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Your supersoldier! Reader accidentally pushing Dex off the bed in her sleep mayhaps?
You Accidentally Push Dex Off The Bed
WC 1.6k
TW just fluff!!!! Dex in slight emotional distress, super soldier!reader
Totally works as a one shot but in my head this reader is the same reader from No Absolution and Snap Out of It!
Dex knew you loved him.
Most of the time.
He knew it when you curled into him at night, when you cozied up to his side of the bed, when you mumbled his name into his chest half-asleep like it was the safest word your brain knew. He knew it when you complained about his cold feet and still hooked your ankle over his. He knew it when you kissed his shoulder, first thing in the morning, without opening your eyes.
But he also knew that you were cranky about sleep sometimes. Especially when you had just come home from back-to-back missions with that flat look that meant the world had taken a cheese grater to your patience. There was blood on your sleeve that wasn’t yours and a bruise blooming under your collarbone that you refused to let him look at.
He had simply followed you around in silence as you barely made it through the shower. Barely made it through brushing your teeth. Barely made it into bed before collapsing face-first into the pillow. “If anyone wakes me up, I’m gonna bite.”
Dex, who had killed people for less threatening statements, took it very seriously.
Then your hand came out from under the blanket and patted the mattress impatiently, as if to say why aren’t you here yet?
Dex got in so fast it was almost embarrassing.
You had made a sleepy sound as soon as the mattress dipped, but then you reached back, found his wrist, and dragged his arm over your waist. Not tenderly or romantically. You just put him where you wanted him, tucked his hand under yours, and immediately went limp again.
And everything was fine.
It was fine until 4 a.m., when you clearly started dreaming.
It wasn’t a nightmare. Dex knew what those looked like, and this was not that.
This was just you, half-dead and dreaming nonsense, making the most annoyed, crankiest little sound as you began to migrate away from him like a crab.
At first, Dex let you.
He was reasonable, at least as reasonable as he could be. You shifted an inch, maybe two, and he simply adjusted his hand on your waist. It was no big deal as his palm smoothed over your stomach, his chest following your back, his body staying pressed close behind yours because that was where he belonged.
Then you moved again, a little more this time.
Your shoulder slipped away from his chest. You dragged your hip out from under his hand. Your body started retreating across the mattress like you had somewhere better to be at four in the morning.
Dex frowned, now half awake and irritated by your subconscious, apparently trying to escape his loving grip.
His arm tightened, restraining you a little in his big arms. It was a pathetic, clingy, half-conscious little no as he tried to pull you back against him.
You made a tiny displeased noise and inched away in deep sleep.
Then, because he was stupid and in love and apparently incapable of learning from warning signs, he tried again. He slid closer, tucked his face near the back of your neck, and gathered you into him with all the commitment of a man trying to keep his favourite person from drifting off the edge of the world.
Unfortunately, you were a supersoldier.
And you had apparently decided that whoever was touching you in your dreams didn't deserve to.
You let out the cutest little groan.
Dex had half a second to think, Oh, that’s sweet.
Then your elbow drove back into his ribs.
He grunted, more surprised than hurt, his arm loosening just enough for you to wriggle farther away.
“No,” he mumbled, and reached for you again.
Bad choice.
Your knee came up next, shoving into his thigh with enough force to move him several inches across the mattress. Dex blinked into the dark, confused and heartbroken, but still clinging to the very stupid belief that he could fix this by cuddling harder.
So he tightened his arm around your waist one last time.
You huffed, then you kicked. It was an exhausted, dream-fight little shove of your leg and shoulder and elbow all at once, pushing Dex off the bed completely.
He landed on the floor with a thud.
You rolled halfway into the warm space he had left behind, made one satisfied little sleepy noise, and went right back to dreaming.
Dex stared at the ceiling.
The floor was cold against his spine, but that barely registered. He had been thrown through worse things than a bedroom. He had landed harder on concrete. He had been kicked, stabbed, shot at, operated on, broken open, put back together.
This was not the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Unfortunately, his heart didn’t know that.
His heart, because it was stupid and badly trained and had become humiliatingly dependent on you, reacted like you had opened one eye, looked directly at him, and said, You specifically. Leave.
Dex swallowed.
You were asleep. He knew you were asleep. Logically, he knew your unconscious body had simply decided it needed more room. You had been exhausted. You hadn’t meant anything by it. You probably had no idea he was on the floor.
But when had his love ever followed logic?
Maybe this was better. You had the bed. You had space. He was close enough to hear if your breathing changed. He was close enough to know if someone came through the door. Far enough not to crowd you. Far enough not to be too much.
Maybe being close enough to you on the floor was all he ever deserved.
Twenty minutes passed.
Dex reviewed the last twelve hours with clinical precision. Had he done something wrong? Had he been too quiet at when you got home? Too intense when he watched you shower? Had you noticed him checking the locks twice when you were changing into your pyjamas? Three times? Had he kissed you too much? Not enough? Had you finally gotten tired of being loved by him?
Then you shifted again.
Dex turned his head before he could stop himself.
Your hand slid across the mattress, searching blindly.
Pat.
Pat, pat.
You paused as your fingers curled around empty sheet. You frowned in your sleep.
“Dex,” you mumbled.
He tried to answer, but nothing came out.
You slapped the mattress harder this time. “Dex.”
“I’m here,” he managed, but it was too quiet.
You looked down at him on the floor with absolutely no comprehension. You did a sleepy, annoyed squint. “Huh?”
Dex stared up at you. You blinked.
Your voice was thick with exhaustion. “Why the fuck’re you down there?”
He tried to answer, but couldn’t. Because what was he supposed to say?
Because you pushed me away and I thought maybe that was what you wanted. Because I didn’t think I deserved to climb back in unless you asked.
You stared at him for another second, barely conscious.
Then you made an offended sound and flopped your arm over the side of the bed toward him. “Come back.”
Dex didn’t move, still trying to wrap his mind around the last hour.
You wiggled your fingers, impatient and clumsy. “Dex.”
“I thought you didn’t love me any—”
“Dex….” You hadn’t even heard the full absurd thought. You had simply rejected it on instinct.
“I thought you wanted space,” he said quietly.
You blinked at him again, slowly, like he had just tried to explain taxes to a houseplant.
“What?”
“You pushed me.”
You processed that with the solemn difficulty of someone receiving bad news underwater.
Then you frowned. “I’was rude.”
You reached farther down until your fingers brushed his shoulder. The touch was weak, uncoordinated, barely a touch at all, but when Dex still didn’t move, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged, enough to make your point.
“Bed,” you mumbled.
Dex got back up slowly, as if he was afraid the mattress might reject him, too.
You watched him climb back into bed with the exhausted disgust of someone witnessing a grown man almost emotionally perish over a sleeping accident.
The second he was close enough, you grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down.
His arm slid around you again, like he had been granted temporary access to holy ground. You immediately grabbed his wrist and dragged it tighter around your waist, tucking his hand against the bottom of your shin like you were putting him back where he belonged.
“Too early,” you muttered.
Dex pressed his face into the back of your neck. “You mad at me?” he asked quietly.
You groaned, still mostly asleep. “I’m mad at being awake.”
“That’s all?”
You rolled over in his arms with dramatic effort and squinted at him through one barely open eye. You looked murderous. Beautiful. Half-dead. Still the love of his life, though.
You half-stared at him for another second, then relaxed when you realised he had spiralled over something stupid and couldn’t help himself.
“Baby,” you mumbled. You shoved your face into his chest, cranky and affectionate, and hooked your leg over his hip. “C’mere.”
His arms tightened around you, relieved to the point of humiliation. You made a content little sound against him, already drifting off, one hand curled loosely at the back of his neck.
“There,” you whispered. “See? Still love you. Freak.”
Dex closed his eyes, breathing a content sigh with a slight smile.
His heart was still doing pathetic and painful flips under his ribs, but your body was tucked back into his, your breath against his skin, your hand holding him there even in sleep.
