have you seen the ready or not with shawn hatosy in it? cuz if u have would you consider writing something for titus? if not totally ok too just thought iâd ask
hi lovely! I actually just watched the movie the last time I did my nails! shawn hatosy is so good at giving characters interesting layers (and also looking crazy good while running at full speed)
as of right now I'm probably not going to write for titus. I tried to write a little something for him a few months back but I wasn't super comfortable dabbling in the darker themes the movie has.
summary: It's just a nightmare. It's the comfort you cling to, right alongside Bucky after your bad dream. But Bucky can't help but feel a sense of doom looming over the two of you. Like there was something coming you wouldn't be able to wake up from.
notes: this is me coping with the doomsday trailer dropping yesterday and remembering this may be the last few times we see Bucky.
Your eyes shoot open, heart racing as you awake with a start. Your body tingles, mind still trying to wrap itself around the fact you had been dreaming.Â
It's just a dream... just a dream.Â
A nightmare.Â
You were no stranger to bad dreams. It was a given in your line of work. But they seemed to be visiting you more frequently.Â
Like it wasn't just the stress and fatigue of your job infiltrating your subconscious; missions and warnings of danger and interdimensional threats.
More like somewhere, out in the vast universe, another version of you was losing everything she loved. A premonition of things to come.
You shut your eyes tightly, trying to ignore the sweat sticking to your skin, the feeling of the sheets clinging to your legs. The senses were overstimulating after such a horrible dream and you roll over, reaching over for the only thing that brought you comfort-
You pause, hand hitting the bare strip of mattress exposed by overturned sheets. Long turned cold. Absent of the man you were searching for.Â
You blink in the dark of your shared bedroom, searching for any sign of him.Â
As your eyes adjust, you can just make out the ajar door, cracked open just enough to let the glow of the tv from the living room spill through. You frown, tossing off the covers and creeping across the cold wooden floor slowly. Steps stilted as you shake off the tingling reminders of the dream. You shiver, the house cold in spite of the summer.
You find Bucky sitting in front of the couch on the floor. The line of his back is rigid, unnaturally straight and tight. His knees are tucked against his chest, cerulean eyes staring blankly at the news reel playing on the tv.Â
You let out a quiet sigh, carefully reaching for his shoulder to avoid startling him. Not that you had to. Bucky had probably heard you the moment you woke up. But you did it out of habit; the small things to try and pretend the two of you lived normal lives.Â
To pretend domesticity wasn't tucked between bloody missions overseas and conferences arguing over every decision he made.Â
To pretend a moment, the two of you were husband and wife, and not members of the avengers trying to keep the world from collapsing.Â
Bucky's chin turns toward you, blue eyes still glazed over, glued to the tv. It's only when you crouch beside him, cupping his stubbled jaw gently that he looks at you.Â
"Hey," you murmur quietly. He blinks, right hand reaching out automatically to help you sit beside him.Â
"What are you doing up?" He whispers, voice cracked from sleep. Like he'd been screaming-Â
âDonât let go!âÂ
You lean into his side and Bucky sighs tiredly as he wraps his arms around you.Â
"I could ask you the same." He hums, squeezing your arm.Â
"But I asked you first." You smile. Just a small one, still haunted by the dream. But you still donât answer. At least, not wholly.
"Just missed you."
"You didn't even know I left."Â
You look up at him. "I always know when you're not here."Â
Bucky smiles at that. He tucks you closer to him, chin resting on the top of your head.Â
"What was the dream about?"Â
Of course he knew.Â
It was the same reason he was here. Sitting in the living room like he was watching the world from inside a fish bowl. Catatonic. Remembering.Â
Nightmares didn't go away just because you refused to sleep.Â
You're quiet for a moment, grateful he couldn't see the pale look that crossed your face. The memory of the dream, blood and ash and destruction. Bucky allows you to hide against him, hand running through your hair comfortingly.Â
"It's the same as it has been."Â
"You okay?" You think for a moment.Â
"No." He pulls away slightly, just to see your face. You don't meet his eye. Not even when he moves to look at your face, hand cupping your jaw.Â
"Hey. Look at me, love."
"Bucky..."
"What is it?" You finally meet his eye.Â
"I have a bad feeling. Like something awful is going to happen."Â
The dreaded sense of doom that had been following you around with the dream. Bucky had felt it too. With the tensions rising in the tower, the ugly campaigns smeared against the team and blurring lines of what was right and wrong.
But it was more than that.
It was something bigger. Something that crept into the back of his mind like a shadow, foreboding and inevitable.Â
The thing that had begun with the ship entering the atmosphere. The unknown. Heralding bad tidings.
Fate, maybe.Â
Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you close.
âWeâre going to be okay,â he chooses to say.Â
âBut what if weâre not? What if something's happening? Something we canât stop.â
He just sighs into your hair.Â
âThen we take it one step at a time. Do the next right thing until we canât anymore.â You nod against him, fingers clinging against his bare torso. Your next words come out muffled, vibrating against his scar strewn skin.
âI miss when our problems werenât so complicated.â Bucky huffs. Not quite a laugh but something close. He looks down at you.
