin the moment; you can hardly take your eyes off the screen.
"Hello, ummie."
"Holy fuc-", you let a scream of terror, putting a hand on your chest to regulate your breathing. "Damian, what...what are you doing here?" you asked in between breaths, "We need to put a bell on you", you muttered, groaning slightly.
"I'm here to give you company", Damian flashed his teeth, sitting next to you on the couch.
"Oh, baby, I um...you don't have to do that", you assured Damian, hoping he would give you some much-needed alone time. You tried to go back to your movie, already missing some scenes, but the piercing gaze watched, calculating your every moment. You found it impossible to pay attention.
"Ummie, would you ever replace me?" Damian whispered. It hurt even more when he whipped his head around, closing his eyes, afraid of seeing your reaction.
You were speechless to think that one of your kids could ever think about getting replaced. You gently grasp Damian's chin, turning it towards you. You can see the pain in his eyes, the same eyes that tried to mask that pain with fierceness.
Why would you ever think that, baby?" you sobbed, holding his hand while trying to keep the tears at bay. But nothing could ever prepare you for this moment. You grasp his body, crushing him towards you, you want to bury him in your chest, to comfort him and you.
"Why do you love me?... I am the offspring of my father and my other mother", he muttered, the pain of hiding the secret longed to leave his body, but the fear of being true weighed more. He couldn't hold it anymore and let the tears fall, sobbing uncontrollably; it was finally the breaking point. The point where he tried to hide it so hard and be the warrior that was expected of Talia.
"Dami, I have loved you since I first met you, and nothing will change that." You tried to stop crying, but you couldn't because of the pain he felt, he has been living with and holding the burden of not feeling loved. You held more tightly, the movie left forgotten in the night.
Despite your legs and back pain, you carried Damian gently through the Manor, stopping by your boy's room, the feeling of pain and defeat, wondering do any of your kids feel this way as well.
You joined Damian in bed, not wanting to leave him after the heartache you went through. You couldn't let down your children, not again.
𐙚
In the morning, you walked towards Bruce with a mission; you were determined to talk to him no matter his busy schedule.
"Come in".
Bruce was on the side of the room next to your vanity, in front of him a long mirror showcasing his body, as he tied his tie. Bruce saw through the mirror your anger radiating through the room, the tie forgotten as he went to you.
"Bruce, we need to talk, now." Your voice reaches its peak of authority, demanding his attention.
Bruce grasped your hand, hoping to comfort you when you needed it. "Honey, what-", you sobbed out, interrupting him before pulling your hand away, hoping to hide your face from the shame and misery you had encountered yesterday.
Long, warm arms embrace your figure, drawing you away from the floor and onto the bed. Bruce rubbed your back up and down, hoping to ease your sobbing. "Honey, what happened?" One thing Bruce had learned after being married to you was that he had to be patient.
Patiency was key between you, too. He waited till your cries calmed down, only comforting you with physical touch, no words.
"Damian felt like he was replaceable", you broke out after gathering your emotions together.
You held Bruce's hand, clenching his hand as tightly as possible, waiting for his reaction. You could feel your tears running down your face, slowing, wiping them away before they could drop.
"I never knew he felt like that", Bruce spoke out in disbelief, his son had felt like that for god-knows how long. What kind of father was he?
You both sat silently, knowing the outcome of this situation. Although neither of you spoke, it was almost like a bond was going through you both. You both knew you had to spend more time with the children and understand them. No matter what, they had to be there as parents.
You felt your legs carry you to the bathroom, crouching down towards the toilet. Your face was stained with tears as you vomited, trying to surpass these feelings.
Bruce followed you before crouching with you as he held your hair out of your face. His face was etched with worry, hoping nothing serious was happening. You stopped vomiting, and the sound of the toilet being flushed made its way into the bathroom as you grabbed your toothbrush and started brushing.
Bruce looked under the cabinet, hoping to find something to help; his eyes suddenly landed on a pack of tests. Pregnancy tests.
Bruce took out the box, inspecting it, before looking at you. He couldn't help but wonder about the signs he had missed. The vomiting, for one, is emotional, and the cravings.
You could feel Bruce's stare from a mile away, fearing the box he had in his hand did not instigate those stares. "Baby, you don't think...do you?" You were hesitant, and all those whirlwinds of emotions were coming back.
Bruce took your hand, grasping it, assuring you. "Hey, just try okay. No harm, right?" Bruce whispered in your ear before taking your body close to him in an embrace, easing the tension.
You only nodded, the words failing to come out. You quickly grab a test before making a beeline for the bathroom. You were anxious, your hands were sweaty, and your nerves were building up as you anxiously waited for the timer to go off.
Bruce held you as much as you would allow him, trying not to show any doubt on his face in fearing disappointing you. The timer felt slow, a pace so small, 30 seconds left, but it felt like the longest 30 seconds of your existence.
Ding
Moment of truth, were you pregnant? As you flip over the test, the breath you were holding left upon seeing two lines. Positive.
"I am pregnant," you cried out, happy tears, sinking to the floor and feeling Bruce try to hold you up. The tears were running wild on your face, as you held the test to your heart.
Bruce could not believe he was going to be a father again. Bruce could not stop his tears from flowing as he smiled so happily, his mouth starting to hurt.
"Oh, baby, we have to tell everyone, you were gasping between breaths at the thought of everyone's reactions, especially Damian. Would this make him angrier? More unloved? If you told the news to everyone.
As much as you wanted to question your decision more, Bruce was already calling out to his kids for a family meeting.
Your arms were crossed to your chest as you whipped your head back and forth, annoyed that Bruce couldn't have at least waited 5 minutes. The only reaction he gave upon seeing the annoyed look was a scratch on his neck before dashing out of the room, like a child.
" A Child", you mumbled to yourself, hearing Bruce laugh from the hallway.
𐙚
All the kids sat in the living room, anxiously waiting for their father to call a family meeting. Which of the kids screw up, who would take the blame, and who would get grounded?
"Alright, Jason, you might as well confess", Dick accused Jason. He roughly shoved Jason's shoulder, knocking him off the couch.
In crazy hand gestures, "Why do I always get blamed?!!" Jason yelled out in anger, believing he was being targeted by his brothers again.
"What do you mean...you cause the most trouble?" Tim nodded his head at Jason, knowing it was a fact that Jason caused the most fights and stress for his parents.
"Well...Well, demon-spawn has been silent this whole time, who to say he did not cause this mess-", Jason pointed his finger at Damian, hoping to divert the attention away from him.
Damian barely acknowledges him, the silence weighing on the situation at hand. The boys were concerned to stay the least; it was unusual for Damian to be so quiet, but for him to show this rare emotion of sadness, it was strange...
Before the boys could ask any questions regarding Damian's state, their parents walked in.
"The fuck-", Dick spoke out, letting out an audible gasp at the sight. His father was...smiling. "Yeah, Dad, hate to break it to you, but you look really creepy with your smile, so please stop", Jason demanded, covering his face with his hand. It was a sight to see for sure.
The kids were all shocked to see their parents all smiley and happy.
"Could have sworn someone was going to get in trouble", Tim pointed out with his arm crossing over his chest.
Bruce put his hand out in front of him, silencing the kids.
"We have some news," you smiled, practically bouncing on your toes. You couldn't wait to see their reactions. You wanted all the kids to be comfortable with this change, especially Damian, after the conversation from last night. It was still replaying like a broken CD.
"I AM PREGNANT!!!"
You looked at the kids, seeing some mixed reactions. Jason's face was neutral; not a single emotion could be read on his face. Dick grinned joyfully at the news, clapping his hands excitedly. Tim smiled, but the look behind his eyes portrayed many emotions, including happiness. Damian was the last face you saw, not because he was the youngest or how he sat farther away from everyone else. No, you were petrified of the emotions displaced on his face.
Damian flashed a quick smile before rushing up from the couch, standing, racing towards you in a bone-crushing hug. You wrapped your arms tightly around your youngest, never wanting to leave this fleeting moment. The sight of Damian's tears running freely down his face stung your heart, letting out a quiet sob.
You felt many pairs of arms around you, and Damian, the arms of your kids and your husband, like a protective embrace, blocking out the evils that dare to impair you.
But the moment was quickly interrupted, "Ma, I... no, we have to tell you something." Jason nervously wiped his hand on his pants, hoping to get rid of the sweat that was building up.
Dick felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked around the room, and behind the wall was none of them...Alfred. Alfred looked him dead in the eye, signaling him to confess the secret. Dick looked back at you, pretending he didn't just see Alfred side-eye him.
"Mom, we-", Dick began, but quickly stopped looking for some help.
"Ummi-, Damian began to speak before...
"Mom, um, we've known for a long time now...," Tim finished telling the secret to his brother. Can't count on his brothers to spill the secret to their mother, so you have to do it yourself.
"What..how?!", you exclaimed loudly, tearing your arms out of Bruce's embrace. How could the kids have known before you? Is that why they've been acting differently?
Bruce struggled to comprehend the boy's secret. How could they have known before him? He is the best detective, and he couldn't even tell his wife was pregnant before his own kids.
"The fuck-", Bruce spoke out, finally having some kind of reaction, and then staring at his kids with all these mixed reactions. It was the first time you had seen Bruce portray so many emotions.
"Master Bruce, please mind your language," Alfred said, coming out from behind the walls like nothing had happened and continuing to dust the manor.
summary: What happens when they get a call that their beloved partner is out drunk?
warnings: mentions of vomiting and drinking, gn!reader (I think?) pet names, a lil angsty in Tim’s part, but overall just fluff and crack lol
a/n: Hellooo I hope everyone’s doing well<33 I’ve been kinda out of it mentally but I’m back!
Starring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne
Dick Grayson
The phone rung at about 3 am, waking Dick from his slumber.
He grunted as he rolled over to the side of his bed, reaching his arm out to grab the telephone.
“Hello?” Dick said groggily.
His mind snapped out of his sleepy state the minute he heard your voice.
And by the way you were slurring your words, you were definitely drunk.
“Ok baby just tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up.” He hastily said, already putting his coat and shoes on.
You struggled to get the name of the bar you were at. But when you finally did, Dick wasted no time and immediately drove over to your location.
He got out of the car and immediately spotted you, sitting on the curb and looking up at god knows what.
Dick slowly approached you, trying not to startle you.
You were in your own world, admiring the night sky up above in your intoxicated state.
“[name]? You okay?” He called out to you.
You looked over to him, smile widening immediately.
“Dick!” You squealed.
Of course, jumping from your position so suddenly was a bad idea, especially when you had just inhaled 4 rounds of vodka shots earlier.
You stumbled backward, your balance completely lost.
Dick quickly caught your wrist and pulled you toward him before you could hurt yourself.
“Careful there.” He flashed a grin at you.
“Hello boyfriend.” You giggled hazily as you burrowed your face into his neck.
He chuckled as one of his arms slipped beneath your knees to pick you up.
“What are you doing out so late baby?”
You groaned into his shoulder, sliding one arm behind his neck.
“M’friends left me alone.”
Dick scoffed at that, kissing the top of your head as he began walking off to his car.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
Dick’s touch was the only familiar thing to you right now. You couldn’t help yourself as you hummed against him and closed your eyes.