Dex pressed his mouth to your hair, held you a little tighter, and eventually drifted off, too.
Summery: A terrible day in the French Quarter melts away when Klaus comes home to find Y/N and their son Kayden dancing.
Pairing: Klaus Mikealson x f!reader
Genre: Dad!klaus / Heavy comfort / Fluff / Slice of Life / Established relationship
Requests are open!
The heavy oak front door of the Mikaelson mansion clicked shut, the sound echoing hollowly through the expansive foyer. Klaus stood in the entryway for a long moment, his eyes closed as he let out a slow, jagged breath. It had been an utterly wretched day. The kind of day where the fragile peace he fought so fiercely to maintain in New Orleans felt like sand slipping through his fingers. Vampire factions arguing over territory lines, witches whispering of new rebellions in the shadows, and the endless, tiresome posturing of men who foolishly believed they could outsmart the Original Hybrid.
His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his coat. The familiar, toxic simmer of his temper was threatening to boil over, a dark cloud of agitation clinging to him like a second skin. He wanted to tear something apart. He wanted to tear someone apart.
Unbuttoning the top constraint of his shirt with an aggressive tug, Klaus made a bee-line for his study, fully intending to pour a glass of bourbon so neat it burned, lock the door, and drown in his own brooding thoughts.
Then, he heard the music.
It wasn’t the classical vinyl he usually favored when he was in a foul mood, nor was it the heavy, dramatic operatics that suited his darker impulses. It was something entirely different—upbeat, warm, a little brassy, and utterly bursting with life. It echoed softly down the long, echoing hallway, cutting through the suffocating tension of the house.
Klaus paused. His feet, previously marching toward isolation, shifted direction of their own accord. He walked toward the living room, his steps growing quieter, his predatory instincts smoothing out into something resembling curiosity.
He stopped at the threshold, slipping his hands into his pockets as he leaned his shoulder against the heavy wooden door frame. And just like that, the ice encasing his chest began to thaw.
There you were.
The expensive, antique Persian rugs had been pushed haphazardly against the walls, completely clearing the center of the room to create a makeshift dance floor. You were spinning around in a soft, oversized sweater that swallowed your frame, your laughter ringing out louder and clearer than the music itself. Clutched in your hands was the small, fiercely enthusiastic form of Kayden, your seven-year-old son.
The boy had inherited his father’s wild, unruly golden-brown curls and a mini version of his intense determination. Right now, however, that fierce Mikaelson determination was focused entirely on matching your terrible, joyful dance steps. Kayden was giggling hysterically, his little sock-covered feet sliding effortlessly across the polished hardwood as you spun him in a dizzying circle. You looked radiant—completely unbothered by the politics of the city, entirely wrapped up in the magic of the silly moment you were sharing with your son.
Klaus just watched. The ancient Original, the hybrid terror of the supernatural world, was entirely defeated by the sight. A rare, completely unguarded smile tugged at the corner of his lips, smoothing away the harsh lines of anger that had marred his face all afternoon. He didn't want to interrupt. He just wanted to stand there for an eternity, memorizing the way the golden evening light filtered through the sheer curtains, catching the edges of your hair and making you look like an oil painting come to life.
Suddenly, Kayden’s eyes caught the movement in the doorway. "Daddy!" he gasped, his face lighting up with pure, unadulterated joy.
You stopped spinning, catching your breath with a breathless laugh as you followed your son’s gaze. The moment your eyes met Klaus’s, the playful excitement in your expression softened into something deeply knowing. You saw the lingering tiredness in the slump of his shoulders, the faint shadow of exhaustion behind his eyes.
Without a word of question about his day, you extended a hand toward him. "You're home," you said, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "Come on, you're just in time. Kayden is trying to teach me a routine he made up at school, and I am failing miserably."
Klaus chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound in his chest as he shook his head. "As tempting as that sounds, love, I think I am far too old and far too tired to keep up with the two of you tonight. I’d only ruin the choreography."
"No excuses, Dad!" Kayden demanded, abandoning your side to charge across the room. He slammed into Klaus’s legs, wrapping his arms around his thighs before grabbing one of Klaus's large, battle-worn hands. He tugged on it with all his seven-year-old might. "You have to dance. It’s a rule. Right, Mom?"
"A strict, non-negotiable household rule," you agreed, walking over to join them. The soft fabric of your sweater brushed against him as you wrapped your arms around Klaus's neck. You leaned up on your tiptoes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He melted into it, his hands automatically finding your waist, anchoring you against him. When you pulled back, you gave him a playful wink. "Come on, Nik. Just one dance. Shake off the city."
Defeated by the two people who held his entire heart in their hands, Klaus let out a mock, dramatic sigh. "Very well. But if your mother breaks an ankle, Kayden, I am holding you personally responsible."
Kayden cheered, dragging his father into the center of the room.
The next fifteen minutes were a beautiful blur of clumsy steps, bright laughter, and pure, chaotic joy. Any lingering remnants of Klaus's bad day vanished entirely. He lifted Kayden up, tossing him into the air just high enough to elicit a thrilled shriek, before settling the boy safely onto his shoulders. Kayden held onto his father’s hair for dear life, laughing as Klaus spun around in dizzying circles.
Then, Klaus reeled you into his chest. The upbeat track changed, and he took the lead, guiding you across the floor with the effortless, timeless grace he’d perfected over a millennium. He twirled you out and pulled you back in, his eyes locked onto yours, a genuine, dazzling smile lighting up his face. For a little while, the world outside those four walls ceased to exist. There were no enemies to slaughter, no operational threats to manage, no heavy burdens of a crown to bear. There was only the warmth of his family.
As the frantic energy of the upbeat songs faded, a slower, gentler melody began to filter through the speakers. The room's atmosphere shifted, settling into a cozy, quiet lull as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the room in deep shades of twilight.
Exhausted but thoroughly happy, Klaus moved over to the large, plush sofa, sinking deep into the cushions with a contented sigh. Kayden, whose boundless seven-year-old energy had finally hit a wall, crawled up onto the sofa right after him. The little boy yawned widely, rubbing his eyes before tucking his head directly into the crook of Klaus's arm. His small, chubby hand gripped the fabric of his father's shirt, anchoring himself.
You smiled softly at the sight, your heart swelling with love. Moving quietly, you crawled onto the sofa on Klaus’s other side, curling your body into his warmth. You rested your head against his chest, right over his heart, draping your arm over his waist as you stretched your legs out along the length of the cushions.
Klaus shifted, adjusting his weight so you were both comfortable. He wrapped one strong, protective arm around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer to his side, while his other hand gently and rhythmically stroked through Kayden’s wild curls. He listened to the steady, peaceful beat of your heart blending perfectly with your son's shallow breaths. To Klaus, it was the most beautiful, comforting symphony he had ever heard in his thousand years of existence.
Within minutes, Kayden’s breathing evened out completely, his body going heavy and lax as he fell into a deep sleep.
"Bad day?" you murmured softly into the quiet room, your voice thick and heavy with oncoming sleep. You pressed a gentle, comforting kiss to the warm skin of his chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.
Klaus rested his chin on top of your head, inhaling the familiar, soothing scent of your hair. The anger, the stress, the endless warfare of his life—it all felt so small, so insignificant compared to the quiet universe he held in his arms. He tightened his grip around you, letting an overwhelming sense of profound peace settle deep into his bones.
"It was," Klaus whispered into the dark, cozy room, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to show. He kissed the crown of your head, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder. "But it's perfect now, love."
He waited for a reply, but heard only the soft, rhythmic sigh of your breathing. You had fallen asleep, too, thoroughly exhausted from the evening's antics.
