summary: andrew finds that he likes taking care of the new hire at his brother's bar, so he helps her with some... chores
notes: need some andrew mutuals!!!
masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list
like refilling the ice bucket. the refill bucket held about ten scoops of ice, each weighing about five pounds. that meant that it ended up being fifty if you filled it up all the way, which you couldn't carry from the backroom to the bartop.
so, you had to make trips there and back. at least three times a night, you found yourself walking back and forth, carrying half-full ice buckets to and from the backroom.
when andrew showed up to organize, he didn't realize he'd see you.
"'scuse me, sorry," you say sweetly, despite the heavy ice bin you're holding on your hip as you wait for him to step aside.
instead, he takes the bucket from you with one hand.
"oh! thank you, andrew!" you beam up at him.
"where are you taking it?" he asks, no smile of his own.
"to the ice bin on the bar top." you lead the way, holding the door open for him to bring it out. he dumps it into your empty cooler and then frowns, deep lines pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"you need way more than this." he faces you. "why'd you only fill it up halfway?"
heat rises to your face, and you wipe a bead of sweat from your temple.
"i can't carry the full bucket. have to make small trips with it," you explain.
"oh." is all he say before he walks away with your ice bucket.
you're about to follow him, to tell him that you need that because you need to make another trip, but a customer catches your attention first. a minute later, as you're mixing their drink, someone comes up beside you.
it's andrew. he's carrying the entire full refill bucket in one arm while he opens the ice bin with his free hand. he dumps it in carefully, not a piece lost in the process.
then, he lowers his head next to yours, placing a large cold hand on your spine.
"come get me next time it needs to be filled," he says softly against the shell of your ear, and then he leaves without another word.
---
he helps you close, too.
one night, he was still around after the rest of the customers and staff were long gone.
"andrew?" you poke your head into the kitchen to find him inspecting something in the fryer. he looks over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. "you sticking around? i'm about to lock the doors while i close."
"you don't usually close by yourself, do you?" he narrows his eyes at you.
"most nights, yeah. why?" the soft smile that's always on your lips kills him. he wishes you'd quit being so damn friendly. he hums, like he's considering your admission.
"i'll be here." he wipes his hands on a dish rag and turns his whole body to face you. the fryer can wait until tomorrow.
"ok! i'll come find you before i leave for the night." you turn to leave the kitchen and resume your job of wiping down tables in the dining room. andrew follows you out, grabbing the mop bucket on his way, and begins mopping the floors better than anyone else has ever managed.
you stack clean glasses and restock the fridges while he does. him helping you cut a solid half hour off your usual closing time.
"thank you so much, andrew!" you grin brightly. "you did a great job. i really appreciate you helping."
you sling an arm around his torso in a hug like it's no big deal. and when he stays stiff, unrelenting to your hug, you don't seem bothered.
"how are you getting home?" he asks when you pull away.
"i drove here." you twirl your keys around your finger.
andrew nods toward the door.
"i'll walk you to your car."
first, you check that all the lights are off, doors are locked, and then you let andrew cody hold the door open for you. he stands next to you while you lock it, checking to make sure it doesn't budge. he feels sort of like a guard dog, standing at attention, eyes sweeping the area for any threats.
"i'm glad you started working here," you say softly as you start walking toward your car. "you're nice to have around."
his hand grips your forearm, pulling you to a stop in the empty parking lot. when you meet his eyes, they're searching your entire face. heat rises to your face as you contemplate everything he could possibly be thinking in this moment.
"what?" he asks, quiet and stern. "what do you mean?"
"i just-- you're good company. i- um, like getting to spend time with you on the days we both work together." you sound small, anxious.
andrew nods slowly, thumb rubbing against the skin of your forearm before he lets you go.
"i like working with you, too." he only says it once you're both walking to your car again. when you reach the vehicle, you stop, trying to work up the courage to say something.
"goodnight," you whisper, because it's what feels right. and then, you press yourself to your toes and press a soft kiss to andrew's cheek. he stills, but you don't let yourself notice.
you're too busy opening your car door and driving off, waving goodbye to andrew.
---
he helps you with the unexpected, too.
the knife slipped from your grip while you were cutting limes between rushes.