When he finally arrived to the car, Dick carefully opened the backseat door with his elbow.
“Cmon hon, we’re here.” He brushed a hair from your face before noticing you had already drifted off to sleep.
Dick smiled softly as he gently lowered you onto the car seats, your body already curling up the moment you touched the smooth leather.
He later drove you back to his apartment, making sure you were okay before tucking you into bed, your soft snores later blending into his as he held you while the both of you slept.
Oh, and he WILL take care of you during your hangover in the morning.
Jason Todd
When you called him suddenly in the middle of the night, drunk, he swears he felt his heart stop beating.
He was always prepared for the worst situation possible, and for some reason he was blaming himself already if anything had happened to you.
You were blabbering on about some random dude at the bar while Jason rushed out of his apartment, holding the phone by his ear tightly.
He quickly revved up his motorcycle and rushed over to the bar you were at, his mind clouded with worry as the cold Gotham wind blew against his skin.
Jason arrived at the location you mention you were at in a hurry, yanking his helmet away immediately.
The door bust wide open, making everyone’s heads bar turn towards the tall muscular man standing at the entrance. He ignored everyone’s stares and immediately marched over to you.
You were giggling hysterically at a joke a guy you met earlier told you when Jason tapped your shoulder and said your name.
As soon as you spotted your boyfriend, your smile grew impossibly wide and you got up to clumsily wrap your arms around his neck.
When he noticed you weren’t hurt or in any real danger, any tension from his shoulders released.
“It’s dangerous to be out so late, doll.” He said, hugging you tightly.
“Stop bossing me around, Jay.” You murmured.
He scoffed and threw you over his shoulder as you yelped at the sudden action.
Jason shot one last dirty look at the man you were talking to before walking out the door.
His boots clanked as he strut to his bike, setting you down on the seat swiftly.
“You’re gonna have to hold on tight yeah?” He said, handing you a helmet.
“Hm.” You huffed.
Jason made sure you were okay before also stepping onto the motorcycle and turning it on.
You fingers clutched at his jacket before he drove off into the night.
He wakes up in the morning with you clinging onto him like a koala, then has to hold your hair up while you throw up the alcohol from the earlier night.
Tim Drake:
Tim was hunched over at the batcomputer, typing away for a case he was working on for weeks when he finally looked at the clock.
He immediately woke up from his sleepy state, remembering you were supposed to be here ages ago. It was now 3:16 am, way too late for you to still be out.
Tim immediately checked his phone, seeing a couple missed calls from you.
He cursed under his breath, trying to call you back yet getting no response.
Thankfully, he never went anywhere without knowing your location, even if you might not know that he had it yourself.
Tim hastily pulled your location out and made his way to you, scurrying over with one of the cars from the manor.
You were supposed to be at some frat party your friend had invited you to, and knowing you, you probably had one too many drinks.
He slammed the car door shut, immediately walking into the house whose front door was unlocked. In Gotham??
The loud music baring from the stereos and the colourful lights hit him like a bullet to his head, covering his ears and making his only mission finding you.
He searched high and low, upstairs, downstairs, in the basement, before he heard your voice shouting from the kitchen.
You were crawling on the marble countertop, drinking up a couple shots effortlessly.
His eyes widened as he pushed through a crowd of people to get to you, gaze locked on your form the whole time.
“Baby?” He brushed his hand against your arm.
You looked over to see his your boyfriend, your face displaying a shocked expression.
That shocked expression soon turned into an annoyed one.
You slowly got down from the countertop, tripping over to him.
“What’r you doing here Tim?” You slurred.
His brows furrowed, “What do you mean? You called me?”
You groaned, because of him or the alcohol, you don’t know.
“You were supposed to be here 2 hours ago! You promised you’d pick me up! But I guess your stupid work is more important than me.” Your body stumbled backwards before you clutched onto the countertop.
His face changed into something completely different, a guilty look in his eyes.
“Fuck. I forgot about that. Sorry.”
You rolled your eyes, walking away from him and back to the discarded shots.
“Doesn’t matter, I have a new boyfriend now!” You laughed giddily.
Hu huffed, “What?!”
You gestured to the half empty vodka bottle you were holding, fingers already reaching over to pour some in a glass. His brows furrowed.
He swore you lost your mind when you started talking to the bottle.
“-Isn’t that right? You’d never leave me like Tim.” You cooed at the glass bottle, clutching it against your chest like a madwoman.
“Alright. That’s it.” Tim spoke up, prying the bottle away from your hands and picking you up over his shoulder.
“Hey! Put me down!” You yelled.
He ignored your demand, fighting through the crowd of people in an attempt to get through the front door.
When he finally made it, you were slumped over his shoulder, body finally giving in to your tiredness.
He brought his car keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door and placing you into the passenger seat.
“You’re mean.” You murmured.
“I love you too.” He smiled, before driving back to the manor.
Tim tucked you into bed and before he could think about leaving to go deprive himself of more sleep, you pulled at his wrist harshly and he fell into the white sheets next to you.
“You owe me an apology tomorrow. And breakfast.” You whispered drunkenly against his raven hair.
He gave into your touch, arms engulfing your body.
“Whatever you say, baby.”
Bruce Wayne
Bruce had finally made it home from patrol, ready to fall asleep in his bed.
Though when he saw your contact ringing on his phone, he immediately snapped out of his tired trance.
It was one of your colleagues who called him, saying that you might have had a little bit too much to drink at the company gala tonight.
Bruce wasted no time before getting dressed, heading out of the manor doors.
He declined Alfred’s offer to drive him and immediately got into his car, speeding off in a second.
Bruce pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later. Hastily getting out of the vehicle, he straightened his posture and headed into the tall fancy building.
He immediately spotted you, loud warm laugh vibrating against the walls of the ballroom. You slammed a hand down onto your table, making it shake a little.
Your trusted colleague, on the other hand, made all efforts to try to keep you from knocking over anything and also to keep you from drinking any more champagne.
She let out the biggest exhale ever when she saw Bruce standing in the middle of the room, helping you get up immediately and leading you toward him.
“Please take her home.”
She gave you a small smile before letting you stumble forward to his chest.
You looked up, eyes widening in shock as he slid a hand around your waist.
“What’s wrong honey, had a little too much to drink?” He smiled.
“Huh-wha? Honey?” You blushed.
“Hm?” He chuckled in confusion.
“Who… who are you?” You tilted your head as you slurred your words.
“Your husband.” He gave you an honest look.
Your eyes widened even wider when the word “husband” left his mouth.
You gasped softly, “I have… a husband?”
Bruce laughed as he took your hand into his, bringing it up to your face.
“See?” He gestured to your wedding ring.
“Oh my god.” You ogled the shiny piece of metal.
You looked back at him, scanning his face intently.
“If you’re my husband, what’s your name?”
His hand brought yours up to place a small kiss upon your knuckles, grinning at your question.
“It’s Bruce, darling. You really don’t remember me?”
You shook your head, oblivious as ever.
He sighed, leading you out the building slowly.
When you got to his car. You stopped him before he could usher you into the backseat.
“Bruce?” You whispered.
“Yes?” He curiously said.
“Can I give you a kiss?” You pleaded with your eyes.
He laughed softly as he lowered his head to make it easier for you to access his lips.
You laughed giddily as you placed a small peck on his cheek, then immediately crawled into the backseat.
“I think I like having a husband.” You muttered to yourself, loud enough for Bruce to hear it.
He will definitely make fun of you for this in the morning.
Tysm for reading! Reblogs & comments are appreciated <3
you're aaron's controversially young girlfriend who's getting her masters full time, living on campus, and working as a ta for your different professors. you went on to get your masters immediately after undergrad. you met aaron at a psych conference your advisor sent you to the summer before your masters program started to get situated and get some networking in. aaron was there supporting rossi's talk on the work the bau has done. you guys actually met at the hotel bar after the first night, when YOU struck up a conversation with HIM (bc you HAD to talk to a hot guy). anyways...
its been a year since you guys have started dating and you've gotten used to his schedule. his work taking him away for days on end. him hoarding you for himself after coming back because he missed you so much. but given he's away so often, he has you share your location with him so he can quickly check on you for his own peace of mind. you need his location, of course, because he's the one in random places and so if anyone needs to be tracked, its him. (but honestly you just wanted to add another sim (person) to your ever growing list of sims (family and friends) whose location you have hehe)
because of this, you've fallen victim to his random texts "just to check in" that you initially thought were innocent but later learned that it only happened when you were out late.
any time you weren't home and it was nearing midnight, you'd get a text from him that were along the lines of: "Miss you sweetheart :( <3"
which you would have to respond to immediately (duh) with an "ugh I miss you too baby </3 </3 </3" and because you have an inexplicable need to share EVERYTHING with him, you tell him your plans for the night. unsolicited. every. single. time.
and given that hes sneaky and conniving, he'd tell you, "Okay sweetheart. Have fun. Be safe. Call me when you get home. I want to hear your voice before I go to bed."
and being the amazing girlfriend that you are and that you don't want him to stay up waiting for you after your night out, you make your way home not too long after. only to get home and keep him on the phone for hours before either of you fall asleep.
now weeks into the semester, you feel as though you haven't had a real girls night out in forever. so for halloweekend, you host the pregame at your apt mentioning that you really need to be out with your girls this weekend as its been ages. and your best friend laughs cracking a joke, "yeah until grampa hotchner needs you to come home and tell him a bedtime story" you laugh at first because its just a silly joke. then you start recounting in your head all the previous nights out and you try to remember the last time you went out with your girls and didn't come home early to say goodnight to aaron. your smile falls revealing a horrified look instead because it turns out you've gone home early every week this semester. your bestie notices the change and tries to apologize for the joke but you don't let her because theres only one person in trouble. mr. aaron hotchner.
you catch on to his little game. he has been checking your location and then sending you his "just checking in" texts, because on a normal night at home, he'll just call you to say goodnight! now knowing his evil play, you know just how to get around his plan. like clockwork, you get his "Miss you" text around midnight when you and your girls are at your local college bar for their halloween theme night. you're not a monster so you of course respond (after making him wait like five minutes) but instead of the usual "i miss you too", you send him a video of you and your girls singing and dancing along to the music with a "halloweekend w the gals! i'll call u tmrw xoxo" and then mute his texts. (ahh honestly diabolical on your part. but you're determined to stay strong.)
you were able to a have successful night of bar hopping with everyone heading back to your bestie's apt for some pizza and a debrief sesh of the night. by the time it was 5am, everyone else had either headed home or crashed on a couch.
with the silence and the first light of dawn, a guilty feeling creeps over you. you never ended up saying goodnight to aaron. you finally open your messages with him to see that he hearted your video, responded with "Okay baby. Stay safe and text me when you're home!" and then an hour later (when, you assume, he went to bed) he sent, "Goodnight sweetheart! <3"
in utter anguish, you're unable to fall asleep. you text him, "is it too late to say goodnight???? </3" you're delirious from the combination of no sleep, leftover drunkedness, and your overwhelming love for aaron, you leave him a voice note rambling on about how you wised up to his scheme to get you to come home early on every night out and how you not responding him tonight was supposed to be a form of punishment for him but what ended up happening instead was now you're in a state of utter distress because you didn't get to say goodnight to the love of your life and how its excruciating for you to miss him when you should be fast asleep.