Klaus smiled in the dark, a soft, fiercely protective look washing over his features as he looked down at his sleeping wife and son. He held his family close against his chest, letting the low music play on into the night, entirely content to just stay right there, exactly where he belonged.
summary; Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can’t refuse.
pairing; editor!Jungkook x assistant!reader (f)
genre/warnings; the proposal!au, fake marriage au, enemies to friends(!!!), friends to lovers, bouts of flangst, dry humping, slight blood but not too bad, lang, alcohol, poor jjk discovers he has the ability to feel emotion, poor y/n is in the middle as always
w.c; 20.1k of endless banter and koo hiding his romantic side
a/n; yeah, it’s almost summer. But i think we need a lil holiday magic in our lives! I rewatched the proposal this weekend and whipped this up. Why is koo so gosh darn easy to write? This is my longest fic since i wrote maze runner back in 2014!! i rec this extension to get fully immersed in 2pov! Enjoy and pls tell me if there’s any errors im too poopied to proofread it again
drabbles; 01
“When I hired you, you basically signed a contract that said you’d do anything for me.”
“Yeah, Jeon. I did. That meant like, getting you coffee or working late hours—normal work stipulations,” you can feel the hair on your scalp growing thinner, “not commit fucking fraud!”
Summary: It would only ever be you, no matter how much time had passed.
Warnings: fluff, angst, reader described to have the same eyes as Rhys.
A C O T A R M A S T E R L I S T
There had been many times over the course of being chained within the depths of this cave in which you had thought yourself to have officially gone insane but the moment you felt as though the shadows in the corners of this prison began moving was when you had accepted that insanity had taken over you but the moment you began hearing them whispering to you was truly the loss of all hope.
You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.
Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.
Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.
You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.
Was Rhysand High Lord yet?
If he was, how had your father died?
Had Rhysand found his mate?
Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?
In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.
You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.
Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.
“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.
Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”
Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.
A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.
Feyre was confused.
Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.
Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”
“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.
“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.
She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.
“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”
“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”
That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”
Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.
Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.
Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”
Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”
Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.
Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”
The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”
“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”
Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.
Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”
“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”
“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”
Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.
“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.
His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.
“What’s on your mind?” He asked.
Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”
Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”
Feyre shrugged sheepishly.
Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”
Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”
Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”
Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”
Number one girl.
Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.
Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”
Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”
Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”
She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.
Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.
She’s their number one girl.
No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.
“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.
She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.
Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”
She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”
The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”
Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.
“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.
Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”
“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”
Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”
Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.
“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”
Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous!” She argued.
Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”
It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.
Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.
It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.
It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.
It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.
Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.
The House always listened.
Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.
In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.
The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.
The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.
The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.
A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.
You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.
Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.
A male.
Sitting, observing.
“Hello,” you greeted softly.
No answer.
“What are you doing up there?” You asked.
The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.
“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.
He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.
“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.
“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”
It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.
They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.
“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.
Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”
“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”
You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”
He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.
You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”
“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.
“Why?” You asked.
“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.
You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.
“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”
The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.
Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.
“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.
He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.
“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.
“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.
“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”
He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.
“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.
He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”
“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.
His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.
“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”
“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”
You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”
Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”
“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”
You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.
Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.
“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.
“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.
Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.
“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.
“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.
“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.
You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.
“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.
His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”
You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”
Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”
“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”
Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”
You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”
You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.
At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.
Not yet though.
Only when he was ready.
“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.
You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”
You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”
You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.
You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.
You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”
Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”
Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”
Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”
A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”
“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”
“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”
“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”
“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.
“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.
“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.
“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.
“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.
“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”
Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”
“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.
“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.
“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.
Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.
He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.
Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.
You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.
Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.
Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.
“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.
“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.
The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.
“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”
Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.
“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.
The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.
Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.
He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.
But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.
You had caught him, just like you said you would.
Wake. Wake. Wake.
Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.
Another day it remained the same.
A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.
You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.
Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.
The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.
Shadows.
They were shadows.
Master. Master. Master.
She hears us. She hears us.
They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.
Was that them talking?
“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.
Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.
No.
They almost sounded like hisses.
“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.
You didn’t understand.
“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.
But who? You wondered.
It seemed they knew your thoughts too.
You. You.
Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.
You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.
Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.
How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?
He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.
Oh.
“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.
Yes. They hissed again.
“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.
“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.
You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.
They truly were yours.
Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.
“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”
Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.
Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.
But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.
Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.
He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.
He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.
He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.
It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.
Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.
When he awoke this time though, it was different.
His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.
The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?
Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.
Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.
The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.
But why?
He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.
Intruder. But where?
The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.
His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.
There it was.
A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.
He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.
Nothing.
They did not seem threatening though.
They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.
Help. His own shadows muttered.
“Help?” He questioned.
They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.
Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.
No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.
Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.
He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.
He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.
“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”
“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.
“What is it?”
Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.
Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”
Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”
“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.
“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”
“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”
“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”
Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.
“Chained,” he spoke aloud.
“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.
Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”
“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.
The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.
She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.
Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”
“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.
“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”
Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.
It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.
The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.
What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?
Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.
Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.
Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.
He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.
A woman of his kind.
The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.
He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.
Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.
Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.
Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.
One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.
He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.
It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.
He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.
Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.
Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.
“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”
He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.
She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.
Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?
It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.
His fae woman.
No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.
Yet you remained in his sight.
He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.
Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.
The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.
Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.
The dagger you had given him.
The first gift he had ever received.
He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.
Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.
He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.
And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.
Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.
He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.
Because even though Azriel had never needed the confirmation of the Cauldron to know what you were to him, why had it taken him finding you after so long to finally snap into place?
" The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow. "
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ᝰ.ᐟkey: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort I 04/22/26 I gif - @/ransomflanagan
꒰ masterlist ꒱ ꒰ marvel ꒱ ꒰ one I two I three I four I five I six ꒱
handful ── @tw1sters I H/C
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
consolation ── @/tw1sters I H/C
A memory from Bucky's past cracks open your confidence in his love for you. With your heart on the line, Bucky has to convince you that his belongs to you.
already yours ── @/tw1sters I H/C + S
Getting cheated on mere weeks away from the holidays has you fleeing to your parents' holiday house upstate. What you don't expect is to find and fall for the groundskeeper there who seems to know more about you than you might think.
we’re not really strangers ── @/tw1sters I H/C
Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.
so, this is love? pt2 ── @superbassbuck I H/C + S
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
table for two one ── @/superbassbuck I A + C
One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.
grade-a pain in my ass pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt10 pt11 pt12 pt13 ── @/superbassbuck I F + A + S
Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you're the elementary school teacher of Rebecca's class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. How could he? Especially since you're a grade-A pain in his ass.
anesthesia haze ── @w1nter-fairy I F
After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
don’t play with love potions ── @witchywithwhiskey I S
bucky barnes barges into your workshop while you're brewing a love potion and when you're startled into spilling it, the containment protocols in new avengers tower are triggered—trapping you in with the super-soldier and a whole lotta love potion.
perfect partner ── @helaintoloki I F
Bucky has loved you for as long as he’s known you, but he’s not willing to risk your friendship by telling you that. thankfully, you take matters into your own hands
back to the old house ── @/helaintoloki I H/C + S
Bucky finds out he has a teenage daughter he never knew about because Hydra took him before he could find out. He reconnects with her later in life and tries to be a dad. The daughter might even try to get him and her mom (the reader, his ex-gf) back together!
black sheep ── @aquaticmercy I A + F
The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.
flight risk ── @wkemeup I H/C
Bucky becomes a flight risk after a failed mission and is put in lockup under Steve’s orders. Even though Bucky won’t say a word of what happened, you camp outside the door to his cell so he knows he isn’t alone.
pinefall valley ── @chipotleburritobowl I H/C + S
heavy with the weight of a job you never had any passion for, you decided to open the envelope your grandfather gave you after shoving it in your office drawer for years. suddenly, you’re living in a small obscure town in the middle of nowhere getting more than what you signed up for.
you slide your card toward the register like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the last hour watching dick grayson smile at you across dinner and pretending your knees weren’t weak.
he notices immediately. of course he does. this man has the reflexes of a cat and the dramatic instincts of a theatre kid raised by ninjas.
“hey— hey, hey, hold on.” he’s already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide, voice half-laughing like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “what do you think you’re doing?”
you blink. “...paying?”
dick presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “paying? you? for me?” he shakes his head slowly, lips twitching. “that’s cute. wrong, but cute.”
you try not to smile, because he’s being ridiculous, standing there in his leather jacket, hair falling into his eyes like he was crafted to be your weakness. “i just thought I could take this one.”