"fuck!" you hiss, immediately wrapping a bar towel around your hand and excusing yourself to the backroom.
andrew there, reading some manual to help him try and fix a broken fridge. he's been around more often lately. when you come in, tears running down your face, he hurries to your side.
"what happened?" he tries to peel back at the towel on your hand, but you're holding it too tightly. he doesn't want to hurt you.
"i-i cut my hand with the paring knife." your voice is whiny and so startled.
it goes straight to andrew's dick.
he swallows, forcing himself to meet your wide, wet eyes.
fuck, you look so pretty.
"can i see?" he asks softly, letting his hand rest atop yours. you sniffle, looking from his face to where your hands are joined, then back to his face. softly, you nod.
"be careful please, andrew," you plead as he begins to unwrap the towel. a groan leaves his throat at your words. he imagines you bent over the workbench, saying the same thing as he lines himself up with your entrance. you take it the wrong way. "is it that bad?"
"no, sweetheart, no," he lets the endearment tumble from his lips before he can think twice. you exhale shakily as he inspects the cut on your hand. when he's done, he stand up and clears his throat. "it needs stitches. you got yourself pretty good."
you bring your uninjured hand to your face, wiping at the tears that fall faster now. andrew stands there, unsure of what to do.
reluctantly, he brings a hand to the side of your shoulder, running a soothing thumb against your skin. you throw your arms around him in a full hug, crying into his black shirt because not only does your hand hurt, but now you have to get stitches.
andrew presses a hesitant kiss to the top of your head, hoping you can't feel the semi he's sporting under these jeans. he holds you close, closer than he's ever held another person. so close that he can smell your shampoo and feels a stray hair from your head tickling his cheek.
"have you had stitches before?" you ask, face still buried into his chest.
"more times than i can count." he runs a hand down your back. "i can do them for you, if you want. it wouldn't be my first time."
"it's my first time," you say sheepishly as you grip the back of his shirt. another pang of arousal to his crotch as he imagines your words in a different light. "will it hurt?"
"a little. i can take you to the doctor, instead. they will give you a numbing shot," he offers. you shake your head quickly, pulling away to look him in the eyes.
"no, no." you still have your hold on his shirt. "i want you to do it. you'll be gentle, right?"
he nods, unable to speak. you nod back. the both of you stay there for a moment, gazing into each other, his hand on your back and yours wound into his shirt.
just as he pulls away, deran rushes into the back.
"what happened?" his eyes scan over your body, stopping when they see the bloodied towel in your hand. "shit."
"i cut myself on accident." embarrassed, you look away. "i'm so sorry. andrew's gonna patch me up and then i can work the rest of my shift."
"andrew's-- what?" he looks to pope for the first time, noticing the wet patch on the front of his shirt and the way he's holding that fridge manual very conveniently in front of his groin.
"i'm gonna fix up her cut." andrew squares his shoulders off.
"yeah, no." deran scoffs, taking a step forward. "i can help her. you go serve drinks, pope."
"she needs stitches," he explains, nudging you behind him only slightly. "i got it, deran."
deran looks between the both of you. once, twice, then he shakes his head angrily and storms back into the dining area.
"is he mad at me?" andrew revels in the way you gaze up at him with those wide eyes. he shakes his head and moves a piece of hair from where it's stuck to your damp cheek. "are you sure?"
"i'm sure. are you ready to go? i have a suture kit at my house. i can help you there, sweetheart." he places a hand on your shoulders and guides you out the back exit.
"thank you, andrew," you say as he hands you your purse from the coat rack.
the ride to his house is short, quiet, and tense. andrew tries to keep his dick from throbbing everytime a little whimper or sniffle comes from you in the passenger's seat.
when he pulls into the driveway, he rounds the cab of his truck quickly to get your door.
"thank you," you say softly, letting him grab you by the waist to hoist you out of the seat. it's not necessary, but neither of you says anything about it.
much to his dismay, he sets you back on your feet.
"wow," you murmur. "you live here? right on the water?"
it's baz's old place-- he's been staying here since he passed.
"i do." he leads the way up the drive. "do you live near the water?"
you laugh in amusement.
"no. i wish." he opens the door into the home. the space is clean, of course. it always is.
"come sit." andrew pulls out a chair at his kitchen table. "i'll grab the suture kit."
you sit exactly where he tells you to, and you wait so patiently while he excuses himself to another room to grab what he needs. which includes a new shirt for you, because there is a drop of blood on the one you're wearing.
he carries it all out to you, pleased to see you sitting pretty right where he left you.