âTheyâve always been complicated. Just, not ours.â
âMaybe. But I donât remember them being like this. Interdimensional people and world colliding threats.â Bucky thinks for a moment.
âI think theyâve always been there. We just didnât have the burden of knowing.â You hum, looking up at Bucky. He looks tired. Worn down in an unusual way.Â
He looked less like a soldier and team leader and more like a worried man trying to keep himself together. You reach up and brush a fallen strand of hair out of his face, the pads of your fingers soft as you caress his scruffy cheek.
Bucky sighs, eyes closing as he leans into your touch.
âWe donât have to do this alone, you know.â
âI know,â he swallows thickly. You let out a quiet breath.
âTalk to him, Buck.â
âHe wonât listen-â
âBucky,â you give the man a look. Something soft and encouraging. âSam will listen. Maybe not at first. But he will when he knows whatâs on the line.â Bucky is quiet. Defeated, you think.Â
âI donât know...âÂ
You sigh, scooting impossibly closer and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
âItâs late,â you whisper against him. âWe should go back to bed.â
Bucky shakes his head. âI canât.âÂ
âYou donât have to sleep. Just hold me.âÂ
He looks at you, swallowing thickly. Bucky finally nods.
âOkay.â
âOkay?â You nod encouragingly.
âYeah. Letâs go to bed.âÂ
Bucky slips beneath the covers, his broad body pressed close against yours.
Itâs hard to tell where you begin and he ends. You settle against him, your eyes already drooping closed in the dark. Even with the sense of dread weighing heavy on you. With Bucky, your worries are pushed to the side. Hidden by the comfort of his heartbeat against you.Â
âI love you Buck.â
âI love you too,â he whispers back, hands tightening ever so gently against you. Like he could protect you from the nightmares.
Bucky wishes he could. He wishes he could protect you from everything that was to come.Â
Although this looks like marvelâs version of willâs coming out scene with the sheer amount of people, that one little yelena/mystique transition did eat.
rip the eternals who I guess are just stuck in space with harry styles forever
summary: there are no words to describe the pain of losing someone you love. and for Jack Abbot, a man who's never been good with words, he finds himself unable to tell you just how much he loves you.
warnings: get your tissues; themes of terminal illness, grief and loss.
notes: I started this draft a long while ago and had to shelf it because it genuinely made me cry writing it. but a recent family incident had me thinking about it and so I decided to give it a second chance.
thinking of all of you who've lost a loved one to illness or disease <3
The hospital room is quiet. Silent in the restless way all hospitals are. Always on the edge of waiting; the anticipation of a new decision, a new change.
Something going right. Something going wrong.
Time slows to a crawl, a vacuum. Life goes on outside, flourishing and blooming like the changing seasons. But here, everything seems so stagnant.
Like every breath was a gift, not a given.
Jack lays beside you carefully, back scrunched against the railing of the too small hospital bed; his tear stained cheek pressed against your pale forehead, lips brushing the line of your cropped hair. Murmuring the same three words he had been all night.
âI love you.â
I love you. I love you. I love you-
You had cut your hair short a while ago. In the bathroom of your home, Jack holding your hand as Dana had gently talked you through each snip of the silver shears.
âEasier maintenance,â youâd insisted. Jack could see the truth behind your eyes anyway.
The fear.
It would fall out anyway.
Jack had never been good with words. At least, not when they counted.
Not now, when every hour the two of you had together became more precious than the last. He sometimes felt like he was groping at sand, trying to keep the hourglass from stopping, the grains falling from his hands anyways.
It had progressed a lot faster than anyone had anticipated.
The sickness.
Just a little over a year ago, Jack had held your hand silently as you cried in the blue office room.
Jack remembers that.
How blue everything was. How bleak it seemed. The hope you still clung to in spite of how quickly things spiraled.
Your body is cold now, pressed against Jackâs front. Even with the heated blanket heâd brought from home and the quilt your mom had given as a wedding present all those years ago draped over your frail body.
Jack could feel it. The life slowly fading from you.
He carefully brushes a finger over the edge of the blanket around your shoulder, reaching over to fix the canula beneath your nose.
Jack hadn't slept in a long while. Not at night anyways.
When you could slip away from his grasp before he even told you goodbye.
You'd been sleeping a lot more lately. Between doctor consults and nurses administering more medication. After a visit from your family or Robby and Dana. Jack would allow himself to close his eyes then. When Robby was sitting beside him; two men sitting in too small plastic chairs, knees pressed together.
So he would feel if something went wrong.
Jack has a looming feeling it will.
You've been more quiet lately. More tired. Even when you were awake, you'd just sit and listen, lashes droopy, leaning against the stack of pillows. Like even staying awake for more than an hour took all your energy.
You'd hold Jack's hand as Dana told you about her kids or give a small smile when Robby complained about something that had happened in the Pitt. You'd watch as life unfolded around you, holding onto Jackâs hand like he's the one who's leaving too soon.
âIâm here. Iâm not going anywhere, love.â
"But you could. If you want to go home for some rest. I wouldn't mind. Dana will keep me company-"
"No. No I'm right where I want to be. With you."
He wasn't going anywhere. He'd been there by your side for all of it.