“no, no, sweetheart.” he steps closer, resting his palms on the counter beside your hand. you can feel the warmth of him, the way he crowds in without being pushy. “that’s my job.”
you raise a brow. “your job?”
his grin softens just enough to make your heart stutter. “yeah. my job. i asked you out. i pay. that’s the rule.”
“that’s not a real rule.” you argue.
“it is in the dick grayson handbook,” he counters, tapping the imaginary badge on his chest. “chapter one: be a gentleman. chapter two: do unnecessary flips. chapter three: pay for dates.”
you snort. “i swear you make half of this up.”
he leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret just for you. “only the parts meant to make you smile.”
your cheeks warm and he definitely catches it. His eyes flicker in that smug soft boy way, not arrogant, just unbearably fond.
dick nudges your card back toward you with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “look… i know you can pay. you’re capable, you’re independent, you scare the hell out of me in the best way.” he pauses, blue eyes bright, honest. “but let me treat you tonight. i want to.”
you swallow. “you really don’t like when i try to pay, huh?”
he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “i like that you try. i like that you’re thoughtful. but it also makes me wanna wrap you up in my arms and say ‘nope, not happening’ every single time.”
“possessive much?” you tease.
“only when it comes to you,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most natural truth in the world.
he takes your card, sets it back in your bag, and presses the tiniest kiss to your forehead before you can argue. “let me do this one. consider it… an investment in more nights like this.”
you look up at him, fighting a smile. “and what do i owe in return?”
dick shrugs lightly, looping his fingers with yours as he hands his card to the cashier. “just keep showing up.”
and the way he says it. Soft, earnest, like you’re the best thing to happen to his week...yeah.
Your Honour, the jury has reviewed every witness testimony, lore scrap, and spicy fan theory and would like to officially declare that Eris Vanserra is guilty on multiple charges including hotness, cuntiness, ambient sluttiness, emotional secrecy, and being secretly the good guy while pretending not to be.
-
This is a multilayered crime.
-
Exhibit A: His Illegal Hotness
The court recognizes that Eris is, by all physical accounts:
- dangerously attractive
- offensively pretty
- the dictionary definition of “ginger menace”
- and built like he was handcrafted by the Cauldron specifically to cause emotional distress
This hotness is enhanced by:
- the Autumn Court fire aesthetic
- the smug expression he wears like a crown
- that one smirking line where he says just enough to ruin your internal peace
This is not just hotness,
This is premeditated hotness with intent.
-
Exhibit B: The Cuntiness is a Weapon
Eris’s verbal offenses include:
- strategic silence
- morally devastating one-liners
- the “I know something you don’t know and I’m not telling you” eyebrow lift
- entire conversations composed of half-truths, riddles, and trauma crumbs
This is elite-level cuntiness.
Not the amateur kind.
This is High Lord Standard Cuntiness, a style Rhysand uses but Eris perfected.
-
Exhibit C: The Slut Energy (The Passive Slut Aura)
The jury confirms Eris exhibits a unique state of ambient sluttiness. He does not flirt. He does not seduce. He simply breathes, and suddenly everyone is wondering about his stamina.
*Romance, Contemporary Fiction, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Workplace Romance, New Adult.*
Inspired by the line “Fashion designa, j’achète plus, j’designe” by the Congolese singer Theodora meaning “Fashion designer, I don’t buy anymore, I design.” A statement of creating instead of consuming.
5.3 words
The air in the atelier was thick with the scent of expensive silk, ozone from a steaming iron, and the sharp, metallic tang of industrial shears. For Y/N, this was the scent of home.
As a world-renowned designer, Y/N was used to the high-pressure cooker of Fashion Week, but today felt different. Today wasn’t about a runway; it was about a return. Pinned to her mood board was a photograph from five years ago: a rookie idol group standing awkwardly in stiff, off-the-rack suits that she had painstakingly tailored on a shoestring budget. In the center of the photo was Choi Seungcheol, his eyes bright with a mix of hunger and nervousness.
He had been her first "big" client back when they were both nobodies. Now, he was a global icon, and she was the woman the world’s elite begged to dress.
The heavy glass doors of the studio creaked open. Y/N didn't look up from the drape of a heavy velvet fabric she was pinning.
"The shoulder needs another half-centimeter," she murmured, more to herself than the newcomer. "The movement has to be fluid, not restrictive."
"You’re still a perfectionist, I see."
The voice was deeper than she remembered richer, like aged oak. Y/N finally looked up.
Seungcheol stood in the doorway, framed by the afternoon sun. He wasn't the boy in the ill-fitting suit anymore. He wore a simple black turtleneck that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders, and his presence seemed to swallow the room's oxygen. Despite his status, he didn’t stride in like he owned the place. He waited at the threshold, eyes scanning the studio with a look of genuine reverence.
"Seungcheol-ah," Y/N said, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. She set the pins down. "You’re early. The idols I know usually show up thirty minutes late with an iced americano as an apology."
He chuckled, stepping inside and closing the door softly. "For anyone else? Maybe. But I know how you feel about your time. I wouldn’t dare keep the Great Y/N waiting."
He walked toward her, but stopped a respectful three feet away the "professional zone" they had established years ago. He gave a shallow bow, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her heart do a strange, rhythmic skip.
"It’s been a long time," he said softly.
"Three years since the last award show," she clarified, wiping her hands on her apron. "And five since we actually sat down and built a concept together. Why me, Seungcheol? You have every luxury house in Paris screaming to dress you for this tour."
Seungcheol looked around at the sketches pinned to the walls chaotic, brilliant, and soulful. "Because they see a mannequin," he said, stepping closer to a charcoal drawing of a structured jacket. "You see the person. You always treated me like a leader before I even knew how to lead. I don't want a costume. I want... this."
He gestured to the room, to the sweat and the artistry.
Y/N felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest. It was the same respect he’d shown her when she was a broke intern a quiet, unwavering belief in her vision.
"This tour is going to be grueling," Y/N warned, picking up her measuring tape and draping it around her neck like a scarf. "I’ll be in your space constantly. I’ll be poking you with needles at 3:00 AM. I’m not a gentle collaborator."
Seungcheol stepped into her light, a playful but sincere glint in his eyes. He lifted his arms slightly, inviting her to begin the measurements, a gesture of total trust.
"I’ve missed your needles, Y/N," he whispered, the corner of his mouth curving up. "Let's get to work."
Note from Y/N's Sketchbook: - Client: Choi Seungcheol. Measurements have changed shoulders are broader, chest is deeper. But he still stands the same way when he’s thinking. He still holds his breath when I get too close with the tape measure. Or maybe... that's just me.
The following Tuesday, the atelier was a fortress of solitude. The heavy rain outside muffled the Seoul traffic, creating a cocoon of white noise. Y/N was hunched over a cutting table, her hair pulled back into a messy claw clip, a pair of tailor's shears glinting under the halogen lights.
She wasn't wearing a designer label. Instead, she was wrapped in a chunky, oversized cardigan she had knitted from hand-dyed wool a gradient of deep charcoal to slate blue paired with wide-leg trousers she’d drafted from a vintage linen pattern.
The bell at the entrance chimed, but she didn’t stop her stroke. The blade sliced through the silk with a satisfying shhhht.
"You're late," she said, her voice calm. "Two minutes."
"I was busy fighting a manager who wanted me to wear a different brand to the door," a voice replied.
Seungcheol walked in, shedding his wet umbrella. He paused, his eyes traveling over her outfit. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that reached his eyes and stayed there.
"You still wear your own art, I see," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he approached the table.
Y/N glanced down at her cardigan, then back at him, pushing a stray hair out of her face with the back of her hand. "You know the rule, Seungcheol. i'm a Fashion Designer J'achète plus, j'designe (I don't buy anymore, I design myself). Why would I buy a soul from a department store when I can make one right here?"