"you have a nice house." he notices your eyes lingering on lena's bedroom. "i didn't know you had kids."
"i don't." he pulls a chair right in front of you, so close that your legs interlock. "this was my brother's house, he had a daughter."
you hum, and he looks up to see that you're now fixated on the suture kit that he is opening. the needle. he lifts it just to see what you'll do.
your uninjured hand grips his knee tightly, eyes going wide.
"do we have to?" you wince when he threads the silk through the hole.
"i can take you to the hospital," he offers again. "but they'll use a needle for the numbing shot."
if you decided to take him up on the offer, he'd slash his own tires to keep you stuck here, with him. he wants to be the only person who helps you.
you swallow, shaking your head as if trying to clear it of the fearful thoughts that are creeping in.
"no, no. i want you to do it." he catches your face in his free hand, tilting your chin so that you meet his intense stare. feeling closer than ever, you whisper, "just promise you'll be gentle, andrew."
and he tries not to finish in his jeans.
"always, i promise." his voice is low and rough and wouldn't be comforting from anyone else, but it's so different than what you've heard from him before.
slowly, you nod, giving him the ok to start.
he punctures your skin for the first time and you sniffle, a silent tear rolling down your cheek. it does hurt. you can't watch what he's doing, so you look at him instead.
you watch his face work as he threads the silk through your wound. it stings, and you can't help the hot tears that fall down your face. his eyebrows are pinched together in concentration.
"how do you know how to do this?" you sniffle. his eyes are laser-focused on your hand, not looking up as he answers.
"i've had to do it on myself a couple of times. skateboarding accidents, mostly." he even sounds concentrated. "i'm sorry that i have to do it on you, pretty girl. i know it hurts."
"no, no, it's ok. it doesn't hurt." you sound anything but convincing.
his gaze flicks up to your face, as if he's proving a point by staring at your glistening cheeks. there's a small, endeared grin tilting up one side of his mouth. you've never seen it before.
you watch as he thinks for a moment, eyes moving across your face slowly. then, he carefully leans his head forward and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
a gasp leaves you at the contact, and you find yourself craving more of it. his lips are so soft, so warm.
"almost done," he says, "last one."
you nod, though his face is angled back down toward your hand again. a pained moan falls from your lips as he pokes you for the final time. then, he's using his own finger to lather the stitches in an ointment before wrapping a bandage around them.
the whole time, he's nothing but delicate with you, taking his time to make sure you aren't bumped or poked the wrong way.
"how does that feel?" he asks about the wrapping. you nod, unable to think as you stare at his mouth. "sweetheart? what's wrong?"
"n-nothing. i just-- thank you, andrew. you're the sweetest man i've ever met." your heart is racing in your chest. "you didn't have to do this."
"i'm glad i did." he sets the wrap on the table and rubs a thumb over your face, wiping the remnants of your tears.
"me too," you whisper, tilting your head to press a kiss to his palm. he swallows hard.
"i don't think you should go back to work today." he trails his fingers down your neck. "you shouldn't get your cut wet for a few days."
a frown tugs at your lips that he wants to kiss away.
"really? i need the money-- is there anything you think i could do there? maybe clean instead of serving drinks?" you stare at him like he holds all the answers in the world, and he relishes in the feeling of having earned that trust from you.
"i'll take care of money." it's so simple, like it means nothing to him at all. "you should go change your shirt. i'll tell deran you're not coming in."
he hands you the white button-up that he brought out from his bedroom. he knows it's probably not the most comfortable for you, but he only has a few options here, and that was the best one.
nodding, you take it from him and move to stand. he's watching you as you nurse your hand carefully, holding it close to your body. then, his eyes trail to the gap in your shirt as you bend down in front of him to press a kiss to his cheek.
"thank you, andrew." you pad quietly to his bedroom.
deran picks up on the second ring.
"pope, where is-"
"she's not coming in today." he hangs up the phone.
summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.
pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody
word count: 12.4k
tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!
author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡
you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.
you should have known better.
but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.
until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.
the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.
your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.
you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.
she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.