Heâd been there through the silence after your diagnosis, the pain and sickness of treatment. Through the good days and bad.
Through the really bad days.
Jack has no plans to be anywhere but by your side. Heâd crawl into your grave and sleep forever by your side if he could-
âJack.â
Your voice is barely a whisper, cracked and dry from not using it.
He misses hearing your voice. Misses it like you were already gone and not laying next to him right now. Jack sniffs, clearing his throat softly before leaning forward to hear you better.
âYeah?â
You blink, head shifting back slowly to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over, just focused enough where Jack knows you're still there.
âSleep.â
He gives you a soft smile. So soft, it's almost a grimace. He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his flannel, forehead pressed against yours.
âI will. I promise.â
âPlease.â
His heart aches at the thought of it. At the thought of these being the last few times the two of you ever speak to each other.
âI will honey,â he murmurs against your skin. Cold against his lips. You close your eyes, lashes falling closed like you couldn't hold them open anymore. You make a noise and Jack stills, eyes wide as he looks over you.
âYou okay?â
Your breathing becomes little puffs of air. Strained.
âIt hurts,â you whisper. So quiet. Jack swallows, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.
âYou want more pain meds?â Your head moves against the pillow. An attempt at a nod. Heâll take it.
Jack presses a kiss to your cheek, reaching over your body carefully to find the morphine drip button.
He's careful of the tubes and IV connected to you, thumb pressing the button you could no longer push yourself. You make a noise, a slight whimper, and Jack feels the lump in the back of his throat grow heavy again.
Of all the awful things he'd seen in his life, nothing would ever scar him more than this. Seeing you in pain. Watching you die slowly, leaving him before either of you were really ready-
âReady?â
Itâs a whisper. One you whisper to Jack beneath your breath as you both stand at the altar.
âIs anyone ever really?â He whispers back. Nervous. You give him a small smile, the gauzy fabric of your veil making your face softer, glowing beneath the light.
Gosh, he doesnât think youâd ever looked so beautiful than right now. The beginning of your future. Rings and vows and everything else that was to come.
âJack,â you laugh quietly, the priest beginning to speak. You lean closer to him, so only he could hear, âI know you're ready. Robby told me you wrote your vows months ago.â
âStarted,â he corrects, looking at you from the side of his peripheral. âI didn't finish them till last night.â
âMe neither.â He raises a brow. You smile.
âToo much to say. Not enough words to say them.â Jack smiles and leans in even closer, not caring if everyone was staring.
âI love you-â
Jack looks back at you, frowning as he sets down the drip button. Your lashes are cracked open again, lips parted enough to let out shallow breaths.
âWhat was that hon?â He asks, brushing your hair with his fingers again.
âI love you,â you repeat. Jack takes a shaky breath, nodding.
âI know."
Jack wants to tell you so much. All the things he'll miss. The way you laugh, how much he loved your smile. The quiet mornings where you talked him to sleep, the late nights where you waited for him to come home.
He wants to thank you for the years of waiting you did. The long distance overseas when he was in the army. The way you didn't leave when he was lost in his head after his leg. The patience and love you carried with you, even now in this room.
The way you'd always been his rock. His bright day after a stormy night.
Jack wants to tell you all the things he still wants to do with you. The sabbatical trip you had always talked about. The Christmas party that never seemed to work out. The box of baby things the two of you never got to talking about.
He wants you to know he'll miss you. He already misses you. So much, it's hard to breathe sometimes just thinking one day he'll wake up to a world without you in it.
He wants to tell you so many things.
But when he looks at you, he sees it in your eyes. All the things the two of you cannot say.
And so he just says those three little words. Like they'll somehow manage to say so much more.
Come Back To Me: After a terrible night, you and Sammy get into a fight, ending with the reminder your husband is always going to find his way back to you.
Positively Nosey: After Richter won't leave your side while you're sick with a stomach bug, some google searching says you might not be sick at all. And when you tell Sammy your family might be growing from three to four, he falls head over heels for you all over again.
Delightful Distraction: Sammy asks you to come down to the station to help watch an abandoned baby who's been a bit of a distraction. Only he's not so sure the baby is the one doing the distracting anymore.
summary: After Richter won't leave your side while you're sick with a stomach bug, some google searching says you might not be sick at all. And when you tell Sammy your family might be growing from three to four, he falls head over heels for you all over again.
warnings: all fluff; pregnancy, mentions of throwing up and being sick, no tammy!au, Richter is part of the fam, Sammy being the sweetest. sigh... I have a thing for big men in uniform and their troublemaker dogs.
notes: it's baby fever central over here. this was supposed to be a drabble but somehow it kept getting longer and longer lol.
It's late afternoon. The lazy kind where the television is playing softly, something you're not really paying attention to. The windows of the house are all open, letting in the warm breeze and sunlight.Â
You're on the couch relaxing, trying to take it easy and hopefully rid yourself of the stomach bug that had been plaguing you the past few weeks. An off and on sickness that left you feeling lethargic and zapped of all your energy, vomiting like this was some lame rendition of the exorcist.