Seungcheol reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the sleeve of her cardigan. He looked at her, silently asking for permission. When she didn't pull away, he let his thumb graze the heavy knit.
"It’s soft," he remarked, his gaze shifting from the wool to her eyes. "It looks like you. Sturdy, but... comfortable."
"It’s practical for a cold studio," she deflected, feeling a sudden heat rise to her cheeks. She moved away to grab her notebook. "Now, stand on the pedestal. I need to check the drape of the prototype jacket."
He obeyed without a word, stepping onto the raised wooden platform. As she began to pin the muslin mockup onto his frame, the proximity felt different today. In their youth, they were too busy surviving to notice the silence between them. Now, the silence was heavy, filled with things they weren't saying.
"I remember when you made that first scarf," Seungcheol said suddenly, looking at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, but watching her through the glass. "The red one. You wore it until it started unravelling because you couldn't afford to buy a new one."
"I told you I was just testing the durability of the yarn," Y/N lied, her hands pausing at his waist.
"You were a bad liar then, too," he teased gently. He looked down at her, his expression softening. "I always admired that about you. Even when we had nothing, you didn't want what everyone else had. You wanted what you could create. It’s why I trust you more than any creative director in the industry."
Y/N looked up, her face inches from his chest. The smell of his cologne something woody and expensive mingled with the scent of her raw wool. The respect in his eyes was so loud it was deafening. He didn't just see a famous designer; he saw the girl who used to sew by candlelight.
"Don't move," she whispered, her voice slightly breathless. She reached up to pin the collar, her knuckles accidentally brushing the skin of his neck. He didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, giving her better access, his eyes never leaving her face.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.
The clock on the atelier wall ticked toward 2:00 AM. In the world of high fashion, time is a fluid concept, but for Y/N, the late hours were when the "soul" of a garment truly appeared.
The studio was dim, lit only by the concentrated pools of light from the sewing lamps. Y/N was sitting on the floor, surrounded by rolls of leather and heavy denim. She was focused on a pair of boots she was customizing for the tour’s opening act hand-painting a subtle, iridescent finish onto the heels.
She was so absorbed in the work that she didn't hear the back door’s security code beep. She only realized she wasn't alone when a paper bag was set quietly on the workbench above her head.
"You're going to ruin your eyesight," Seungcheol said.
He wasn't in his "idol" clothes. He wore a simple hoodie and a beanie, looking more like the trainee she used to share bus rides with than the leader of a global phenomenon. He sat down on the floor across from her, crossing his legs and leaning his back against a rolls of fabric.
"I could say the same to you," Y/N replied, not looking up but offering a small smile. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? You have dance practice in six hours."
"I couldn't sleep. My head was full of choreo and... other things." He pulled a warm container of tteokbokki and two cans of coffee from the bag. "I figured you’d be here. You always did your best work when the world was quiet."
Y/N finally set her brush down, stretching her aching back. She reached for a coffee, the cold metal a sharp contrast to her warm skin. "I'm trying to finish the structural elements of your main coat. It needs to be heavy enough to look regal, but light enough for you to breathe."
Seungcheol watched her, his gaze lingering on her ink-stained fingers. He noticed she was wearing a new piece today a structured, high-collared vest made from scrap pieces of upholstery fabric she’d saved from a previous project. It was rugged, avant-garde, and uniquely her.
"You're doing it again," he murmured.
"What?"
"That look. You're calculating how to take care of me through a piece of cloth." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes softening. "I see the way you obsess over the weight of the fabric on my shoulders. You've always looked out for my comfort, even when I was too busy trying to look tough for the cameras."
Y/N looked away, fiddling with the tab of her coffee can. "It’s my job, Seungcheol. If the clothes fail, the performance fails."
"It's more than a job for you, Y/N. Don't lie." He shifted closer, his knee inches from hers. The space between them felt charged, like the static before a storm. "I've seen you work with other artists. You're professional, you're brilliant... but with me, you’re different. You’re protective."
Y/N felt her heart hammer against her ribs. She tried to maintain the professional wall they had built over the years. "I've known you a long time. I know your stage habits. I know you lean to the left when you're tired, so I reinforce that seam. It's logic, not... sentiment."
Seungcheol reached out, not to touch her hand, but to pick up the brush she had dropped. He turned it over in his fingers, his expression unreadable.
"Logic doesn't make someone stay up until 2:00 AM hand-painting boots because they want the light to hit the singer's feet just right," he said softly. He looked up, catching her gaze. "I respect your work more than anyone else's. But I think I respect the person behind it even more."
He didn't lean in. He didn't try to break the distance. He simply sat there in the quiet, acknowledging the depth of their bond without forcing it into a shape it wasn't ready for yet.
"Eat," he said, pushing the food toward her. "If you faint from hunger, I’ll have to finish the sewing myself, and we both know I can’t stitch a straight line to save my life."
Y/N laughed, the tension breaking just enough for her to breathe again. "You really can't. I still remember the button you tried to fix in 2019. It looked like a spider had a stroke on your shirt."
"Hey, I tried!" he defended, his eyes crinkling into that familiar, warm crescent shape.
They sat there for the next hour, eating in a comfortable silence that felt like a bridge between their past and an uncertain, shimmering future. No confessions, no grand gestures just two people who had grown up together, finally finding the time to be in the same room.
Note from Y/N's Sketchbook: He didn't leave after he dropped off the food. He stayed until I finished the second boot. He didn't say much, but he watched me work like I was the main event, not the stage he's about to stand on.
The dress rehearsal was held in a sprawling, empty stadium that felt cavernous and cold. The stage was a labyrinth of scaffolding and LED screens, but the real heart of the operation was the "Quick-Change" tent tucked just behind the main wings.
Y/N stood in the center of the chaos, a pincushion strapped to her wrist like a combat medic. She was wearing a pair of cargo pants she’d reconstructed from three different pairs of vintage fatigues and a simple, crisp white shirt she’d tailored to fit her perfectly minimalist, sharp, and entirely her own.
"He’s coming off for the Act I change!" a staffer yelled.
The heavy curtains parted, and Seungcheol practically stumbled in, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving from the intensity of the opening three songs. The adrenaline was rolling off him in waves.
"The zipper on the left cuff," he panted, holding his arm out to Y/N. "It’s snagging when I do the floor work."
Y/N didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees to get a better angle, her fingers flying over the intricate silver hardware. "I told you that teeth-count was too fine for high-impact movement. Don't move."
As she worked, Seungcheol stood perfectly still. Around them, hair stylists were spritzing his fringe and makeup artists were dabbing at his forehead, but his eyes were fixed downward, watching the top of Y/N’s head.
From his vantage point, he could see the precision of her movements the way she didn't panic under the literal countdown of the stage manager. He noticed a small smudge of tailor’s chalk on her cheek.
"There," she muttered, tugging the zipper into place. "It’s clear. Try it."
He flexed his wrist. "Perfect."
The stage manager called out, "Two minutes to 'Fear'!"
The stylists scattered to prep the next look, but Seungcheol didn't move. He reached out, his hand steady, and used his thumb to gently wipe the chalk smudge from Y/N’s cheek. His touch was lingering, far longer than a professional courtesy required.
"You have chalk on your face," he said, his voice barely audible over the muffled bass of the backing track vibrating through the floor.
Y/N froze, her hands still resting near his sleeve. She looked up, and for a second, the stadium disappeared. It was just the two of them in the dim, polyester-scented tent. The way he was looking at her wasn't just about respect it was a deep, quiet recognition. He looked at her the way a man looks at the only person who truly knows him.
"Thanks," she whispered, her throat suddenly dry.
"Y/N-ah," he said, stepping a fraction closer, his boots clicking against the plywood. "When I'm out there... when the lights are too bright and I can't see the crowd... I just feel the weight of this jacket. I think about how you spent eighteen hours on the embroidery. It makes me feel like I’m not standing up there alone."