“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”
so you had.
the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.
the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.
and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.
but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?
you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.
you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.
you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.
and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.
so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.
there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.
you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.
cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.
dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.
i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.
i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.
it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?
i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.
you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.
then you mail the letter, and think that was that.
+
two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?
but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.
you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.
the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.
andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.
you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.
and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.
you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.
dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.
you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.
you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.
stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.
and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.
you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.
andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.
you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.
these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.
after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.
he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?
if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.
the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.
and then he gets sent to solitary.
he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.
he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.
days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?
no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.
yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.
he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.
but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.
had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.
the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)
+
and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.
that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.
no one, except maybe you.
so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.
he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.
his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.
so he decides that he needs to get inside.
pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.
and then he goes inside, and he waits.
each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.
you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.
“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.
you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.
and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.
“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”
you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.
andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.
you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.
you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.
“may i?”
“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.
“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.
“accident. was cutting something.”
“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.
“yeah. i should.”
“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”
you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.
memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.
you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.
“that sounds okay.”
you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.
you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.
he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.
and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.
“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.
not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.
the thought is almost… sweet.
and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.
your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.
so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.
and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.
the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—
stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.
for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—
“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.
“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”
“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”
“that is not true-”
“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”
“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”
“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”
“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”
“don’t let him blink at you.”
you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.
“sorry about that, david.”
“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.
“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”
“i saw her push you.” you blink again.
“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”
“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.
“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”
“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”
“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”
“yes. it calms me down.”
“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”
“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.
“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”
there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—
“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”
as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—
well he wasn’t cute anymore.
he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.
you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently
“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”
you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.
“i thought you might have found another job by now.”
“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”
“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”
“i’m sorry, i-”
“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.
it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.
he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.
“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.
“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.
you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.
but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.
and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.
“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”
you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.
but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.
andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.
“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”
“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—
you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.
“that’s okay. not your fault.”
“but still. that must have been really hard.”
“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.
“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.
instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.
“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.
“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”
“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”
“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”
“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.
“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”
“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.
you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.
how did he know that?
and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.
and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.
+
you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.
maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.
it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.
he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.
you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.
“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.
okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.
“wait for what?”
“to make sure you get home safely.”
and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.
(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)
and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.
and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.
so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.
“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.
oh.
your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.
if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.
his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.
silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.
you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.
and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.
you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.
but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.
and you’re not a normal girl.
“do you want to stay for dinner?”
there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.
“yes. yes, thank you.”
you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.
and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.
it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.
“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”
“don’t apologize.”
“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”
“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”
“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”
you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.
“do you like spaghetti?”
+
if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.
you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.
(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)
but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.
your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.
“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”
“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.
there’s no words for it. it just is.
so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.
eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)
“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.
“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”
“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”
“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”
you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.
why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—
“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.
“why are you apologizing?”
“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”
you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.
“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.
“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”
and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.
“i want that too.”
“oh. well, i just thought-”
and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.
as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.
you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.
countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.
because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.
another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.
but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.
andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.
“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”
and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.
“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.
“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.
“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”
“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.
you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.
“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”
the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.
it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.
your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.
you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.
you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.
andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.
“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.
“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”
and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.
“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.
you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.
and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.
eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.
you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.
he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.
“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”
your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.
you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.
you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.
you guess andrew just brings it out of you.
his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—
“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”
and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.
and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.
your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.
his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.
when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.
when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—
“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.
incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.
resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.
andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.
he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.
andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-
“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.
someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.
his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.
and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.
you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.
when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?
he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.
another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.
it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.
your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.
“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”
“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.
“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.
and then he collapses next to you.
“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”
“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.
“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.
and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.
“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.
you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.
“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.
“oh my god. you broke me.”
“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”
andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.
“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.
but andrew doesn’t understand.
“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”
“that’s just a nickname.”
“why warden?”
“oh well. it’s silly, um-”
“tell me.”
“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”
“oh.”
“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”
Details: ANGST GALORE. We’re talkin crying in the rain folks. There is a happy, fluffy ending though. So, the pain is worth it lol.
***
Clyde is cold and wet, his whole body shivering and lip quivering at your front door. He assumes that his initial knock must have got drowned out by the pouring rain. He brings his large hand to your door again and bangs his flat palm against the aged wood, over and over again. Your name spills from his lips like the water that drips from the curled ends of his drenched hair, softly but continuously flowing.