Your legs are propped up on the extra couch pillows, Richter laying between them. The dog's wet nose presses against your palm as you scratch his ears, snout burrowing into your side as he whines. You sigh, a tired youâve never known settling into your aching limbs.Â
âWe're a sorry pair today, huh,â you scratch the top of Richterâs furry head. The dog replies with a sneeze. You cringe, turning away as your stomach churns. âThatâs gross buddy.â
The tv keeps playing, some romcom Sammy had rented along with the big stack of other cheesy movies he'd gotten from Blockbuster in the hopes of keeping your spirits up. He's been really worried about you lately, constantly giving you a sympathetic pout or feeling your forehead with the back of his hand to make sure you're not burning up.Â
It was strange.
Whatever bug you'd caught wasn't like the typical cold you've had before. It left you feeling sick and exhausted, but there was no outward symptoms besides the vomit. No fever or snot or sore throat. Just an upset stomach and an exhaustion that made you want nothing more than to curl up in Sammyâs arms and sleep the day away.Â
From the coffee table, your phone rings, Richterâs ears perking up as he turns to look at it. You reach over for your baby pink Nokia buzzing against the surface. The muscles in your arms ache in spite of you having done nothing much all day, fingers tingling as they brush the vibrating object.Â
You finally get a hold of it, leaning on your elbow as you flip the phone open, pressing the accept button. You hear the click of the line opening, Richterâs paws digging into your thigh as you shift on the couch.Â
âHey,â you yawn into the phone, already knowing who's on the other end of the line.Â
âHey. You doing okay?â Sammyâs soft voice crackles. You can practically picture your husband, leaning behind some filing cabinet, hiding from Nate who's probably got a hundred case files to sort through.Â
âIâm okay,â you hum, settling back into the couch.Â
âStill not feeling good?âÂ
âEh,â you shrug, watching Richter adjust his snout against your thigh. âIt's a bit better. I managed to keep down some crackers this morning.â
âThat's good,â Sammy says into the phone, not doing a good job of masking the worry in his voice. âYou sure you don't want me to come home for lunch? Just to check on you?âÂ
âNo no. It's okay, really.âÂ
âI can. Iâll bring you that chicken noodle soup from the grandmaâs diner down the street.â You groan, stomach churning at the thought of the greasy diner food Sammy often frequented.Â
âOh gosh, don't even mention chicken.âÂ
âNo?âÂ
âNo. Bleh,â you shiver, feeling sick just at the thought of meat. âThat does not sound appealing. At. All.â
âOkay, alright.â You can hear the amused smile in his voice. You sigh, scratching Richterâs furry head again.
âHow's your day been?âÂ
âOh,â Sammy sighs, his tone shifting more seriously. âYou know. Just another day in paradise over here.â
âIâm sorry,â you frown.Â
âIt's okay. We got a bad drug deal case we're working on right now. It's a mess.â
âThat sounds awful."
âYeah⌠You sure you don't want me to come home?â You smile.Â
âWhat, is Nate giving you a hard time over there?âÂ
âNah. But Iâd happily spend the rest of the day taking care of you than going through these records.â
âAw, Sammy,â you grin. âI love being your scapegoat.â He laughs with you.
âBut really, Iâm okay. Richterâs keeping me company. Won't leave me alone actually.â
âOh yeah?âÂ
âHe practically breaks down the door when I try and pee.â
âHuh,â Sammy huffs into the line. âWeird.âÂ
âYeah, I know.âÂ
Richter hadn't exactly been the chill dog he was acting like when Sammy had first brought him home.
He'd been wary of you, barking when you wore certain perfume, chewing up your favorite pair of shoes. Constantly butting against your calf in need of attention, barking defensively when given said attention.
Sammy had told you he'd get used to domestic life. That after years of always being alert, the dog was probably unsettled by the quiet and calm of your home.Â
The dog had definitely adjusted, practically singing a new tune not long before you first got sick.Â
From the other side of the line, you can hear a voice calling Sammyâs name. There's a rustling, voices muffled as Sammy covers the receiver and then a loud clang of a drawer
âSammy?â You frown.Â
âHey sweetheart, sorry. Listen, I gotta go. Nate just got a call we've been waiting for.âÂ
âThat's okay. Thanks for checking on me.â
âOf course. Got to make sure my girlâs doing okay.âÂ
âIâm fine. Now go crack that case detective Bryant.â Sammy laughs.
âAlright. I love you.â
âLove you too.âÂ
The line clicks and you shut your phone closed with a tired groan. Richter makes a noise, a low whine vibrating against your leg. He almost sounded worried, big brown eyes watching you. You smile, patting his head.Â
âIâm okay Rick. You are really jumpy today, huh.â
The contents of the fridge stare at you mockingly and you shut the door with a groan. Nothing sounded appetizing or even remotely appealing.Â
If you were being honest, you could really go for a fat slice of cherry pie with melty french vanilla icecream. Specifically the pie the wife of one of Sammyâs detective buddies brought to a function last year.