Before she could respond before her brain could process the gravity of what he’d just admitted the stage manager barked, "Scoups! On your mark! Now!"
Seungcheol gave her one last, intense look, a small smirk playing on his lips as if he knew he’d just dropped a bombshell, and then he was gone, disappearing back into the light.
Y/N stood there, the pincushion still on her wrist, her cheek still tingling where his thumb had pressed. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking, just a little.
The Rehearsal Note:
The garment held up perfectly. The designer, however, is starting to fray at the edges. He isn't supposed to say things like that. Not when we have twenty more shows to go. Not when I still have to be the person who keeps him grounded.
Before the first curtain could rise on the tour, there was the matter of the Editorial.
The tour program wasn’t just a booklet; it was a high-fashion retrospective of their collaboration. The concept was "The Maker and the Muse." For the first time in years, Y/N wasn't just behind the camera or hidden in the wings she was required to be in the frame with Seungcheol.
The set was minimalist: a stark white studio with rolls of raw canvas and a single vintage sewing machine.
Y/N felt exposed. She was dressed in her own creation a pair of high-waisted, architectural trousers in midnight navy and a sheer, silk-organza shirt she’d embroidered with faint, tonal thread. Around her neck was a measuring tape she’d used so much the numbers were fading.
"You look stiff," Seungcheol noted. He was already in position, draped in a floor-length, structured coat Y/N had made from recycled denim and silver thread. He looked like a modern king.
"I belong behind the scissors, Cheol, not the lens," she muttered, adjusting her collar for the tenth time.
The photographer called for them to stand together. Seungcheol took his place on a velvet stool, and the photographer directed Y/N to stand behind him, draped slightly over his shoulder as if she were mid-adjustment.
"Relax," Seungcheol whispered, his voice vibrating through the heavy denim of his coat. "Just do what you always do. Pretend I’m just a mannequin."
"You’re a very loud mannequin," she retorted, but she placed her hand on his shoulder.
The shutter clicked. Flash.
"Y/N, look at him, not the camera," the photographer commanded. "And Seungcheol, look at her like she’s the one who gave you your wings."
The atmosphere shifted. Seungcheol turned his head slightly, looking up at her. The playfulness vanished from his eyes, replaced by a raw, quiet intensity. It was the look of a man who didn't just respect her talent, but revered her existence.
Y/N froze. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, felt the tension in his frame. She looked down at him, her fingers instinctively reaching to fix a stray thread on his lapel a habit of a creator, a gesture of a friend.
"There," the photographer breathed. "Don't move."
In that moment, the "Fashion Designer" and the "Idol" disappeared. It was just two people who had built their empires from the same scrap of fabric.
"Is this part of the job too?" Seungcheol asked, his voice so low only she could hear it over the whir of the studio fan. "The way you’re looking at me right now?"
"I’m looking at the fit of the collar," she lied, though her voice betrayed her with a slight tremor.
"Liar," he said softly, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're looking at me. And for the first time, I think you're actually seeing that I'm looking back."
He reached up, his hand covering hers where it rested on his chest. He didn't move it; he just held it there, pinning her hand against the heart of his garment. The photographer kept shooting, capturing the way their silhouettes bled into one another the maker and the masterpiece, inextricably linked.
Internal Memo (Y/N):
The shoot took four hours. He held my gaze for every single second of it. People are going to see these photos and think they know our story. The scary part is... for the first time, I think I want them to be right.
The opening night of the "Legacy" tour was a sensory overload. Twenty thousand fans screamed in a rhythmic wave that shook the very foundations of the arena. Behind the scenes, the atmosphere was controlled chaos.
Y/N stood in the "quick-change" tunnel a cramped, dimly lit space directly beneath the stage. She had her eyes glued to a monitor, watching Seungcheol perform a high-octane dance break. He was wearing the "Vanguard" suit: a complex piece with heavy metal hardware and delicate silk paneling.
Suddenly, Y/N’s heart stopped.
As Seungcheol executed a sharp, floor-grazing drop, the tension on his left sleeve the one with the intricate silver lacing was too much. A seam didn't just pop; it gave way. The heavy silk tore under the pressure of his movement, leaving a gaping hole that exposed his shoulder and threw the balance of the jacket off.
To the fans, it might have looked like part of the "rugged" look. To Y/N, it was a catastrophe.
"Seungcheol, coming down in thirty seconds!" the stage manager yelled.
Y/N felt a cold sweat prickle her skin. She hated mistakes. To her, a failed garment wasn't just a technical error; it was a betrayal of the person wearing it. If he tripped on the loose fabric or if it distracted him during a stunt, it was on her.
The hydraulic lift hissed, and Seungcheol lowered into the tunnel, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hair.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Y/N blurted out before he even stepped off the platform. She already had a needle threaded with industrial-strength nylon in her mouth. She grabbed his arm, her hands shaking slightly. "It shouldn't have torn. I tested that tension. I’m so sorry, Cheol."
"Y/N, it's fine-"
"It's not fine!" she hissed, her voice thick with frustration. She began a frantic, expert whip-stitch, her fingers flying. "The thing...it...i...it failed if that caught on your jewelry, you could have been hurt. I can't believe I let a weak seam get through. I’m so sorry, I’ll fix it, just give me ten seconds."
She was rambling, her perfectionism spiraling into guilt. She felt the weight of his performance on her shoulders. To her, this wasn't just a jacket; it was his safety, his image, his confidence.
Seungcheol didn't look at the sleeve. He looked at her. He saw the way her eyes were brimming with panicked tears, the way she was punishing herself for a physics-defying fluke.
He did something he never did in the middle of a show. He reached out with his free hand and cupped her face, forcing her to stop her frantic stitching and look at him.
"Y/N. Look at me."
She looked up, a single tear escaping. "I ruined the silhouette. It’s my fault-"
"You didn't ruin anything," he said, his voice a calm anchor in the middle of the storm. He ignored the frantic "Five seconds!" warning from the stage manager. "It’s a piece of cloth. I am the one performing, and I feel fine. Because you made the rest of it so well that I didn't even notice it tore until I saw your face."
"But the mistake-"
"The only mistake is you thinking you failed me," he whispered, his thumb brushing away the tear. "You’ve never failed me. Not once in five years."
The stage manager shoved a mic into his hand. Seungcheol gave her hand a firm, grounding squeeze a silent command to breathe and stepped back onto the lift.
As he rose back into the light and the roar of the crowd, Y/N stood in the dark, clutching her sewing kit to her chest. She had spent her whole career trying to be perfect for him, only to realize he didn't need her to be perfect. He just needed her to be there.
The After-Action Report:
I checked the other costumes four times after the show. My hands are still shaking. He told me it was fine, but I can't shake the feeling that my mistakes shouldn't be his burden. Yet... the way he held my face... I forgot how to apologize for a second.
The villa in the French countryside was a sprawling, honey-colored stone estate surrounded by wild lavender and the distant, rhythmic hum of cicadas. After the chaos of the Paris leg of the tour, the quiet was almost jarring.
Most of the staff had retreated to their rooms or the local bistro, but Y/N had found her sanctuary in the sun-drenched living room. She was laid out flat on her stomach on the Persian rug, her legs kicked up behind her. She was wearing one of her own designs a pair of oversized, cream-colored linen trousers and a simple, hand-dyed rib-knit tank top.
Spread out before her was a massive sketchbook. She was lost in the "Flowy Dress" project a garment designed to look like liquid light, meant for the tour’s final ballad. Her pencil moved in feverish, sweeping arcs, capturing the way the fabric would catch the wind.
The heavy oak door creaked. She didn't look up, assuming it was an assistant coming to ask about the laundry schedule.
"The silk needs to be sand-washed," she murmured, her pencil scratching against the paper. "If it's too shiny, it’ll look cheap under the French moonlight. It needs to look... ethereal."
"I think anything you touch looks ethereal."
Y/N flinched slightly, her pencil skidding across the page to create a rogue line. She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow.