after watching videos of you and aaron that you have on your camera roll like its a montage of your relationship, you do eventually fall asleep. the next morning, you wake up to your friend's work alarm going off. with plans to link up again tonight for a house party, your friend starts to get ready for work while you head home.
you walk into your apartment, grateful that you had already taken your makeup off and changed into your friend's pjs, you throw your stuff onto a table and head straight to your bed. opening the door to your bedroom, you're surprised to find an aaron already asleep in your bed. climbing in under the sheets, you sneak your arms and legs around him as he shifts and adjusts to pull you into him. he mumbles a soft "Good morning" against you.
you tuck your head under his chin and ask, "when did you get in?" "Just after I got your little voice note," he grumbles. and then before you could respond he says, "And it's not a scheme because I never told you to head home early. I would've picked up your call, even at 3am." he waits a minute before adding softly, "Was disappointed to not find you at home. I wanted to fall asleep with you."
you squeeze him tighter and whine into his chest. "you really are an evil evil man. i'm mad at you and here i am, feeling bad for being mad at you." he gives you kiss against your temple and softly lulls you to sleep with a, "Be mad later. Go to sleep now."
aaron who has been in high paying jobs for a long time falling in love with someone who’s never had real money. aaron not realising what it is about his paying for everything that makes you so squirmy. dinner, movies, dates to fancy places, vacations, he just sees it all as the gentlemanly thing to do, and once’s he enamoured with you, like, in love with you—second date, tipsy, kissing his cheek telling him he smells nice as he tries to get you home in one piece—it’s his desire to pay for everything regardless. he doesn’t even like seeing your purse on the table, it gives him the heebies.
aaron who asks you to move in without any real hesitation at the eight month mark. knows it’s early for some, feels late for you, god, what would he have given somewhere in that three months dating period to get to keep you every day? when he was laying awake at night thinking of excuses to text you, call you, and invite you over. he would’ve asked you then if he hadn’t known it was taboo. so eight months was him trying his very hardest to be good.
aaron who stares at you in confusion when you ask him, a little nervously across the dinner table, how much your half of the rent would be. and then aaron who leans over to kiss you square on the tip of the nose before he stands without answering, because what can he even really say? he rounds the table to lean down for a hug, squeezes you so tightly you groan as he murmurs, honey, why would i ever make you pay rent when im already doing it alone? sharing rent is perfectly fine when its a necessity, but aaron genuinely doesn’t need your help.
the ensuing disagreements on fairness and trust, on not wanting to be made homeless on short notice if you break up, and the follow up conversation a week later where he’s put your name on the mortgage and handed you a little business card for one of JJ’s lawyer friends in case you actually worry you’ll need it. then your sniffly giggles as you ask him if you can repaint the bedroom, and his elation at getting to keep you. your little flush of delight when he gives you his credit card and tells you to go get whatever you want. you see it as a generosity, and he sees it like this: when a woman takes half of your heart for herself, and holds it in two soft hands, when she looks at you like you’re everything and trusts you to take care of her, money is inconsequential. (and he likes it when you let him treat you, but that’s an adjacent topic.)
so you get to learn what it’s like to be taken care of in a very specific way. a very American way, maybe, that almost nuclear arrangement, except aaron doesn’t make you stay at home if it’s not what you want, and you aren’t expected to do the majority of the chores, or handle the mental load, or cook dinner every night. you’re an equal, just a spoiled one. you’re genuinely and wholeheartedly a treasure to him. it’s why he does it all, chivalry yes, but devotion. he just loves you in a way that means he feels like looking after you is the least he can do, because you love him so well. if he had nothing, he’d still want to give you everything, because if he had nothing you’d still love him to death.
summary
the case took them to Hawaii. Hawaii meant Five-O. Five-O meant Steve McGarrett. and Aaron Hotchner, who profiled people for a living, watched the hug happen from across the tarmac and said absolutely nothing.
prompt – criminal minds x hawaii five-o crossover, steve mcgarrett ex, aaron spiralling, morgan notices both sides, part one
warnings – jealousy, angst, aaron shutting down
word count – ~3k
note – idea came to my mind after binge watching Hawaii five o on my flight
requests are open :)
⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆
The case had come in on a Tuesday.
Three victims, all federal employees, all found within a ten mile radius of Honolulu over two weeks. The geographic profile pointed to someone with specific local knowledge, the victimology suggested a target type, and the Governor of Hawaii had personally requested FBI involvement.
Which was how the BAU found itself on a plane to Honolulu on a Wednesday morning.
She'd known from the moment Hotch said Hawaii Five-O will be our liaison team that this was going to be complicated in more than one way.
She hadn't said anything on the plane.
The tarmac at Honolulu was warm — the specific warmth of somewhere that was always warm, hitting you off a flight from Quantico like a physical thing.
The Five-O team was waiting.
She saw him before he saw her.
Steve McGarrett was standing thirty feet away looking exactly like himself — which was to say, like someone who had never once in his life questioned whether he belonged in the room he was standing in. Three years hadn't changed that. If anything it had settled deeper.
Then he turned.
The recognition arrived on his face immediately. The smile — easy, genuine, the one she remembered.
"Hey." He was already crossing toward her. "Look at you. FBI."
"Look at you," she said. "Still running Hawaii."
He laughed. And then he hugged her — both arms, brief, warm, the hug of two people who had cared about each other and parted without damage and were genuinely glad to see each other on the other side of it.
She hugged him back.
Five seconds. Maybe less.
"It's good to see you, Steve," she said, stepping back.
"You too." He meant it. "Really good."
Aaron had watched the whole thing from twelve feet away.
He didn't look away. He also didn't let anything happen in his expression, which cost him slightly more than usual.
"Unit Chief Hotchner." Danny Williams appeared at his elbow. "Danny Williams. Welcome to Hawaii."
"Agent Williams." Aaron shook his hand. "Thank you for having us."
"That's McGarrett," Danny said, following Aaron's eyeline. "Commander Steve McGarrett. Former Navy SEAL. He runs the task force. Fair warning — he doesn't always go strictly by the book. But he gets results and he's the best person to have in your corner when things go sideways."
"Good to know," Aaron said.
She found a moment on the way to the vehicles.
"Aaron." She fell into step beside him, voice low. "Steve and I dated. Three years ago. It ended because of the distance — we parted well. We're friends." She paused. "I wanted you to know before someone else said something."
"I appreciate you telling me," Aaron said.
She looked at him. "That's it?"
"What would you like me to say?"
"I don't know. Something. Anything that sounds like you and not like the unit chief."
He glanced at her. "We should catch up with the team."
She watched him walk ahead.
The Five-O headquarters was loud and open in a way the BAU never was — files across the table before they'd fully arrived, Steve already walking them through the victimology with the kind of direct efficiency that said he'd been thinking about this for days.
Aaron stood across the table. Watched him present. Watched the way he moved through information — confident, physical, the specific authority of someone built for this in a completely different way than Aaron was built for his version of it.
She was beside Steve, asking questions, and Steve answered her directly, the easy back-and-forth of people who already knew each other's patterns.
Aaron looked at his file.
Read the same page twice.
Morgan found him at the evidence board at the end of the first day.
"You good?" Morgan said.
"Fine," Aaron said. Not looking up.
Morgan stood there for a moment. Aaron could feel him doing the thing — the reading, the assessing, the Morgan-specific brand of paying attention that was harder to deflect than most people's.
"McGarrett seems solid," Morgan said. Conversational. "Good instincts on the victimology."
"He does," Aaron said. Even.
"Known her long apparently." Morgan paused. "From before."
Aaron looked up from the file. Held Morgan's gaze for a moment.
"We should go through the geographic profile before tomorrow," Aaron said.
Morgan looked at him for one more second.
"Yeah," he said. "Sure."
Morgan found her outside the building an hour later.
She was on the phone — wrapping it up, the quick goodbye of someone finishing a call — and when she saw him she tucked the phone away and waited, because Morgan with that expression meant something was coming.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"You're going to anyway."
"McGarrett." He said it simply. "You and him."
She looked at him. "We dated. Three years ago. It ended well."
"Yeah." Morgan nodded slowly. "And Hotch knows that."
"I told him on the tarmac."
"What did he say?"
She was quiet for a moment. "He said he appreciated me telling him."
Morgan looked at her.
"That's it?" he said.
"That's it."
Morgan exhaled slowly. Looked at the building behind her. Back at her.
"Okay," he said. "I'm gonna say something and I need you to actually hear it." He paused. "Hotch has been somewhere else since we landed. Like — present, doing the job, all of that. But somewhere else underneath it. You know what I mean."
She felt something shift in her chest.
"He watched the hug," Morgan said. Quietly. "On the tarmac. I saw him watching it. And I know Hotch, and I know what his face does when he's processing something he's not gonna say out loud." He looked at her. "He's in his head about this. Properly."
She said nothing for a moment.
"He didn't say anything," she said. Finally.
"No," Morgan said. "He wouldn't."
She looked at the building. Through the window she could see Steve at the table, laughing at something Danny had said, completely comfortable. And somewhere inside — Aaron, at an evidence board, reading the same page he'd read three times already.
"It's not what he thinks," she said.
"I know that," Morgan said. "You know that." A pause. "He doesn't know that. Not yet. Not the way he needs to."
She looked at Morgan.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Morgan said simply, "someone told him once. When he was the one pulling away. And it helped." He held her gaze. "So."
She understood what he wasn't saying.
"Okay," she said quietly.
By the third day she'd watched it happen in real time.
Steve had said something during the briefing — quiet, just for her, something about one of the victim's workplaces matching a pattern they'd discussed the previous day — and she'd laughed because it was funny, the quick genuine kind that happened before you decided whether to.
Across the room Aaron had looked at his file.
She'd clocked it immediately now that she knew what to look for — the specific stillness of him, the controlled quality, the careful professional version that was present and doing everything right and not quite there underneath it all.
The same thing she'd done in New York.
She hadn't understood it then, from the inside. She understood it now, watching it happen to someone else. The arithmetic of it — the specific way insecurity could take something that was nothing and build it into something enormous without anyone saying a word.
She waited until that evening.
She knocked on his hotel room door at ten pm.
He opened it. She looked at him — at the controlled expression, the professional distance, the version of Aaron that gave nothing away and in doing so gave everything away to anyone who knew how to look.
She knew how to look.
"You're doing it," she said.
"Doing what."
"The shutting down thing. The being completely professional and measured and not quite here thing."
"I'm here," he said.
"Aaron." She held his gaze. "I can see you. I've been watching you read the same page of the same file since yesterday."
Something moved across his face.
"It's late," he said.
"I know it's late."
"We have an early—"
"Aaron." Softer. "Please."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he stepped back from the door.
She came in.
She sat on the edge of the chair. He stayed standing — the specific restlessness of someone who hadn't decided yet how much of this they were going to say out loud.
"I know what you're thinking," she said.