But the sugar would probably do you in further, if you were being honest.Â
You pout, opening up the same cabinets you'd been looking at for the past week.Â
The same boxes of cereal and pasta and random snacks Sammy brought home. They all rested on the shelves with mockingly bright packages and names that sounded delicious, but made you sick to even think of biting into. You huff, leaning against the counter, your already small energy levels diminishing as you stand around the kitchen.Â
Richter is right there at your calves, tongue lolling as he looks up at you expectantly. You smile at him, grabbing the bag of dog treats on the counter and tossing him one. He scarfs it down, lips smacking over his pointy canines, immediately going back to watching you. You snort and shake your head.Â
âWhat is with you lately Richter?âÂ
The dog just watches you. You sigh, rubbing your forehead with frustration.Â
âI swear this is not what I meant when I said I was thinking about losing some weight.â Richter barks, and you nod. âRight. Iâd rather run a mile than have to throw up again.âÂ
You sigh tiredly, just wishing your stomach would settle enough to eat something. Anything. Nothing sounded good. Not between the disgusting smell the leftover steak and macaroni was giving off in the fridge and the sheer desire for that stupid cherry pie you were feeling.Â
You wander over to the fridge again, opening it to the same disappointment you were greeted with like the last three times. The sound of Richterâs nails against the tile follows you again and you glance at him.
âWhat is with you, huh? Youâre acting all clingy. What am I dyingâŚâÂ
Your laughter trails off as you pause. Richter looks up at you, tongue still lolling happily. You stand there frozen, a sudden worry carving its way through your heart.Â
Something Sammy has said to you once about K-9 dogs and training their smell.
âYou know theyâre training dogs for all kinds of stuff too. Not just drugs.â
âLike what?âÂ
âOh, you know. Cancer and health stuff. Heard theyâre trying to catch illness early.â
âWow. Thatâs crazy. Can Richter smell that stuff?â
âDunno. His sniffer is a little on the fritz. Sâ why he retired.â
âHe still knows when dinner is ready.â
âThatâs just cause your cooking is great hun.â
âAw, Sammy-â
Richterâs wet nose bumps against your shin, bringing you back to the present. Your mouth is dry when you try to swallow. The dog looks up at you, eyes big and wide.Â
Did he know something you didnât?
The house feels too quiet, the desert neighborhood surrounding you less peaceful and more eerie. Suffocating at the thought something might be wrong. You crouch down beside Richter, hands fluffing the fur around his torso.
âIs there something wrong Richter?â
The dog doesnât say anything. Of course he doesnât, dogs donât talk. But the worry is making you feel nauseous again, and you donât know if you can wait for Sammy to get home to have your worries quelled.
You stand up with a quiet grunt, trudging down the hall to Sammyâs office room, the dog right at your heels again. The sunlight shines in through the big room, painting the bookcases crammed full of binders and books in soft light, illuminating the messy and crowded desk Sammy was always complaining he needed to organize.
The boxy computer the station lent him fires up with a loud hum, the equally boxy housing system whirring at your feet. You settle into Sammyâs big office chair, the leather worn and comfy, smelling like your husbandâs cologne. Richter spins, settling on the floor next to you, eyes still trained on your slouched frame. Like you would disappear.
You laugh in spite of your newfound worry.
The computer screen finally blinks to life and you straighten to attention, fingers clacking against the clicky keyboard. You fire up the search engine system, the big blocky GOOGLE appearing.
Your fingers quickly begin to input questions, your eyes scanning the results as they appear.
Dogs and throwing up.Â
Can dogs smell you being sick?
Dogs smelling illness.Â
Dogs and-
You pause as you read the third result.Â
Dogs and pregnancy.Â
The chair creaks as you lean back, like the result personally offended you.Â
Like the thought that crossed your mind wasnât totally and completely crazy.
No.
That wasnât⌠that couldnât be.
You glance down at Richter whoâd become very interested in sniffing at one of Sammyâs ties heâd left draped over the chairâs arm. You blink and click on the search bar again, your searches beginning to change. The hope settling in next to your fear becomes almost as overwhelming as the sick feeling still etched into the walls of your stomach.Â
Can dogs smell pregnancy?
The question was absurd considering you hadnât even touched the possibility at all these past few weeks. Although now that the door had opened, it seemed almost the perfect explanation.
You rarely got sick in a normal year and never as bad as the past few weeks had been. Hormone pills werenât exactly your favorite form of protection and Sammy had a bad habit of reassuring you he was the âgun drawingâ champ. Of course, you knew in the back of your head your less than consistent protection methods werenât exactly full proof.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
There was a teeny tiny part of you that didnât mind.Â
You and Sammy had talked about starting a family.
Plenty of times.
Youâd watch diaper advertisements with a big smile or pass by little onesies in the store with longing glances. Sammy was always talking about the kids involved in his cases, how he often felt paternal over their situations. It was one of the first topics that had risen during those early stages of dating. There was no doubt that a baby was something you both wanted.
But you? Pregnant right now?
âI canât be pregnant,â you laugh as you stare at the screen. âI mean thatâs- thatâsâŚâ
You trail off, looking down at Richter. The dog is staring up at you again. Looking slightly bored as he chews on Sammyâs tie idly.Â
âItâs crazy Richter. I mean, donât pregnant women get sick later in pregnancy. And doesnât everything else get⌠bigger?â You gesture questioningly to your body. Still the same as it had been.