Seungcheol was leaning against the doorframe, looking softer than she’d seen him in years. He’d showered, his dark hair damp and messy, wearing a simple grey sweatshirt. He looked less like the "S.Coups" who commanded stadiums and more like the man who used to share his snacks with her in the back of a practice room.
"I ruined your line," he said, walking over and sitting on the floor a few feet away from her. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Y/N said, her heart doing that familiar, traitorous skip. She looked down at her sketch, then at him. "I thought you were out with the guys."
"They went to get wine. I wanted to talk to you." He gestured to the sketchbook. "Can I see?"
Y/N hesitated, then pushed the book toward him. Seungcheol leaned over, studying the drawing. He didn't just look at the dress; he looked at the notes she’d scribbled in the margins measurements, fabric types, and little reminders to herself like 'must be comfortable for him to move.'
"You're still sketching for me," he noted softly, his eyes tracing the flow of the dress. "Even when you're supposed to be on break."
"I'm sketching for the show," she corrected, though the heat in her cheeks said otherwise. "And this dress... it’s for the backup dancers in the finale. It has to complement your silhouette."
Seungcheol reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper, dangerously close to her hand. "J'achète plus, j'designe," he quoted back to her, his voice a low rumble. "You really live by that. You don't just make clothes, Y/N. You make memories. I look at this and I don't see fabric. I see the hours you spent awake while I was sleeping."
He looked up from the book, his gaze locking onto hers. The usual barrier of 'Designer and Client' felt flimsy here, in the quiet of a French afternoon.
"I wanted to apologize," he said suddenly.
Y/N blinked. "For what? You didn't do anything."
"For the other night. Backstage. I was firm with you because I needed you to stop spiraling, but I hated seeing you that way. I hated that you felt like you had to apologize to me for a single thread." He shifted closer, sitting cross-legged now, his knee almost touching her shoulder. "You don't owe me perfection, Y/N. You never did."
Y/N looked down at her charcoal-stained fingers. "In my world, if it's not perfect, it's a failure. Especially when it’s for you. I respect you too much to give you anything less than the best."
Seungcheol reached out, and this time, he didn't stop at the paper. He gently took her hand, turning it over to look at the small callous on her thumb from years of holding shears.
"I don't need 'the best' designer," he whispered, his thumb tracing the palm of her hand. "I just need you. The person who knows which side I lean on when I'm tired. The person who wears her own art because she’s too proud to wear someone else’s. I missed this, Y/N. Just... being in a room with you where no one is screaming my name."
The silence of the French villa felt different now. The golden hour had bled into a deep, bruised purple, and the scent of lavender from the fields outside drifted through the open French doors, mixing with the metallic scent of Y/N’s graphite.
Seungcheol was still holding her hand. He didn’t let go, and Y/N didn't pull away. The sketchbook lay between them, forgotten a blueprint of a dress that suddenly felt much less important than the man sitting on her rug.
"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
She looked up, her heart hammering against the floorboards. "Yeah?"
"I've spent five years watching you through mirrors," he said. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers grazing the jawline she usually only saw through a camera lens or over a measuring tape. "Watching you pin fabric, watching you bite your lip when you’re thinking, watching you wear your own heart on your sleeve. Literally."
He leaned in, just a fraction. The space between them was electric, that love of five years finally reaching the oxygen it needed to ignite.
"I don't want to be your muse anymore," he murmured. "And I don't want you to just be the person who fixes my seams."
Y/N felt the world tilt. The professional wall the one built of high-fashion labels, stadium tours, and her pride didn't crumble; it simply dissolved. She realized then that she hadn't been designing clothes to protect him. She’d been designing them because it was the only way she knew how to stay close to him without breaking the rules.
"Cheol," she breathed, her hand tightening in his.
"Can I?" he asked. Even now, the respect was there. He waited for her nod, for the smallest hitch in her breath that signaled she wanted this as much as he did.
When she finally leaned forward, closing the last inch, the kiss didn't feel like a movie. It felt like coming home. It was slow, hesitant at first, tasting of the coffee they’d shared and the quiet French air. His hand moved from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of hair that had escaped her clip.
It wasn't just a kiss. It was the kiss of two people who had been nobodies together, who had survived the climb, and who finally realized they didn't want to stand at the top alone.
Seungcheol pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers. He let out a long, shaky breath, a small, private laugh bubbling in his chest.
"I've wanted to do that since the first time you tailored a suit for me in that cramped basement office," he admitted, his eyes dark and bright all at once.
Y/N laughed softly, her face flushed. She looked down at her charcoal-stained fingers, then back at his face now smudged with a bit of the same grey dust from her cheek.
"You're a mess," she whispered, reaching up to wipe the smudge from his cheekbone.
"I'm your mess," he countered, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "Design something for that Ms the Fashion designer."
Y/N looked at her sketchbook, then back at the man who had been her silent anchor for half a decade. The tour would continue, the lights would stay bright, and she would still make her own clothes. But for the first time, she didn't feel the need to hide behind them.
Final Note in the Sketchbook:
Project: The Finale. Note: It doesn't need to be perfect anymore. It just needs to be us.
Syn- In which Cregan fears all marriages are doomed, you fear stepping out of line, and you both learn misconceptions are the downfall of love, not duty.
Anonymous request
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WC: 4k
Tags n Warnings: mentions of abuse (NOT from Cregan), talks of sex (MDNI), abortions, near-death experience, pain, crying, cold!Cregan, enemies to lovers, bedding ceremony, panic attacks (?)
AN: This was so fun to write, y’all have seen me posting about crybaby!reader stuff!! I hope I did this right for you anon. Enjoy everyone!!
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You had not a clue how you got here, married to the Wolf of the North. You had long turned nine and ten, you were past being a woman by now. Your father was an affluent lord of the Riverlands, your mother a lady of Dorne. You always believed you were born unlucky. Folk in the Riverlands often mocked your mother's culture, laughing at how women could lead lives without the chain of a man. If only she married a Martell, you thought. You would be a princess. You would have choice. You wouldn't be whipped in shape for a man you did not know, you would not be forced to revolve your life since seven around the idea that you would someday be meant to serve the same kind of man your mother had to endure.
Cregan, on the other hand, had a sour attitude for a much different reason. His past marriage had failed horribly. He and his wife were friends—great friends. But the marriage quickly devolved into bickering and held more resentment than love toward the end, even though it was short-lived. He did not want to marry again. His wife died, and left him a son. An heir. He had no need to remarry, but the lords of The North are stubborn, and he could not deny his duty any longer. He wished not for a wife of a big house, settling for one simpler. One whose father would not breathe down his neck. And so, that is how he chose you.
You'd arrived with your family, but they did not stay long. You had little time alone, and even less with your mother. But when you did, it was spent weeping.
"Mama, I'm afraid. I want to go home-"
"You cannot," she shushed you, wiping a tear from your face. "Be strong. You are a cat in a wolve's den. You are clever, you are quick, and your strength is greater than mine. You must prevail, my heart." Her comfort soothed your heart, but the tears poured hot and fast in how she used her house's sigil to calm you, and not your father's. His was but a stallion. Hers was a tiger, it brought you strength when you needed it.
And so, they left after but a week after the wedding. And gods, it was horrid. You were sure your face showed nothing but melancholic fear, but it looked entirely different to those whom did not know you personally.
You looked angry—vengeful, even. Deep down, you were. But it was an emotion meant to be suppressed in a lady. Fury was not womanly, but the heart speaks on its own accord. You looked like you hated every second of the wedding, all the way up to the bedding ceremony. Your mother had never explained it to you. It was a memory she wished to keep buried, and you could not blame her.
You sat in your seat next to your lord husband, eyes downcast on the table. You thought of nothing, truly. That was until you heard the loud cheers of Northerners rush toward you, and you were suddenly in the air. It surprised—no—it horrified you. You felt the hands of men on your body, carrying you through the crowd. Your screams sounded exactly like you felt. You kicked and pleaded and yelled as if you were being taken to the slaughter.