"You don't—"
"I do." She held his gaze. "Because I did the same thing. In New York. With Kate." She paused. "I watched you with her for four days and I built an entire story in my head about what it meant and I started moving my things out before I'd said a single word to you about any of it."
He was very still.
"This is the same thing," she said. "From the other side."
He looked at the window. The jaw moved.
"He's—" he started. Stopped.
"I know what he is," she said quietly. "I know what you're comparing yourself to. I can see it." She looked at him. "And I need you to hear me when I tell you that there is no comparison. Because I'm not with him. I'm with you. And I'm with you specifically. Not as a consolation. Not because the distance got too hard. Because I want to be."
He looked at her.
The controlled expression was doing something it didn't usually do — something shifting underneath it, the walls not quite holding the way they normally held.
"Part two," she said. "We're going to talk about this properly. Tonight. Right now." She held out her hand. "But first you're going to sit down."
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Omega!Reader
Summary: You come into work in the middle of a flare and discover Hotch has been paying much closer attention to you than you thought.
Tags: chronically ill!reader, omega!reader, depictions of fibromyalgia, depictions of chronic pain, pain flare, hypersensitivity, hurt/comfort, quiet care, soft alpha!hotch, aaron hotchner being observant, no established relationship yet, workplace setting, subtle courting, nesting gift, reader comfort, fluff, a little bit of angst
Word Count: 3.2k words
The overhead lights buzz faintly as you slip into the bullpen, the air still holding the brittle chill of early morning. Your limbs are slow today, reluctant, the heaviness in your joints and muscles deeper than mere fatigue. Fibro flare, definitely. The ache wraps around your shoulders, coils through your lower back, seeps into your thighs with each step. It feels like walking through wet cement. Your skin is hypersensitive; even your coat felt like sandpaper on the ride in. And now the chill of the office seeps straight into your bones, setting your nerves aflame. There's no hiding from it. Not in the early hours. Not when the building's heating hasn't quite kicked in.
You pause just inside the door, letting yourself breathe in the quiet. You're grateful for the silence—no agents yet, no clatter of phones or barked orders. Just you and the weight of your body and the low hum of fluorescent electricity, the kind of quiet that lets your mind drift while your nervous system wages its usual, invisible war. Even the lights feel too bright, your head beginning to throb behind your eyes, a pulsing reminder that everything hurts today, even sound. You rub absently at your temple, fingertips slow and cautious. The pain isn't sharp—it's pervasive, a humming discomfort that refuses to be ignored.
Your desk waits in its usual state of organized chaos: neatly stacked folders, color-coded tabs, a coffee-stained mug with a fading FBI logo, and your favorite pen tucked beside the keyboard. Familiar. Steady. A fragile semblance of normalcy you cling to more tightly on mornings like this, when your nerves feel like live wires under your skin, every inch of your body aching from the simple act of existing. Your chair creaks as you lower yourself into it slowly, hips protesting, knees stiff, and you pause to breathe through the discomfort. Deep inhale. Shallow exhale. Every small motion is a calculation: how much will this hurt? Will it set something else off?
But today, there's something new. A box.
Small. Plain. Brown cardboard, unmarked by stamps or shipping labels. No return address, but your name is written across the top in clean block letters. Not typed. Handwritten. Ink slightly smudged in the top corner like someone brushed a thumb over it while setting it down. Your gaze lingers on that mark longer than it should, the intimacy of it nudging against something warm and wary in your chest. You frown slightly, confusion flaring in your belly. No one mentioned a delivery. And this wasn't here yesterday.
You glance around the bullpen.
Empty.
The soft hum of the vending machines echoes faintly from the hallway. The coffee pot in the breakroom gurgles distantly, somewhere behind the closed door. You listen for the telltale ding of the elevator or the rustle of footsteps, but nothing comes. Just you, the quiet, and this unfamiliar weight beside your keyboard. You shift in your seat, wincing as the ache in your lower back flares sharp, then settles into a dull throb. Every part of your body is stiff, heavy.
Your eyes flicker toward the breakroom doorway, the elevator bank, the closed blinds of Hotch's office.
No one.
Your heart taps a quiet rhythm in your chest, faster now. A gentle thrum, like your body knows something your brain hasn't yet caught up to. Cautious, curious, you ease into your chair and tug the box toward you. Even the motion hurts—your shoulder flares sharply as you reach, the pull of inflamed tendons sharp enough to make your breath catch. The cardboard yields easily to your fingers. No tape, just tucked flaps. Like it was meant to be opened without resistance.
Inside: a blanket . Deep forest green, rich and soft, the kind of texture your body instinctively yearns for, folded with a care that feels... intentional. Not store-folded. Tucked. Like someone made sure the corners aligned before placing it in the box, like someone thought about the shape it would take in your hands. It's thick. Nesting-grade, your brain supplies helpfully, unhelpfully. The kind that holds scent. The kind you buy when you're building something. A space. A haven. Safety.
You reach in, fingers brushing the fabric. Your joints creak in protest, fingers stiff and slow. But the texture—God, the texture. Your nerve endings calm under your touch for the first time all morning. You shudder, half from the chill still lingering in your limbs, half from the unexpected warmth that flickers through your chest. You bring the fabric into your lap, running it through your hands again and again, letting the weight of it settle against your thighs, grounding you.
There's more beneath the blanket.
A small glass jar, the label handwritten: Honey-Lavender Muscle Balm. Your fingertips tremble a little as you lift it. The weight of the jar is nothing, but it feels like lifting a brick. Your wrists have been tender all week—crushed by inflammation, every movement a tightrope walk between functionality and flare. You unscrew the lid, inhale the scent. Sweet, herbal, medicinal. Comforting. Calming. Your breath slows as you hold it close. You imagine strong hands mixing it. Choosing it. Wrapping it just for you.
The kind of thing you rub into burning calves, aching shoulders, joints that feel like splintered glass. The kind of thing someone might gift if they knew your pain didn't fade with rest. If they noticed how you walked slower on rainy mornings. If they understood that you sometimes spend ten minutes debating whether sitting or standing will hurt less. If they remembered the days you left early, not for weakness, but for survival. If they cared.
And then there's the note.
A single square of thick stationery, torn from a larger sheet. No logo. No official letterhead. Just a clean hand, practiced, deliberate.
Thought this might help on cold mornings. – AH
You don't realize you've stopped breathing until your lungs burn for it. You read the note again. And again. Your fingers flutter at the edges like you're afraid it will vanish.
AH.
Not Hotch. Not SSA Aaron Hotchner. Just... AH.
Your Alpha boss.
Your Alpha boss just left you a nesting gift.
There's no mistaking it. Subtle, yes. Deniable, maybe, if he ever needed to distance himself in a room full of HR forms and bureaucratic scrutiny. But your body knows. Your instincts know. That blanket wasn't chosen for utility. That balm wasn't a generic afterthought. It was a message disguised as a kindness. An offering. A gesture of intent.
You pick up the throw again, thumb grazing its hem. Your vision blurs for half a second. This isn't just a gift. This is a gesture. A statement. And it's not loud or presumptuous—it's deliberate and deeply personal. It's the kind of message omegas like you are taught to read between the lines. Because it's not about flowers or chocolates. It's about noticing. Anticipating. Providing. Caring. And the care is evident. In the fabric's softness. In the balm's specific scent. In the simple, thoughtful words on the note.
The note is still in your hand as you pull the blanket free, unfolding it slowly. Your breath catches. The scent is faint, like it was only held for a minute or two. Barely there, just enough to register. But it's him. You'd know it anywhere. Controlled. Clean. A little like cedar and rain on pavement. All tightly reined-in dominance, wrapped in layers of command and reserve. Power tempered by patience. It fills your nose, floods your senses, and for a moment it is the only thing anchoring you to this room.
Hotch.
You press the fabric to your face before you can stop yourself, breath hitching. The scent floods your senses, quiet and warm. Your eyes flutter shut. Relief spills down your spine like heat, easing the stiffness there. Your hands curl into the fabric. You scent again, deeper this time. It's instinct. Unconscious. Your body knows what it's been given. Your inner omega hums, pleased. Comforted. Recognized.
Your Alpha boss left you a nesting gift.
A sound escapes you—barely a whisper, more exhale than word. You don't recognize it. It just slips free. The ache in your joints doesn't vanish, but it softens. Eases around the edges. Like your nervous system has been given permission to unclench. You can still feel the deep, gnawing throb in your knees, the pinched tension in your lower back, but for the first time this morning, the pain isn't the only thing you feel. There's softness. Support. Presence. And for once, you let it be enough.
You should fold the throw. Hide it. Pretend. But your fingertips won't let go. Your eyes sting, throat thick with something soft and dangerous. Your muscles slacken into the chair for the first time all morning. The pain is still there, but it isn't alone. And that... that means something.
Your mind races with questions. When did he leave it? How did he know you'd be in early? Was he watching for a day when he knew you'd be struggling more? Did he choose that balm because he's seen you pressing your fingers into your temples or curling an arm around your side like you're holding yourself together? Has he been listening when you thought no one was? Watching when you thought you were invisible?
But deep down, you know the answer. You've felt his gaze linger too long when you rubbed at your shoulder. You've caught the subtle tightening of his jaw when someone brought you reports instead of letting you rest. You've watched him notice. And remember. You've seen the slight narrowing of his eyes when you winced standing from your chair. You've heard the way his voice softened when he said your name on hard days. You've read it in the silence he leaves you when others press too hard. You've felt it in the way he waits.
You whisper into the throw, barely audible, like the fabric itself deserves the truth: "What are you doing, Hotch?"
But you already know.
Somewhere deep in your chest, where instinct curls around longing and omega need, you know. And it terrifies you.
You're still at your desk when he walks in—twenty minutes later, maybe a little more. You don't look up right away. You can't. Your hands are too busy pretending to type something coherent, eyes fixed on the monitor though the screen has blurred into meaningless icons. The throw is draped over your lap like it belongs there, a small comfort you haven't been able to relinquish. You've shifted it once or twice, tried to fold it over the back of your chair, but every time you move it, your body protests. The chill in your bones, the ache behind your eyes, the quiet fatigue that hums like static through your muscles—they all ease when it rests across your legs. You gave up the performance of neutrality ten minutes ago, and now you sit still and stiff, trying to regulate your breathing, to quiet the way your body has keyed itself into alertness.
Still, when you hear the elevator doors whisper open, your pulse spikes like you've done something wrong. Your fingers freeze above the keyboard, not quite typing, not quite fidgeting. The sound of those doors opening shouldn't make your heart stutter—but it does. Because even before you hear the footsteps, you know.
Footsteps. Measured. Steady. Unmistakable.
Hotch.
You feel him before you see him, that weight of presence he carries like a second skin. You don't have to look to know it's him. There's something about the rhythm of his steps, the deliberate grace, the aura of focus that makes your whole body tighten and relax at once. Your fingers twitch over the keyboard, hovering above the rows of letters like they might anchor you. They don't.
He doesn't speak. Not at first. Just walks into the bullpen with the same unreadable expression he always wears, eyes taking in everything, giving away nothing. He scans the room in a slow, efficient sweep—habit, instinct, control. But then—
He glances at you.