You rush to the door, frantic to open it from the urgency in the knocking. You quickly unlock it and whip it open to find Clyde Logan, red-nosed and puppy-eyed before you. His once fluffy raven waves now lay like a damp mop on his head, strands sticking to his forehead, the sides of his face, and his neck. His adorable ears poke out from the curtain of hair as well, the storm chilling the sensitive flesh to a bright red.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Daeron Targaryen | fluff | hint of angst for Maekar and Daeron | self-indulgent once more, based on one of my previous fics for Dunk | something to get me out of the writing slump
Word count: 1, 6k, about 300 for every character
─────────
— Dunk
He hadn't seen himself often — a faded glimpse of his face echoing in the river's unbroken water once a moon, in a polished glimmer of Ser Arlan's sword he cleaned. When a mirror rarely caught him, he wasn't proud of what he saw. A boy. A soiled, poor boy, grown into a man. He couldn't possibly believe that in your eyes, he might be beautiful.
Dunk's frame slouches upon a seat you dedicated for him. It's almost too puny for him. His sheer muscle and sculpture spill everywhere. He is aware of that — painfully so. He doesn't know what to do with his restless hands as they pleat into one at his knees. His nails tinge with dirt, he sees. His lips narrow in silent shame. Mighty shoulders rise and fall with a hefty breath, one that tells him he's doing this for you.
His eyes lift, watching as yours dance between him and the sheet in your grasp. What are you thinking about, he wonders — do you witness something out of his knowledge? Perhaps more than a hedge knight, too big for his own good. Aye, that's a nice thought.
No word falls from his mouth. He sits as still as he can, tries not to blush under your gaze so bound upon him. Dunk's nearly afraid to look at what you've created, but then he sees — he sees a version of himself so distant to his own senses, yet so loved. Every stroke of a fusain is a whisper of devotion, one carved into paper. His fingers are the most tender when they cradle your work. His lips part with so much to say. His voice doesn't come, caged in his throat. He can only pull you close, bury himself in your warmth, in a quiet thank you.
— Lyonel
His eyes linger calmly, shrouded in dark lashes and intrigue. He observes silently, his mouth unsoaked in laughter or jests. A lone curl of dark cloud that is his hair slips over his brow. He lets it drape, knows you'll catch the detail swiftly.
Lyonel finds your talents curious, so divided from his own and their unabashed violence. They ought not capture him as much as they did. Silly drawings, he named them. But his own pride burned brighter upon seeing his likeness in your collection. One he enjoyed quite a bit. And so he believed he should be a muse enough for you, demanding your unwavering attention solely for him.
He was willing to pose. To become the outlet of your grand artistry for the world’s eye — for the Laughing Storm knows no fear, bears no shame in who he is. He's a true man. A man who lets you bleed him onto your pages in all his forms, this being one of the endless — a lord sprawled on his bed, drowned in candlelight and furs. Lazy and unveiled. Past passions, past wine and laughter, and of great charm. "Don't you get bored of this, sweetling?" his voice is a soft drawl, slow and lingering on his tongue, "Not an awful lot happens... But I suppose it is only a delight to look at me for so long," he chuckles, light and easy. And he's not wrong.
His head tilts idly with his eyes lowering to your revealed sketch. An art that delves into his soul, understands both his storm and its stillness. He smiles. His gaze — it soothes into fondness unspoken but felt. A hum leaves him as the span of your skill pleases again. “Look at that… even your hands know you love me.” he reaches for you, covers your knuckles in kisses that sink into your skin with worship.
— Baelor
You had been furtive enough — hiding the scrape of charcoal in the hush of his study behind a book at your lap. Your glances were quiet, fleeting. But he felt every one of them, searing their weight deep into his flesh. It’s almost amusing, if not for the curiosity that grows within Baelor. What might you be hiding there?
Sitting at his desk once more, he's mildly engrossed in literature before him. His eye slinks your way, where your chair rests by the window. For light, he thinks, and nearly smiles at the absence of your secrecy. His gaze hovers over you quietly. He catches you stealing a peek at his hand — he cannot repress the curl of his lips that glance of yours engraved. Too sweet. “And what are you doing, dear?” his voice closes the air that splits you through the room, pulls at you with its gentle baritone. “You appear very engaged. I can't help but be intrusive.” His smile is kind, one of a mild tease in his knowledge.