There was only one way to really tell. If you were spiraling or not.Â
You push away from the desk after shutting down Sammyâs computer, padding down the hall towards the bathroom. Richter barks, scrambling up onto his paws and following you.
He pushes through the ajar door as you begin rummaging through the toiletry basket beneath the sink, looking for the familiar pink box. The dog sits unashamedly at the door as you hurriedly toss the toilet lid open and make quick work of the pregnancy stick in your hand.
You set the test down on the counter and step back, waiting. Itâs the longest three minutes of your life. The clock ticks mockingly slow, your eyes glued to the moving hands as you sit back on the toilet.
âIt wonât be positive. It canât.â
Richterâs tail flops against the bath mat as he sits patiently. Your leg bounces against the porcelain lid.
âI mean,â you chuckle, âItâs flu season. I probably just have a really bad case, yâknow.â You look down at the dog. He doesnât look all that impressed with your reasoning. You sigh and lean over to ruffle the scruff of his neck.Â
âWhat if it is positive Ricky? What am I gonna do?â Richter licks the palm of your hand, whining. âI know, I know. Sammy and I have talked about kids. We both want them. But heâs been so busy lately. And the economy is kinda in shambles right now and to bring a baby into all thisâŚâ
You trail off with a defeated sigh.
âI just donât know.â Richter licks your forearm, like heâs trying to help. You smile, glancing up at the clock.
âWel⌠itâs time.â
You stand and nervously look at the test, reaching out for it with shaky hands. The stick feels heavier than before. Like just knowing it now carried the results for your future made all the difference.
You swallow thickly, flipping it over-
Your heart sinks as you stare at it.
One pink line.
Your brows furrow, mouth pulling into a frown as you reach for the box, checking the instructions again.
âBut I thoughtâŚâ you trail off, the words lost as you stare at the test.
The negative test.
Richter stares up at you, waiting for you to say something else. But you donât.Â
Youâre not sure what youâre feeling right now. You should feel some semblance of relief. Werenât you just saying a baby wasnât exactly the best plan right now? Werenât you just sick with the worry of what bringing a baby into the world right now would mean?
But something in your heart pulls, twisting into something resembling disappointment. The small and not so secret part of you that really did want a baby. In spite of all the trials it would bring and the aches and pains. You had actually been waiting to see that positive-
Richter whines, making you blink back to reality.
âIâm sorry boy. I just⌠I really thought....â
You shake your head, stuffing the test into the box and tossing it in the trashcan with a quiet clang. A chill runs down your back and you shiver, sighing as you realize how tired you felt, the sickness you were still dealing with not relenting.
âCome on Richter,â you gesture towards the living room, trying to pretend like you were fine. âLetâs go back and watch some tv.â
Everything was fine. It was fine.
A negative test was a good thing. Right?
You were just sick with the flu. Richter was finally adjusted to being a member of the Bryant household.
There was no baby.
But as you lay on the couch again, the dog settled against you comfortingly, your heart broke a little at the thought.
The house is dark as he quietly sneaks into the living room, the messy evidence of the dayâs battle with your illness still strewn about the house. Sammy doesnât even really have the heart to pick any of it up, the ache in his back pulling his mind towards his bed, the low rumbling of his empty stomach guiding him to the kitchen.
Sammy sets down his briefcase and coat, kicking off his shoes before he beelines it to the fridge. He pulls out the first container of leftovers he lays his eyes on, grabbing a piece of silverware from the dish rack.
He shovels a few bites of cold mac and cheese into his face while he stares blankly at the tiled backsplash. Itâs so quiet in the house, rightly so for it being close to ten.Â
Although Sammy is surprised Richter hasnât come running.
A little high strung and wary of any visitors, the dog is always the first one to check out whoâs coming through the door. Sammy can see from his position against the kitchen counter that Richter is not in his dog bed like usual. The plush and cozy bed is empty, save for the chewed and abused rabbit toy youâd bought for him. The one with the leg chewed clean off.
Sammyâs too tired to dwell over it. He tosses the container back into the fridge, throwing back an alka seltzer tablet before he pads down the hall towards the bedroom.Â
The hardwood floor creaks beneath his weight, the soft moonlight illuminating through the half closed door. Sammy nudges the door open slowly, standing in the doorway for a moment as he loosens his tie, watching the rise and fall of your chest.
You were tucked cozily under the covers, Richter curled up against your backside. Sammy canât help but smile at the sight, even if his heart hurt knowing you werenât feeling good.
You barely move when he pads into the room, the soft smell of chamomile tea long gone cold filling the room, Richterâs soft snores making everything feel together. Stitched like a homey portrait; a scene of perfect domesticity, it made Sammyâs heart ache even more.
Because every night he got to come home to something soft and wonderful and so unlike the violence and horror his job threw at him day after day.
All the awful things LA tried so hard to hide, the awful aftermath of fights gone wrong, kids who didnât know actions had consequences, people who just wanted to find a way out only to fall into the wrong hands.
But here.
Here in his bedroom, with a closet filled to the brim with your pretty skirts and his collection of mediocre suits, the bed with mismatched sheets and a cozy chair the two of you had found at an estate sale not too long ago.