Just once.
Eyes flick to the throw across your lap, then back to your face. You think you see something there, brief and flickering: approval, satisfaction, maybe relief. Maybe something warmer. Something dangerous. It vanishes before you can be sure, but your breath catches anyway. Your fingers press more tightly into the keys, as if pretending to work could somehow mask the fact that your entire body has gone still beneath his gaze.
He doesn't break stride. Instead, he places a paper cup beside your keyboard with precise, practiced care.
You pick it up before your fingers can hesitate. The scent hits you first: not just coffee, but the exact combination you always make when you're alone. The one with two sugars and that particular creamer that no one else seems to touch. He remembered. He noticed. Somehow.
Your chest feels too tight.
He speaks, voice low, a murmur meant only for you. Like it would vanish if spoken too loudly.
"Let me know if the balm helps."
Then he walks away.
Just like that. Into his office. No further comment, no glance back, no hesitation in his stride. Like he didn't just shift the entire axis of your world with a handful of words and the press of his presence. Like he didn't just wrap care in something so subtle, it almost passed for professional courtesy—if not for the way it makes your breath hitch.
You stare at the door after it closes behind him. At the way it latches with a soft, decisive click. Your fingers tighten around the cup, the heat of it grounding you, anchoring you to a reality that suddenly feels unsteady. The warmth bleeds into your palms, a contrast to the stiffness that's settled into your joints since you arrived. Your knuckles ache less with the heat, or maybe with the shock.
Because that—what just happened—wasn't nothing.
It was quiet and calculated, the way only someone like Aaron Hotchner could manage. The way an alpha with a reputation to maintain, with rules to follow and chains of command to honor, could edge toward something without ever stepping over the line. It was an offer. A warning. A promise. The kind of gesture that doesn't demand reciprocation but suggests it. The kind that waits. Watches. The kind that lingers long after the man has gone.
You blink rapidly, the screen in front of you blurring again, not from pain this time, but from the cascade of emotions you don't know how to name. Vulnerability. Yearning. Something softer than shock, deeper than surprise. It unfurls slowly, deliberately, curling inside your chest like a second heartbeat.
Your brain buzzes with all the things it's supposed to remember:
Agency policy. Omega protection clauses. Chain of command violations. Reassignment protocols. Power dynamics. HR documentation. The rules. The warnings. The consequences. All the red tape you've memorized as a shield, a justification, a defense. A whole maze of professional standards built to prevent this—whatever this is—from ever becoming anything.
You should report it.
But you don't.
Instead, you glance around—still alone in the bullpen—and slowly, carefully, open your drawer. You slide the balm inside, tucking it beside the emergency painkillers you try not to use too often. You fold the note twice, then slip it under your keyboard, right where your fingers rest when you type. Somewhere you'll touch it a dozen times a day without anyone noticing. You tell yourself it's not hiding. Just safekeeping. Just... yours. Yours in the way quiet comfort can be. Yours in the way it was offered—with no demand.
The throw stays where it is.
You sip the coffee. It's perfect. Smooth, sweet, and warm enough to start soothing the edges of the morning. You close your eyes for a moment as it slips down your throat, the heat unfurling through your chest like a balm of its own. You imagine, just for a second, that he timed it—knew you'd need it. That somehow, he sensed the exact hour when everything in your body would be screaming, and made sure you'd have this little reprieve.
And when he walks past an hour later, saying nothing, only brushing close enough for the scent of cedar and rain-soaked earth to curl into your lungs—you breathe it in. You let it settle. You let it linger. It grounds you in a way pain never could. You don't even need to look up. You just know it's him. Know that he passed a fraction closer than necessary. Know that he's saying something without words.
And you hold it there.
Because the rules don't matter right now. Not when your Alpha is laying claim in the gentlest, most deliberate way you've ever known. Not when he's been building this foundation quietly for weeks—maybe months—and you're only just now seeing the shape of it. Looking back, the signs were everywhere. The extra time he gave you to complete tasks when your flare-ups were bad. The careful phrasing he used to check on your pain without drawing attention. The way his gaze lingered on your hands when you massaged your own wrists. The way his tone softened when your shoulders sagged. The way he never questioned when you needed to step away, only nodded and made sure your inbox didn't pile up in your absence.
It was all a slow build. Intentional. Deliberate.
Not when it feels like inevitability.
You lean back in your chair, the throw soft against your thighs, the balm safe in your drawer, the note a secret under your fingertips. You run your fingers over the blanket slowly, like it might speak to you. And maybe it does. Maybe it already has.
There's a tenderness blooming in your chest, thick and heavy and fragile. It's the kind of thing you're scared to name. The kind of thing that takes root when someone sees you. Really sees you. Pain and all. Limitations and all. And instead of turning away—they offer comfort. They offer quiet understanding. They offer themselves. You've been alone in your body for so long, bracing silently against pain that never really leaves. And then he noticed. Noticed and didn't flinch. Noticed and offered something warm. Something steady. Something you didn't have to ask for.
And you wait.
Not out of obligation. Not out of fear. But out of something else—something softer. Something that feels like anticipation. Like the first quiet moments before a bond begins to thread itself into place.
Because now you know: he's already started. You can feel it in your marrow. In the warmth of the coffee. In the softness of the blanket. In the silence behind his office door that buzzes with unspoken intent. The truth of it lives in the moments between, in his footsteps across the bullpen, in the pause before he speaks, in the way his gaze lingers on the desk he passed only once. In the care woven through every choice he made before the sun even rose this morning.
And you're not going anywhere.
Because this—whatever it is, whatever it's becoming—it's already part of you.
And now you're wondering, quietly, achingly, what he'll do next.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Omega!Reader
Summary: When an alpha oversteps in the bullpen, Hotch finally makes it clear what you already are to him.
Tags: omega!reader, depictions of chronic pain, arthritis, alpha!hotch, hotch courting you, workplace flirting, protective hotch, possessive but respectful, hurt/comfort, gentle dominance, territorial behavior, scenting, no established relationship yet, fluff with teeth, reader with chronic illness, hotch notices everything, soft but intense, comfort over pain, quiet intimacy
Word Count: 3.2k words
You learn the rhythm of the bullpen by the way it breathes: the shh-shh of printers like surf that never reaches shore, the low tide of voices receding and returning, the fluorescent lights humming like a held note that never quite resolves. The sound has a texture, a soft grit to it, like chalk dust in the air, and you can tell the hour by how that texture shifts—thin and bright in the morning, dense and tired by late afternoon. It's a place that teaches you to listen with your shoulders and your spine, to feel the weather before you see it, to recognize pressure changes the way old windows do—by the faint, hairline complaints in the glass that appear before a storm decides to be honest. Your desk sits at the edge of that weather, close enough to feel the drafts when people pass, far enough that you can pretend you are not the center of any storm, only a buoy with a clipboard and a pen.
You line up files until their corners agree with one another, a small geometry that convinces your hands they still know how to make lines, that angles can be trusted if you take them one at a time. You answer phones until your voice becomes a kind of clean, reliable surface that other people can set their worries on without them sliding off. You learn to place emphasis like you place staples: carefully, where they won't tear the page. You coax your hands through the small, bright ache that lives in your knuckles like a stubborn winter and pretend it's only the coffee cooling too fast, only the lights, only the long hours—anything but what it actually is, which is a map of weather written under your skin, seasons you carry with you from room to room, forecasts you don't always believe but always check.
Some days the ache is a low fog, a softness you can move through if you keep moving, if you keep the kettle of your body warm. Some days it is a bright, thin wire that hums when you reach for things, sings when you twist your wrist the wrong way. Today it's somewhere in between, a weather that keeps changing its mind. You keep a bottle of water within easy reach and your wrists aligned like you were taught, and you tell yourself that this is a building full of doors and you know how to open them, that hinges are patient things, that you can be, too. You take inventory of small mercies—chairs with arms, a keyboard that doesn't stick, a mug that fits your grip—and you stack them like coins you intend to spend later.
Hotch has been courting you for weeks, and you have been letting him, which feels like letting a door stay ajar in a hallway that is always, always busy. There are the gifts that are not called gifts—an extra mug appearing on your desk on a cold morning, dark blue with the FBI seal; a scarf folded with careful precision over your chair when the building air turns too sharp; a file already clipped and labeled before you realize you were going to ask for it, the tab placed where your eyes always look first, the kind of foresight that feels like being met halfway. There is the way he pauses, just a fraction, to ask if you need anything before he disappears into a meeting, and the way he listens to the answer like it matters more than the meeting does, like your answer is a room he intends to stand in for a moment instead of passing through.
There is his scent, clean and cedar and ironed shirts, kept deliberately at a respectful distance, like a tide that knows exactly where the sand gives way and chooses to stop there, like a promise that has decided to be patient and call that a virtue. When he leans over your desk to look at a schedule, he angles his shoulders so you still have space. When he stands behind you while you print something, he stands like a guardrail, not a wall. You notice these things because your body notices these things before your head does, cataloging them the way it catalogs exits.
You know what it means. Everyone does, in the quiet way offices know things before they say them, in the way looks pass like notes folded small. You feel it most when your joints flare and he notices before you do, a hand hovering near your elbow without touching, an offer that is never quite a question, a quiet, "Sit," that somehow sounds like care instead of command. Sometimes he brings you tea without comment, sets it down on the corner of your desk like it's always been there. Sometimes he just stands there a second longer than he has to, like he's making sure the room is shaped correctly around you, like he's checking the weather again before he leaves.
Sometimes you catch him watching you the way people watch a horizon—like he's measuring something that can't be hurried, like he's tracking a line only he can see. Sometimes you catch yourself cataloging the way his sleeves crease, the way he holds a pen, the way his voice settles the room without raising itself, like gravity has learned how to speak. You tell yourself this is just the bullpen doing what it does: turning proximity into patterns, patterns into habits. You tell yourself you are good at habits. You tell yourself that doors don't have to be opened all at once, that you can stand in the frame and breathe for a while.
So when the new courier shows up, all bright grin and louder shoes, you brace yourself for the minor disruption of it, the way your day ripples when someone brings a package that requires a signature and a smile and a brief rearranging of your careful stacks. He's an alpha—his scent announces him like a trumpet in a quiet room—and he leans in too close as he sets the box on the edge of your desk, laughs too loud at something that isn't quite a joke, says your name like it's a gift he's already unwrapped and plans to keep the ribbon.
"Did anyone ever tell you," he says, eyes flicking to your throat and lingering there, "you've got the kind of scent that makes a man want to take his time?"
The words sit in the air longer than they should. You feel them land on you like dust that doesn't belong to this room.
You keep your voice in its practiced register, warm but firm, the one that says thank you and please and this is a federal building all at once. "I'll just need your signature here." You slide the clipboard toward him. Your fingers protest at the angle, a bright line of pain sketching itself across your knuckles, and you breathe through it like you always do, like the pain is a tide and you are a pier that has learned how to let it pass under. The pen clicks. The paper shifts. You keep your eyes on the line where he's supposed to write, like that line is a boundary you can enforce by believing in it hard enough, like ink can be a kind of fence if you draw it straight.