He rises before you can speak. The lean, graceful stride of his crosses the floor with a weak cry of withered wood beneath his step. His presence comes to loom over you, delicate in its form and rooted at your side. His crown leans down. The polar gleam of his eyes roams over pages of your making and softens so dear at what he finds — himself, in the glow and affection of your gaze.
He had sat in front of a canvas before. His portraits hung among the many heirs of golden blood before and after him, but none were as quiet as this. As intimate as Baelor seated by his books, his hands at rest rather than in command. It’s clear you favour them, their detail close to their true warmth and pulse. His face, rendered not to display force, is aged, honest in its fatigue. But no less loved, for he can glimpse the care you laid in the arc of his lips, his nose as awry as it is. The smile he wears is touched, vibrant. “You shouldn't hide your talents from me,” his whisper skims your temple as he kisses it, “You have insightful eyes, dear.”
— Maekar
The lesser prince doesn't fuss himself with his facade. He's kempt well enough, but he doesn't expect himself to be admired often — not with his brother there. His portrait is a shadow beside his brother's, slung with less pride. Less glory. It doesn't shine like Baelor's; Maekar's face is a frozen, lasting scowl. One that makes you wonder if he held it the entire time for the painter. Maekar doesn't like that portrait. He doesn't like looking upon it and recalling who he is. A sore cunt. It's no surprise to him. Yet it still stings — just a little. For that's not all he is. He's a father: a brother, the Anvil. Yet no one seems to remember that, except for you. You remember, pour that wisdom into pages hidden from him. Ones that he finds amid the pages of your favoured book.
There he is, his face. As blemished as it is, as pale and cracked with creases. Perhaps he ought to be offended, but he isn't. What use would it be to ache over the truth? And it's not mockery. It's not bitterness forwarded his way. It's reality. One that you love, embodying him with the twisting smile of his that leaves others unsettled, the quiet fondness with which he regards his youthful dragons, stained by lingering worry. The one he hoped not to be witnessed.
"Don't keep such things away from me," Maekar murmurs when you catch him. He's not embarrassed, unlike you. Looking at the pages for a moment longer, his gaze rises to meet yours. His expression is softer, not so tight as ever. With a slow step, he closes in on you. He returns the book to you, not without his fingers brushing against you in a whisper of a touch. "If you were ever to create more..." Maekar's voice lowers into a tamed whisper only known to you, "I'd like to see them. Watch them come to life."
— Daeron
He’s never awake on your pages. Nor was he often known to be sober. He always lies still — a breathing corpse on the mattress and under your quill. A perfect muse. And he's beautiful, deep in slumber that nearly looks serene. At peace, at last. You cannot resist sizing that sight. One when he's not mumbling of distant dreams. When his gaze doesn't glisten with tears unshed.
Daeron's breath is slow, his face bathed in relief and sleep. His hair is a veil of gold, seared dull in cluttered locks. It's dark in the chamber. Yet he glows. The candlelight caresses at his form, his smooth flesh a marble of ill snow. Beneath loosened cloth, his form rests — a lithe sculpture, limp and abandoned by reason. Lips dry of ale and wine gently split apart, almost in an unspoken plea. A shade of misery clings to every feature. Even now, it pools over his eyes. He's sad. Even on your portraits.
"You shouldn't stare at me for so long," his voice wakes before him, parched inside his mouth, "might make you as misirable as I am." The flash of the blue stones of his eyes pierces you in a flutter of lashes open. He glances at the sketches in your hands. He sees himself — his useless, drunken self. It almost pains him, brings a twitch to his face. "You ought not waste your talents on me," he speaks in quiet pity, one that drowns him in more woes, "I'm not worth it."
Yet, Daeron's gaze lingers. Through the ache of self-loathing, he witnesses something greater. Your care, your attention. You don't depict him as the prince, a failure and an heir. There's no glory, no disgrace either. Just him. Raw in his sorrow, in his burdens. Somehow, that touches him. Doesn't make him flinch. "But I am grateful... to occupy your thoughts," he leans towards you, meaning a kiss upon your cheek. But he stumbles, his lips slipping to graze your shoulder instead.
areudirty
janainaart
annaxmalina
stormborns
izzy806
romaincrisis