Here, everything was as it should be.Â
Warm. Quiet. A kind of peace that couldnât be tucked into concrete apartment complexes or busy freeways.
It was the heart of everything that Sammy loved about this place.
You.Â
Sammy smiles tiredly as he slips his belt off, setting it carefully on his nightstand so the holster didnât clatter. He nudges Richter, trying to get the dog to wake, sighing when Richter just turns away from him, snuggling closer against you.
âRichter,â Sammy whispers, slipping the straps of his suspenders off his shoulders. âHey, come on bud. No dog on the furniture, thatâst he rule.â
Richter just puffs at the reminder, eyes glowing in the dark. Sammy makes a face, trying to tug at the dogâs collar. Sammy, as much as he loved the dog, had a hard rule about the animal sleeping in bed with the two of you. It was his job to keep you company at night, not the dogs.
But tonight, Richter didnât budge.Â
In fact he growled lowly at Sammy, turning over further into you.Â
âRickâŚâ Sammy sighs. You mumble groggily into your pillow at the sound, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair caught in your mouth.
âSammy?â You whisper tiredly. Sammyâs face softens as the mattress dips beneath his weight, his hand reaching out to brush the hair away from your face.
âHi baby. Didnât mean to wake you,â he whispers.Â
âSâ alright,â you blink, leaning into the kiss he presses against your cheek.Â
âYou feeling okay?â Sammy asks. It was a casual question. Almost routine after you being sick for so long.Â
âYeah. Iâm okay.â Thereâs a pause in your voice. Almost imperceptible, but Sammy catches it. He frowns, noting the way the soft lines of your face almost look sad in the dark.Â
âYou sure?â He asks, thumb brushing along your hairline comfortingly. You give him a smile, opening your arms wide in a silent request as you speak.
âI promise. Just missed you.â Sammy obliges, lowering himself into your arms, being careful to not crush you beneath his big frame.
âYeah? I missed you too pretty girl.â
You hum, the sound vibrating against his chest. Sammy chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You turn your head away from him, eyes closed as you hum quietly again.
Peacefully. The content sound of everything being as it should be.Â
âYou need a shower,â you whisper.
âWow. Thatâs your best greeting?â
âIâm tired Sammy,â you chuckle. âItâs been a long day.â
âYeah,â he murmurs into your hairline. âMe too.âÂ
âWell hurry up then,â you push him away, your hand lacking any real force. Sammy just shakes his head and peels himself away from you, giving Richter a resigned pat to the side.
The shower is cool against Sammyâs broad frame, refreshing after the hot LA sun. The water runs off of his freckled face and shoulders, washing away the grime and grim tension of the dayâs events.
Sammy is hanging his towel on the rack, dried and changed into an old academy shirt and a clean pair of boxer shorts, when he accidentally knocks his watch off the sink. It falls in the space between the toilet, bouncing off the little trash can there.
Sammy grumbles, too tired to deal with it. But he does. Itâs his only watch, the one youâd spent way too much money on as a gift for his 30th birthday.Â
Sammy crouches down, water droplet still dripping off his damp hair as he reaches for the watch. He pauses, his eye catching something in the trash.
A familiar looking box.
He pulls it out by the ripped cardboard flap, the flimsy material pressed between his index and middle finger.
Itâs a pregnancy test box.
Of course it was, heâd recognize the magenta and pink box anywhere. It was hard to miss in your mostly drab bathroom. Sammy frowns, forgetting the watch for a moment as he fully pulls out the box, curiosity getting the better of him.Â
He canât help but rifle through it, looking for the used test. It wasnât that he didnât trust you to tell him these kinds of things. Of course he did.Â
But Sammy had a bad habit of sticking his nose into places it didnât belong. Nate says itâs what made him a good detective. Curiosity helped find answers.
Save lives.
In this case, curiosity revealed that Sammy Bryant was about to be a father.
Sammy stares at the test, squinting at the double pink lines.
The second one was faint, barely glinting beneath the light. But it was there. Any semblance of being tired is zapped as he blinks at those two lines, his mouth falling agape in shock. You were pregnant?Â
Something clicks in Sammyâs mind. The sickness youâd been fighting. The way Richter had been acting. Like pieces of a puzzle finally laid into a full picture.Â
Sammy shakes his head, sitting back on his haunches.
But⌠you hadnât said anything.
You hadnât even given him a hint that something else might be happening. That you might be hiding this perfect little secret. In fact, you had almost seemed⌠sad.
Were you sad? Did you not want this?
Something tightens in Sammyâs chest, a hint of doubt. Maybe he should just ask you about it. The stationâs couples counselor always says âcommunication is keyâ, and Sammy knows even the hardest conversations are part of maintaining a healthy relationship.
Sammy sits on the bathroom floor for a while, thinking, thumb tapping against his lip, leg bouncing nervously.
Nervous. He shouldnât be nervous.
Who was Sammy kidding? He was practically buzzing at the idea of being a father.Â
Sammy finally grabs his watch, standing with the test and padding back down the hall to your bedroom. You let out a soft noise when Sammy gently prods your shoulder, head lulling against his forearm.
âWhat took you so long?â You mumble quietly, not opening your eyes.