He signs with a flourish, leans in again, says something about coffee later, about how he could show you a place, about how he likes the way you smell when you concentrate, like it's a compliment and not a claim. You answer with the same small, professional smile you give to everyone, the one that lives in your cheeks and not your mouth, and you feel the bullpen tilt, just a degree, like a floor that remembers an earthquake long after it's done. You tuck the clipboard away. You say, "Have a good day." You mean it the way you always mean it: generally, harmlessly, as a door closing. You watch him go because it's easier than watching the room watch you, easier than counting how many eyes learned your name a second time.
You don't look for Hotch. You don't have to. You feel him the way you feel a change in weather through old glass, the way the air gets a little more deliberate, a little more still, the way conversations seem to decide, all at once, to choose their words more carefully, as if the room has been given a ruler.
Across the room, his gaze is a dark line drawn with a steady hand. His scent, usually so carefully leashed, sharpens—not loud, never that, but focused, a blade honed in a quiet room. It doesn't spill. It doesn't flare. It just… arrives, and stays, like a weight set down exactly where it belongs. You feel it like a change in barometric pressure behind your eyes. He doesn't make a scene. He never would. He finishes what he's doing with the same precise economy he brings to everything else, sets down his pen, answers a question without looking away from the file in front of him, closes a folder, opens another, checks a time he already knows. And when the courier finally leaves with a lingering glance and a promise that hangs in the air like smoke, Hotch does not go back to his office.
He comes to you, but not directly. He waits until you've stacked the last of the files, until you've flexed your fingers under the desk and pretended they don't ache, until you've taken the small, careful sip of water that keeps your hands steady. He waits until you've stood and the room has done that small, familiar sway it sometimes does, and he's there without making it a thing, without turning it into a spectacle. He waits until the corridor behind the records room is empty in that particular way that belongs to government buildings—no echoes, just the sense of them, like a held breath in concrete, like the building is listening for its own name.
"Walk with me," he says, and it is not an order, not quite, but it carries the weight of one anyway, the way gravity does, the way doors do when they open the only way they can. The way maps do when you follow them.
You do. The carpet muffles your steps. The lights here are dimmer, kinder, and you realize you've been holding your shoulders too high without meaning to, like you were bracing for a draft that never came. You notice the way he keeps his pace matched to yours without making a show of it, the way he turns corners like he's clearing space ahead. You're barely halfway through asking what's wrong—your voice doing that small, careful thing it does when you're trying not to assume, when you're trying to leave room for exits, when you're trying to keep the world from tipping—when he steps in close. Too close. The space between you goes thin as paper, goes bright as a line struck on a match, goes suddenly very, very deliberate, like someone has drawn a circle and you're standing in it together.
"He doesn't get to flirt with you like that," Hotch says, and his voice is lower than it was in the bullpen, lower than you've ever heard it, really, like he's moved a conversation from a room with windows into a room with doors. "Not when I'm courting you."
Your heart forgets its job for a second. Then it remembers all at once, too much and too fast, and you have to count your breaths like they're stairs, one, two, don't trip. Your breath catches like fabric on a nail. You can feel the echo of the courier's cologne still, faint and wrong, a ghost of something you didn't want to carry with you, and beneath it Hotch's scent, steady and certain, like a line you can follow in the dark, like a road that has decided to stay put and call that loyalty.
"I didn't—" you start, because you always start there, because explanations are your first language, because you believe in footnotes. The word falls apart before it gets to its second half, turns into a pause you don't know how to fill.
His hand comes to your hip, not grabbing, not rough, just there—grounding and possessive all at once, fingers curling in the soft knit of your cardigan like he's checking to see if you're real, like he's anchoring a thought before it drifts. The heat of him is a pressure you can map: shoulder, chest, the careful space he still leaves for your breath, the way he stands like he's already decided where the lines are and intends to keep them. Your omega instincts, usually a quiet background hum, surge up like a tide that has found the moon and decided it will not be ignored, like a bell rung in a room you didn't know had one.
"You accepted my gifts," he continues, and there's something in his eyes that looks like restraint holding a door closed, something that looks like patience that has learned how to be sharp without cutting. "My care. That means something."
You want to say something practical, something that sounds like you. You want to say of course it does, or I didn't mean to, or even just his name in the tone you use when you're trying to keep a room steady. You want to say you didn't encourage him, that you did exactly what you always do, that you kept the lines where they belong and wrote inside them, that you colored neatly. What comes out is a sound that lives somewhere between a breath and a question, and it surprises you enough that you almost laugh at yourself for it, a small, startled sound that turns into a swallow halfway through, like your body is editing you.
Your knees go soft. You lean into the wall without meaning to, the cool of it a brief mercy against the way your body is rewriting its own rules. The ache in your hands is still there, but it's quieter, like it's listening, like it's decided to wait and see what the rest of you is going to do. His scent unfurls with intention now, not the polite distance of the bullpen but the full, honest thing—cedar and clean paper and a darker note beneath, something that says home in a language you didn't know you spoke, something that says stay without raising its voice. It curls around your thoughts. It makes your spine feel like a line being gently, insistently underlined. It makes your ache feel like a low tide instead of a storm, like a problem that has decided to become a background instead of a headline.
He steps closer. Noses along your throat, not touching, then touching, the barest brush of skin that sends a line of heat down your spine like a match struck in a quiet room. You can feel him breathing you in like he's reading something he intends to remember, like he's committing a paragraph to memory and checking the margins. He scents you with full awareness, full intention, and the corridor seems to narrow to the space your bodies share, like the building itself has decided to look away out of politeness, to give you the courtesy of a closed door that isn't there.
You moan, barely audible, more surprise than anything else, and he answers with a low, satisfied sound that settles into you like a promise you didn't know you were waiting for. His hand tightens just a little at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to say I'm here, just enough to say stay, just enough to say this is not a misunderstanding, not a story being told from two different ends with different maps.
"I should have been clearer where it counts," he murmurs, and it's not an excuse so much as a calibration, a thing adjusted rather than set down, like moving a piece of glass so it catches the light instead of cutting you. "You've known. I've known. The team's known," he says, thumb pressing once, steady, at your hip. "I just haven't said it loud enough for anyone outside these walls. I won't apologize for being clear now."
You nod because nodding is easier than speaking and because the world feels like it's tilted toward him and you are a cup that has finally found its saucer, because your thoughts keep circling the same bright point and not quite landing, because the corridor smells like paper and quiet and something beginning. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his sleeve, careful of your joints, careful of the way your hands sometimes argue with you, and he notices—of course he does—shifting just enough that the angle eases, that the pressure becomes support, that the ache becomes background noise again instead of a headline, a footnote instead of a thesis.
His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is rough and reverent, like he's been holding back for weeks and has decided, finally, to stop pretending he doesn't want what he wants. It's not hurried. It's not shy. It's the kind of kiss that takes inventory: the way you breathe, the way you lean, the way your hands shake and then don't, the way you fit into the space he's making like you were always going to, like the room was waiting for you to stand there and prove it right.
For a second, the building disappears. There is only the pressure of him and the quiet thunder of your own pulse, the way his scent wraps around you like a coat that knows your shoulders, the way your thoughts go soft at the edges and bright in the middle, the way time does that strange, merciful folding-in on itself and decides to stay folded.
When he pulls away, it's slow, like he's making sure you're still there, like he's giving you time to find your feet again, like he's proving to both of you that he can, that he will. His mouth brushes your ear, and his voice is a promise kept close, a line drawn where it can't be mistaken, a map written in a language you already understand. "I'll take my time proving it," he says, "but make no mistake— you're mine, and I want everyone to know it."
You nod. Because the corridor is still and the bullpen is a world away and your body has decided, with a certainty that feels like relief, that this is a harbor and not a cliff. Because you have been letting him court you and you understand, now, what you've been saying yes to all along, how many small doors you've already opened and stood in. And because his hand is still at your hip, steady as a line on a map, and for once the ache in your hands feels like something you can carry instead of something you have to fight.
Husband!Hotch who after his failed marriage to Haley vows to ensure he will be a better husband to you.
Husband!Hotch who you work beside at the BAU. So at least you’re more understanding of the incredibly intense and busy schedules.
Husband!Hotch who wakes up before you and makes you breakfast if you both have time before work.
Husband!Hotch who is extremely protective of you.
Husband!Hotch who vows he will never let what happened to Haley, happen to you.
Husband!Hotch who will often schedule time off of work, to sync with your time off work. So you can spend time together, and with Jack and your own children. When you eventually have children together.
Husband!Hotch who slow dances with you in the kitchen whilst dinner is cooking.
Husband!Hotch who agrees to working shorter hours so he can spend time with Jack more as well as you.
Husband!Hotch who cleans up after dinner only to find you and Jack asleep, cuddled up on the sofa. He kisses your forehead and picks Jack up to tuck him into bed. He then scoops you up and takes you to your bedroom. By then you’ve woken up and are begging him to fuck you.
Husband!Hotch who makes loves to you. And has a breeding kink. He desperately wants to get you pregnant. He knows you’d make an amazing mother because you’re already an amazing mother to Jack even though he isn’t biologically yours.
Husband!Hotch who becomes even more protective of you when you fall pregnant. He will kiss your belly every morning and every night. Place his hands on your stomach whenever you’re near each other.
Husband!Hotch who pulls you into his arms when he’s feeling stressed. Even if you’re at work and a case is frustrating him, you ground him. Keep him calm.
Husband!Hotch who is extremely protective of you in the field. Always making sure you’re stood behind him out of the line of fire.
Husband!Hotch who always checks you over after you’ve apprehended the unsub, making sure you weren’t hurt. When he’s satisfied he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, and rests his forehead against yours. He then tells you how much he loves you.
Husband!Hotch who date nights with are rare and precious, but he goes all out making sure everything is perfect.
Husband!Hotch who loves tying your hands together with his belt.
Husband!Hotch who can be both rough and soft in the bedroom.
summary ᰋ you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when there’s a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door. masterlist
warnings ᰋ angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.
one thing about being with a man that was a man— which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated before—was that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.
and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.
asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.
so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.
like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.
you didn’t call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.
shit, you couldn’t even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.
it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didn’t answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaron’s, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, it’d be embarrassing.
sure, you’d crashed at his place since you’ve been together for almost three years, that’s normal—but this just didn’t feel right. you weren’t about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, that’s what you thought it was.
it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.
but it wasn’t fine when aarons’s eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadn’t heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.
naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadn’t heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.
“she’s fine, she just. . didn’t want to bug you,” she had sighed through the phone. “power’s out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.”
“and she didn’t even try to call me?” he’d asked, voice going flat.
“you know how she is.”
hearing that he’d cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.
he parked near your building’s garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didn’t work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritated—not at you, never at his sweet girl—but at the fact that you felt like you couldn’t rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.
if he couldn’t help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?
he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didn’t work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.
a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didn’t fully understand the point of—something about volume and blowouts or whatever you’d explained to him a hundred times.
you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.
“hey,” you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.
“hi,” he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
“come in.” you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.
“what’s up with the lights?” he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didn’t already know.
“power outage,” you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.