âHoney⌠can we talk?â You crack your lashes open, blearily staring into the dark at him.
âWha-â Sammy holds out the test.
He knows you canât see it, eyes straining to focus in the dark. He reaches over for the lamp, giving you a quick apology as he flips the switch on, the room bathed in a soft orange glow. You moan, covering your eyes.
âSamuel-â
âI know, I know.â
âDo you know what time it is?â
âYeah, Iâm sorry. But this is kinda important honey.â
You blink, sitting up in bed. Richter isnât pleased as your legs jostle him, the dog puffing as he rolls over to Sammyâs side of the bed, legs splayed out over the comforter. You squint at Sammy, your hair mussed from sleep, licking your lips as you half glare at him.
âWhatâs so important?â
âThis.â Sammy holds out the test for you.
âOh,â you say, something sad crossing your face. âI was gonna tell you tomorrow.â
Sammy scoffs, a mixed sound of amusement and disbelief as you take the test from him.
âTomorrow? You were gonna wait that long?â
âWell, yeah. I mean, itâs not like itâs gonna change anything.â
âNot gonna change⌠WHAT?!â Sammy half hisses, confusion written across his face. âWhat do you mean this isnât gonna change anything. Of course it does.â
You frown, making a strange face.
âSammy⌠what on earth are you talking about? It was a negative test, of course I wasnât going to tell you about it at 11 at night.âÂ
Oh.Â
You had taken the test earlier and it had been negative.Â
Oh.Â
Sammy bursts into bright laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. You donât look even half as amused as him and Sammy doesnât blame you at all. Not even when you try to push him away when he cups your face and presses a wet kiss to your face.
âSam-â
âHoney, I think you need to check the test again.â
You pause, frowning.
You glance down at the test, squinting. Sammy watches, his smile brightening further the moment he knows you see it. Your eyes widen slightly, your hands quickly bringing the test beneath the light.
And there they were. Two pink lines.
âButâŚâ you trail off, mouth searching for the words. âIt wasnât- these werenât there before.â
Sammy grins, his hand reaching out to rest against your thigh.Â
âI think youâre pregnant, baby.â You donât say anything, just stare at the lines. Sammy tries to catch your eye, but you refuse to look at him. He thinks you might be in shock. âHoney?â
Sammy shakes your thigh gently, finally drawing your attention.
âI donât⌠I donât even know what to say.â He frowns.
âDo you not want to-â
âNo,â you interject before he can even finish the sentence. âNo, of course I want a baby. I really do. Itâs just- earlier when it was negative I thought something was wrong with me.â
âOh, honey.â Sammy pulls you into his arms, your legs curling beneath you as you settle against him. âYouâre okay. Weâll be okay.â
You look down at the test and then back up at him.
âWhat if it's a false positive? Those can happen.â
âThey can?â He frowns.Â
âI mean, it wasnât positive before. Maybe-â
âWell, just take another test. Thereâs no harm in that, is there?â
âSammy,â you tilt your head. âI just donât want you to get your hopes up.âÂ
Sammy smiles and kisses you softly.
âIâm always looking on the bright side of things honey. If it really truly is negative, then maybe itâs time we start trying.â
âReally?â Your eyes brighten.
âReally,â Sammy nods as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. âI think itâs time for a baby.â
You smile brightly. You still look tired and exhausted from being sick all day. But youâre eyes are sparkling. And Sammy doesnât think heâs ever loved you more than he does right now. At the prospect of you carrying his child.
Richterâs snout pokes between the space of your bodies and Sammy throws him a glare. The dog pushes him away from you, pressing his furry body against your torso. Sammy pouts.
âAlthough I really donât think itâs negative, sweetheart.â
You laugh.Â
âI think heâs just nosey. Always needs to be a part of things, huh,â you scratch Richterâs ears fondly.
You stand in the front of the fridge, the door open as you stare.Â
But youâre not staring into the lit insides, the cold air seeping through the fabric of your dress. Your eyes are directed upward, glued to the ultrasound photo pinned to the metal surface by a giftshop magnet.Â
A baby.Â
Three positive tests and a doctor's appointment to confirm it.
Sammy reaches out to squeeze your hand on the fridge door, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he passes by you.
âYouâre gonna waste the electricity just standing there baby.â
You hum in question, not really listening. Too busy thinking about the future baby Bryant and not enough about the cold bowl of cherries had come over to grab.
âWhat was that?â You ask dreamily.
âI said-â
Sammy turns back to you, going to repeat his statement. But he pauses, taking in how beautiful you look standing there. The slight glow you had, the pure and excited thrill that washes over him as he looks at you.
You were pregnant. He was going to be a dad.
You turn to look at Sammy, reaching into the fridge for the bowl of juicy, red fruit.
I saw @novatheory and a few others do this and wanted to do one too. I love mbti types and personality tests (I used to live for buzzfeed quizzes. loved finding out what kind of starbucks drink I'd be haha)
Jane (Eleven) Hopper, Todd Anderson, Mel King
no pressure tags <3: @daystarpoet @flowersforbucky @tsaheylutales @snoopysupe @bigtiddythanos @rosefiammotta
yousharknotpass
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