“have you eaten?” he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.
“not yet,” you admitted with a wince. “my stove doesn’t work, and my phone’s dead, so i can’t order takeout.”
you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.
aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. “and you didn’t bother telling me about all this?” he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.
“my phone died?” you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew him—you could see the tick in his jaw.
“yeah?” he said quietly, setting another roller down. “before or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?”
you chewed your lip. “. . before,” you whispered, then sighed. “i’m sorry.”
you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.
“not a word,” he said, stepping back and shaking his head. “get dressed, pack a bag. you’re coming with me.”
“baby, you know you don’t have to—” you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.
“i’m not asking,” he said, tone soft but absolute. “i’m telling you. pack a bag.”
you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.
he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.
“done,” you breathed out, holding up the bag.
“good.” he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after you’d double-checked everything and locked the door.
you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat.
the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.
his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldn’t take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.
“you’re mad at me,” you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand—the hand you were honestly obsessed with.
“i’m not,” he sighed, squeezing your fingers. “i’m just—” he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.
“i should’ve told you. i’m sorry,” you said, filling the silence. “you’re right. i should’ve called.”
“you should’ve told me,” he agreed quietly. “i should’ve been the first person you thought to ask.”
you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long he’d say something he’d regret.
“i know,” you said. “i just. . didn’t want to bother you.”
he huffed out a humorless laugh. “bother me? you think you bother me?”
you swallowed. “i know you’ve got stuff to do. and besides. . it’s just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that ”
“you live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,” he said slowly. “that’s not nothing, sweetheart.”
“still. it felt like a lot to ask.”
“from me?” he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. “after three years? after everything? you’re allowed to ask me for things. that’s kind of the point.”
you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. “i just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.”
his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.
“look at me,” he murmured.
you did.
“you’re never ‘too much’ for me,” he said, voice low, steady. “you’re my girlfriend. you’re supposed to call me. you’re supposed to need me. if you don’t, then what the hell am i here for?”
your eyes stung a little. “you do enough already.”
“clearly not if you’re sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending you’re fine,” he countered gently.
you didn’t have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.
by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didn’t move right away.
“for the record,” he said, still looking straight ahead, “you never ‘bother’ me. if it’s you, it’s not too much. ever.”
your throat went tight. “okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try to remember that next time.”
“don’t try,” he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. “just call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.”
you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.
later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.
“aaron?” you murmured.
“mm?”
“thank you for coming to get me,” you said quietly.
he pressed his lips to the side of your head. “always.”
“and. . i’m sorry i didn’t call. i’m trying to be better at that,” you admitted. “it’s just. . leftover crap from before you.”
“i know,” he said. “i’m not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.”
you swallowed. “you are different.”
“then treat me like it,” he said gently. “let me show up for you.”
you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. “okay,” you whispered. “i will. i promise.”
“good,” he murmured. “my girl’s safe. that’s all i need.”
You had been terrified your entire pregnancy. Not of being a mother. Not of König. No— you were terrified of the size of the baby.
Because your husband was a mountain of a man.
Nearly seven feet tall, broad enough to block the entire doorway, hands so huge they made coffee mugs look childish. König looked like the kind of man built to father massive babies with bowling-ball heads and shoulders wide enough to ruin your life on delivery day.
The closer you got to your due date, the more emotional you became about it.
“König..” you whispered one night, staring at his chest while he held you against him, “what if your baby comes out built like a full-grown toddler?”
He nearly choked trying not to laugh.
“Our baby is not coming out with a beard, Schatz.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
You’d smacked his chest weakly while he kissed your forehead, though the poor man did try comforting you afterward. He promised he’d stay beside you the whole time, promised your body was made for this, promised doctors existed for a reason.
Still, you expected pain.
Expected terror.
Expected to hear nurses gasp in horror at the giant infant you’d somehow created with this massive Austrian soldier.
Instead—
Your baby arrived…..tiny.
Absolutely, unbelievably tiny.
A little thing wrapped in hospital blankets, blinking up at the world with huge blue shiny eyes and the faintest dusting of strawberry-blonde hair across their soft head.
The nurse placed the baby into König’s arms and the sight almost made you cry harder than labor itself.
Because König looked gigantic.
His enormous scarred hands cradled the baby so carefully, so delicately, like he was terrified even breathing too hard would hurt it. His shoulders shook beneath quiet laughter, stunned and disbelieving.
“So small..” he whispered.
Your baby’s hand curled around one of his fingers— and couldn’t even hold all of it. König stared like his heart had been ripped straight from his chest. Meanwhile you were still emotional for an entirely different reason.
“That’s it?” you croaked from the hospital bed. “That’s what I was scared of?!”
König outright laughed then, deep and breathless behind his mask before he leaned down to kiss your forehead repeatedly.
“You were very brave for surviving our terrifyingly tiny child.”
Hello!! I'm so sorry to ask but if it's okay can you do a thingy with the Volturi (all of them please) on how they would react to their human mate being on their 🩸🩸if you know what I mean. If not that is completely understandable and okay! Thank you for reading!! :3 🌹🫶
𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎
Contains some nsfw thoughts. I've been thinking of writing a period nsfw fic with one of the vamps, lmk what you think
Aro, like most vampires, has been around for a long long time. And though he does not regard humans as being worthy of his time, you are different. You are his mate. And so he takes it upon himself to learn everything. To read studies, to understand your experience, to know what he can do to help you. The Volturi donates to charities of endometriosis and others. Even long after you are turned he continues, the money is nothing to him and even though you no longer live you know. Aro will always do his best to understand you
Marcus would be so attentive with you and just do as you ask. He's a rather mellow and agreeable man (at least with you he is) and so he is more than happy to be at your beck and call. Want space? you got it. Want to basically be one with him from how close you are? He's laid down and waiting for you to get yourself comfortable. The man just keeps his mouth shut and does as you ask. Happy wife happy life, a phrase taken a little to literally for him in her every moment.
Caius just wants to eat you out honestly. Please ride his face, let him eat you out and taste your blood. He has also heard that it can help with any cramps and pains so, not to worry, dear Caius is at your service. Who is he to refuse you? To refuse a meal and a feast all in one would just be wrong.
Jane only experienced them for a few years, and though she doesn't necessarily remember them she is the most empathetic. Outwardly she may not do much - but in the privacy of your own shared chambers there is nothing you can compare. Nothing soothes like her gentle touch, or the natural remedy passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now you.
Alec is another who is at your beck and call, and though he will perhaps tease you a little, he wouldn't take it too far. Sly comments and little pokes are common, but all in good jest. He would never want to actually upset you of course, but if it brings a little smile to your face with an exasperated roll of your eyes then at least he knows you're happy. And if you're happy then so is he.
Demetri also eats you like a man starved. He doesn't care if there is blood all down him, or all in his mouth. You are gorgeous, ravishing even, and he just can't get enough. He could live buried between your thighs, especially during that time of the month. The taste of you is unlike any other to him, and we all know that this man likes it a little dirty and rough.
Felix calls you his whiny baby but still is there for whatever you may need. Tummy rubs, head scratches, couples yoga, he's got you. Don't want to walk or even stand? He's picked you up from the same comfortable position you were in to move you to the fresh bubble bath he's ran for you, setting you down gently in there. Honestly, you could cry from how much you love and appreciate him. Whiny baby, you just need to be loved, don't you?
Hope you don't mind a 2nd request your last one was AMAZING!! Could I request the Volturi finding their mate when she stumbles across the castle late at night and they find out she's blind?
THE VOLTURI'S REACTION TO THEIR BLIND MATE
a/n: of course! i don't have any restrictions on how many requests someone can make. as long as you read the post for the request you made, i'm happy to oblige all the requests unless i'm on a break. :) i'm also really glad you liked it! i tried my best to match the scenario according to the characters.
warnings: however, since i'm trying my best to match the scenario according to the characters, there will be angst, dark content, mentions of blood, implied cruelty, toxic relationships, etc. in the movies, the kings have always been cruel. we can already see that from caius's behaviour and how aro was willing to kill his own sister to get marcus to stay, so i'm trying to match a realistic scenario to their personalities. though, the backstories for the three kings will be different since they rarely go outside. also, the casts i choose for heidi, aro and marcus differ from the ones in the movies because i imagine them to look like that, but if you imagine them to look something else, then feel free to just use that idea too.
masterlists & requests: before you go, have a glass of wine or better yet, recommend a good bottle. any kind of message is always a delight.
DEMETRI VOLTURI — THE CASANOVA
Demetri had been strolling around inside the castle after finishing a feeding. He had just returned to Volterra from a tiring mission, but the blood had quickly filled him up. His senses were sharper now, and it didn’t take much for him to hear the faint sound of a heartbeat coming from just outside the castle walls. It wasn’t unusual for humans to lurk nearby, often drawn in by the beauty of the place, but this time, the scent he picked up was different. Sweet and almost too tempting. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to check. Maybe a little snack. When Demetri stepped outside, he saw you standing by the wall, lightly touching the stone with your hand. You didn’t notice him at first, not until he spoke and asked if you were alright. He kept his usual charming tone, assuming you were just another lost tourist who's either clueless or reckless for wandering alone at night. Either way, it was better to lure you in gently.
But then he noticed the walking stick. The way your eyes didn’t quite focus on him, always looking away. And yet, you answered him perfectly, which made it clear you weren’t ignoring him—you just couldn’t seem to see him.
You explained that you had been separated from your friend and ended up wandering here by accident. For a moment, Demetri felt a feeling of pity. He was about to let you go, but that strong and tempting scent still clung to you, even after he had already fed. He’d never met a human who smelled as good as you did.
All these years, Demetri had one of the strongest resistance to blood, and yet here he was. Tempted, even after feeding? It didn’t make sense. Unless, of course... you were his mate.
Demetri wasn’t shocked by the idea of having a blind mate. That part didn’t faze him. What surprised him was having a mate at all. After all his years, all his killings, and yet somehow, fate still decided to bless him with a sweet and beautiful mate like you?
Still unsure if it was real, he escorted you back to town and easily found your friend by following the faint scent left on you. Later, he fed again until he was completely full, just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating or caught in one of the guards’ illusions. But even then, he couldn’t get you out of his mind.
—
FELIX VOLTURI — THE EXECUTIONER
Felix had only stepped outside to get some fresh air after hours of nonstop work. He wasn’t expecting trouble. Just a small walk under the night sky. However, the second he picked up the beat of a human heart near the entrance of Volterra, his senses snapped into high alert. He thought Heidi had made sure no humans were lingering too close to the castle, but clearly, something had slipped past her. And honestly, if someone wandered close enough to be bitten, he wouldn’t complain. The darkness of the night made it easy to get away with things.
He approached casually, expecting some clueless tourist or maybe even a ghost catcher, but when he saw you, he hesitated in his steps. You were standing near the castle walls, lost in your own thoughts, and didn’t react until he spoke. His deep voice startled you, and you jumped back slightly before explaining you’d gotten separated from your friend. As you spoke, he noticed two things—you weren’t looking at him directly, and you held a walking stick. That was quick to stop him. You were blind, and your idiotic friend had let you wander this far at night? That pissed him off more than anything else. He knew humans could be irresponsible, but even this much?
Felix didn’t want to hurt you. He had no orders to bring anyone in tonight, and it wasn’t like you were posing any threat. He could’ve let it end there, but something about you made him linger longer—or more specifically, your scent did. It filled the air, rich and sweet, like it was made just to torture him. He found himself thinking about a conversation Marcus once had with him. Something about recognizing a mate by scent alone. It couldn’t be possible.. right? A blind girl, lost in the dark, wandering too close to the Volturi is his mate?
He didn’t know what to do with that thought. Still, he helped track down your friend and gave them a hard warning not to lose you again. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to make them feel it. Then he walked back to the castle at a normal pace, slower than usual, stuck in his head the whole way. The idea unsettled him more than he cared to admit. If you really were his mate… that meant you were in danger just by being close to him. He was loyal to his clan—the same one that despises humans and maintain laws to keep the peace between the two worlds. If staying away was the only way to protect you from the Volturi, then so be it. Even if it meant not seeing you again.
—
HEIDI VOLTURI — THE SEDUCTRESS
Heidi had just finished closing up the last of the evening tours, going over the schedule for the next day and politely turning away any stragglers who hoped for a late-night visit. Of course, the tours were only a cover, a system maintained carefully to feed Volturi members without raising suspicion. Heidi always made sure to tie up loose ends, checking each human off the list before nightfall. Everything was routine until she caught a scent in the air that made her freeze.
It was sweet, powerful, and impossible to ignore. Her eyes quickly scanned the area and landed on you. You were standing near the castle wall, fingers brushing the stone surface. She moved fast, holding her breath to keep control, and approached with a calm, polite voice, asking if you needed help. You explained you had been separated from your friend and had no idea where you were, but you'd overheard some locals talk about the castle and thought you might find them here. The walking stick didn’t escape her notice, nor did the unfocused way your eyes drifted. Still, none of that mattered to her because for the first time in her long life, she knew exactly what this meant.
Out of everyone in the Volturi, Heidi had always been the one who wanted to find her mate. And now that she had, she didn’t care that you were blind. If anything, she found herself even more protective. But as a vampire who's a part of the Volturi clan, the danger was evident and she couldn’t let the others know about you. Not yet. So she helped you find your friend, her smile warm but her tone sharp when she told them never to leave you alone like that again. Then before she turned to go, she quietly promised you that she will make sure to meet with you again. And those words stayed in your mind long after until you could finally meet her again, as she promised.
—
ARO VOLTURI — THE MANIPULATIVE KING
Aro had the ability to see the memories of a person just by touching them. It was a powerful tool he used to determine who was loyal and who was treacherous, and he never grew bored of it. One night, he requested a late-night snack—something light to quench his thirst before the next proper feeding. Out of curiosity, he asked for someone "innocent" as well, wanting to test whether humans truly could be as pure as they appeared. What he didn’t expect was for one of the guards to bring in someone with the most delectable scent he had encountered in years. You followed behind the guard, holding a walking stick, your head turning gently in every direction, eyes never quite settling but still soft.
When Aro greeted you, you looked confused and asked where you were, then explained that you had gotten separated from your friend and had heard of a nearby castle, hoping they might have come here to find you. All the while, Aro took your hand in his own and looked through your memories. He found joy, kindness, warmth, and something that made his expression brighten with interest. He noticed, too, that your friend had already been among the bodies drained during the morning’s feeding, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he offered you a place to stay in the castle for the time being, claiming it would be safer until your friend returned. In truth, he was intrigued—not just by your scent, but by your mind, your light. And as he continued to touch your hand throughout the conversation, his mood only improved, fascinated by a rare gem like you.
—
CAIUS VOLTURI — THE CRUEL KING
Caius wasn’t particularly hungry, only restless. The kind of restlessness that made him crave control, something to assert his dominance over. So, he requested a late-night offering under the guise of a quick feed, something clean and quiet to satisfy the itch. As always, the guard delivered what he ordered for. The scent that entered the chamber was unexpectedly sweet, enough to catch his attention for a brief moment. Curious despite himself, he turned to look, and then immediately froze.
You stepped into the room carefully, guided only by a walking stick, your head turning at every sound, and your eyes unfocused. There was no fear in you, just confusion as you asked where you were, explaining that you'd gotten separated from your friend and had heard of the nearby castle, hoping for them to be in the castle. Caius didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to make sense of the situation. He looked to you in disbelief, thinking this must be a mistake. But then your scent reached him again—rich, intoxicating, unmistakable. His expression darkened with slow, growing revulsion as he realized the truth that you were his mate.
The very idea repulsed him. Caius, a king among kings, bound by blood to a fragile, blind human who didn’t even know what room she was standing in. Fate, it seemed, was mocking him. He had always valued strength, superiority, control and now this? A weak, wandering soul tethered to him by nature's cruel joke? He didn’t care how kind you might be or how rare your scent was. He saw you only as a liability. A stain on his legacy.
Without a word, he ordered you removed from his presence—unharmed, but unseen. He did not want the others to know. He would not acknowledge it. And yet, as you were led away, the bond was faintly inside him, unwanted and inescapable. He stood there alone in silence, seething, not just at fate, but at himself for feeling anything at all.
—
MARCUS VOLTURI — THE EXHAUSTED KING
Marcus spent most of his time in the library, one of the few places within the castle that offered him any sense of peace. It was the only room in the castle not drowned in screams or dread, and the silence suited him. Aro had long since learned to leave him be during these moments, but Caius remained relentless, always sending in fresh humans under the false disguise of a rare vacation to pressure Marcus to feed—to live, to feel again. He never did. Instead, he gave the humans to the guards stationed at his side, suffering in hunger yet feeling calm in the peace.
That night seemed no different, until he heard the soft tap of a walking stick against the marble of the floors. His gaze rose, mildly curious, only to land on the figure entering behind the guard. You followed obediently, your eyes unfocused and unaware, hand lightly brushing the ancient shelves as if trying to understand the shape of the room. He questioned why you came here, then you explained calmly that you’d been separated from your friend, heard the talks from the locals of a castle nearby, and thought perhaps they had wandered here first. Marcus listened silently, already preparing to dismiss you, but then your scent reached him.
It was soft and pure and quite cruel in its beauty—a scent he hadn't encountered in all his years of mourning. The bond struck immediately, that ancient thread tugging at the remains of a heart he’d tried so long to silence. You were his mate. A blind, mortal girl lost in the castle of monsters—tied to a man who had nothing left to give. He felt the weight of fate settle heavily on him, not with joy, but with sorrow. You didn’t deserve him. You deserved a full life, not a broken one.
He sent the guards away with a quiet order and walked you outside himself, keeping his hand near but never touching. Your friend was already nearby, shouting your name in the distance. Marcus watched your face light up at the sound and felt that pull again, bittersweet and painful. He said nothing as he watched you go, only turning back when the last echo of your steps vanished. For your sake and his own, he hoped that would be the last time you crossed his path, though a strange feeling in his soul told him otherwise.
When you were pregnant, Simon was so worried she would be huge like he was. He lived in terror that the birth would be horrendous for you. He felt so guilty, blaming himself for a scenario that he made up. The thought of doing anything to hurt you was torture for him.
But, when she came out, she was tiny. Little fingers and just over 5lbs. Simon had never held something so little. He could hardly even believe it when he took her into his arms for the first time. This tiny little thing was his and yours. Perfect and ridiculously miniature.
Her little fingers wrapped around his thumb as she makes little frustrated sounds. “Don’t think she’s a big fan o’ me, Lovie.” It comes out as a joke, but for him, it’s a half truth. One of his biggest fears coming out, trying its hardest to damper his mood.
“She’s just hungry, Si. She likes you plenty. She’s only about an hour old.” You smile tiredly as you look at your large husband cradling your impossibly tiny little girl.
Your daughter pulls his thumb forward, trying to nurse on him. “Ah wrong one, darling. You’ll need mummy for that.” He laughs. You swear if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was crying.
King!Simon had never been very affectionate. He didn't believe in it. There was no point in being frivolous with his love. It was stupid. It was for the weak.
That was until your child was born. She was small, so small it scared him. He was sure she was ill or something was wrong, but here she was dressed in what he considered to be the world’s most needlessly opulent dress for a little baby girl. She babbled happily and smashed her wooden toy horse into the stone floor of your shared chambers.
He huffs, eyes looking over your happy baby. “She looks ridiculous.”
“She looks royal. Like a little princess should,” you retort. You had dressed her in the finest clothes you could find, sent as a gift from your family. It was customary to show wealth and power with lavish clothing for your people. Simon did not feel the same way.
“Your people are strange. I see no need for this drama.” He mutters, sighing. He would never say it out loud, but he found her extravagant clothing to be entirely adorable.
You turn your nose up at him, scooping the little girl into your lap and adjusting her dress so it didn't wrinkle. “It shows she is important, Simon.”
“Important people have many furs or weapons. Things of strength, not… a little gold dress.” He insisted, patting the girls back as she coughs.
You roll your eyes and hand your daughter over to him when she starts to fuss, little hands making a grabbing motion at her father. “Oh hush. She is darling.”
“Mmm. Sweet child." He nods in agreement, poking her cheek with his finger, earning a squeal and laugh from her.
He indulged her at every chance. Toys and dresses filled the chest he had made for her with his own hands. He had even started a second to fit more of her possessions. In her short 8 months she had already accumulated quite a collection.
Simon took her everywhere, even if it wasn’t deemed “appropriate." Your little baby sat in on war meetings, happily chewing on her father’s collar, interrupting the council with happy shrieks or hungry screams. He even took her to the training ground, letting her watch the young soldiers train and practice their swordsmanship.
For Simon, there was no place that she didn’t belong. He has her on his lap while he tears his food apart, relishing in the large plate delivered to him. She also is very enthusiastic, shrieking and trying to take bites from his hands. “No, little one. This is not yours.”
“Bahhh bahh!!” She shrieks in growing frustration, tiny little hands slapping at his chest.
He shakes his head, adjusting her away from the food. “Yelling will not make me give you any. You are spoiled enough."
Your little, furious girl wails, face turning red as she starts to cry, confusion and anger overriding her usually calm demeanor. Her chest heaves as she tries to throw herself backwards in her dramatic display.
"Oh fine, child." Simon huffs and pulls her closer, handing her a piece of cheese that is far too big for someone so small. Her shrieking halts immediately, using her tiny little teeth to bite a chunk off of the wedge. She shakes the cheese up and down in delight, tilting it for you to see as you watch.
"Daddy spoils you again, I see," you joke, smiling at the exchange.
He looks scandalized by the claim, putting a hand to his chest. "What? She is a princess. She must be strong."
"And cheese will make her strong?" Sometimes you swore he said things just to justify gifting her things and spoiling her beyond reason.
He nods with full conviction. "Yes. Besides, she wants it. Best to keep 'er happy."
He lifts the girl so he can look at her chubby little face. He smiles as she takes another bite of her cheese. "She knows good food when she sees it." He plants a kiss on her cheek and adjusts the little bonnet you had put her in. "There we go, princess."
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return