Cregan heard the screams ahead—the ladies were much faster in taking him to the wedding chambers—and had them stop.
"Put her down," his voice commanded, deep and unwavering. A lord went to speak up, but when he seen his Warden's face harden at their hesitation, he took step back, the rest following.
You felt humiliated as they put you down. Your dress was torn and you had to hold what you could to keep the shirt from showing. They stared at you like you were the barbaric one. Like you overreacted. Your heart beat hard in your ears, making the lord's command for privacy inaudible.
He pulled you into the bedroom by your tricep, eyes swirling with confusion, surprise, and even guilt. You shook like a leaf, your eyes unfocused and wet from steady falling tears. You looked angry not ten minutes ago. And here you were, looking like a frightened doe more than anything.
The silence was awkward for Cregan. He had not a clue of what to do. He had let calling the bedding ceremony slip from his mind, your father and other lords always at his neck about something new. But he did not imagine he would get such a reaction.
"I will not bed you tonight," he finally spoke up, sliding his tunic back down his body. His words snapped you from your trance, burning into his with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"What?" Your words slipped, "Why not, my lord?" Such words tended to produce a softer sound. But you…you sounded bitter.
"I will not take a woman weeping, I'm no animal," he responded with a tone equal to that of yours. But it only stirred your fire further.
"It is your duty,” the word coming off more as mockery to his house than anything. “So what of my tears?" You rebutted, intentionally softening your voice when you remembered who you were speaking to. You were upset. He could choose when to spare you, he got the choice. You did not.
He stared at you for a silent few moments, trying to rein in his own irritation. It reminded him of his late wife.
"Goodnight, Lady Roote. You will be sent for at break fast," he huffed, leaving before you could continue.
That did not mean he did not bed you at all. You had more choice in the matter than you initially believed. Cregan Stark was an honorable man, that was something you could not deny even through your internal turmoil.
The goal was only ever to do your duty as a wife. To have the finalization of your marriage completed.
Not to get pregnant.
Lord Stark already had a son, Rickon, and you had begun to adore him. He lost his mother before he could open his eyes, he'd needed a maternal figure around. And in your heart, you could not deny such a lovely child a mother's love.
And that is why you drank moon tea each time you laid with Cregan. The tea was dangerous. If brewed wrong, you could make yourself sick enough for death. But you believed he wanted no children with you, nor did you mind that. Clearly, the plan was not well thought out. The people spoke of your womb being barren after months of no signs. You would fix it later. Maybe.
Cregan was ignorant to the tea, but not to your clear devotion to his child. He never spoke to you, nor about you. He would get reports from servants and his men that you were with him, or that you had helped in some way. It confused him. You held no love for him, but loved something he had created? It unnerved him, for he'd heard of stories where children were made martyrs in unsavory situations. He would not have his child subjected to (imagined) cruelty because he was as cold as his name.
And so he watched. He watched his son reach for you. Watched you play with him, coo at his achievements or sadness. You treated him like the mother he needed. The warmth it made him feel was involuntary entirely, as were the thoughts that followed.
‘I want to know her.’
He was still cold, as were you. But he spoke to you more, peaked in when he knew you were there with Rickon, asked your handmaids about you.
He watched you from afar, refusing to come to terms with the ache that stirred in his chest at the distance. He'd begun to care for you, and it felt like a betrayal.
He felt like he betrayed himself, and his late wife. Cregan Stark was not a religious man, but he found himself praying to the Old Gods in confusion. He'd loved Arra before marraige, but felt something close to aversion toward the end. With you, it was not like that at all. He believed his aversion would last, but it was as if the process had inverted with you.
Each time he seen your nose scrunch at the cold chill in the air, heard you laugh with a friend you'd made, heard the squeals from his son as you tossed and carried him through the air, heard your voice, seen you in passing—he could not help wanting more.
You would be a fool if you denied you had not begun to feel the pull too. Cregan was cold, but he was not cruel.
You grew up seeing your mother endure the strikes and beratings from your father, and expected no less from the Wolf of the North. But he did none of that. He was intense, commanding, strong, and noble. And for some reason, you found yourself enjoying it.
You did not have the same cycle of denial and confusion he did, for you did not realize what was happening in your heart. Your accidental glares began to melt into quiet acknowledgment of his presence. You eventually begun to expect it, and found yourself trying to appear approachable, silently asking for his attention. He gave it in small ways. Still icy, but it was him.
A moment in particular where you both recognized the spring blooms between you happened not long after. You were playing with Rickon. The boy was ever-talented, carving small figurines with your supervision. The knife was dull and the wood was soft, so he could never truly harm himself.
He'd turned away from you, checking over his shoulder with a mischievous grin on his face a few times to make sure you would not peak. You feigned ignorance, looking up at the ceiling with your finger on your chin, tapping in false wonder. As your eyes trailed over, your eyes locked with Cregan's. Time had slipped by you, and supper was amongst you. Cregan's feet slowed in curiosity. You seemed nervous, anxious—fearful.
His steps sounded angry to you, making your heart race in the same way it did when your mother rushed you from her chambers some nights. Cregan gave you a quick glance before going to his son, smiling softly at his protests.
"It's time for supper, little lord. You can continue later," he scolded playfully, attempting with his other hand to remove the materials from his hands. You stood and fixed your dress to leave, but the child's words stopped you immediately.
"No! Mama, wait!" He squirmed in his father's grip, whose head snapped to his son's face in bewilderment at what he called you.
You saw the lord's confusion, and immediately stammered. At the lack of actual words coming out, you shook your head, and walked back to the two cautiously.
"I'm not mama, remember? I exp—" you began.
"No, you are! Here," he exclaimed, cutting you off and shoving the horse he'd carved into your hands. Your father's sigil. You hated the man, but the child's care and want to connect with you made your eyes burn. Tears always came easy for you, something you'd hidden from your lord husband until this moment. His own eyes filled with worry and confusion, but he was at a true loss for words then.
You fought back your emotions, and gave the boy a soft smile. "Go with your papa. You must eat, and then we may play again," you pinched his cheek between your fingers softly, earning a small giggle from the boy.
As you walked off, Cregan couldn't help but watch you go. Many emotions and thoughts swirled his mind, and many could not find their way into coherent thoughts.
He soon had enough of his own passing glances and silent yearn for your presence, as for the endearing wonder in your eyes when he was caught staring, and how hesitant you still were around him, especially after the moment with him and his son. His gods made their message clear. He needed to speak with you.
A week after the encounter, he sent a servant to fetch you for break fast. For the first time since he was but six and ten, Cregan was nervous. What would he say to you? He had been a cold man, nothing of how he liked to carry himself around a lady. Especially one that was his wife. He could only wait, and see how you approached. You initially were hostile, something he could not fault you for. But in watching you, he seen how you'd warmed up. He wasn't even sure you noticed that, either.
You had slept together two nights before. You stuck with your tradition of drinking moon tea each time, even when you had to force yourself to. It took an extra day to gather the ingredients without being spotted or caught, and even more time to brew it. It needed to be perfect, or else you risked harm.
And you must have been inaccurate in measurements, or taken it too late, for the cramps aches and heat waves that took over your body were unbearable.
You hung off the end of your bed, hands weakly clasped on the wooden frame to keep yourself upright. Your whimpers and low groans filled the air, your hips rocking and squirming to try and give you relief. You did not hear the servant enter until she spoke.
"M'lady? Are you alright?" Her voice questioned, panic filling her tone at the state of you.
You whimpered first, "Leave me, please," you begged, a low, agonizing wail leaving you as the pain radiated up your torso.
"M'lady, the lord has requested your presence—I will get the maester and alert-"
"No! You will not," you immediately snapped. "Tell the lord his—the lady is bleeding. Go, please," you begged once more. Tears cascaded down your face as she fled, and you began to get into a position to try and ease the burn and pressure more.
When the servant returned, Cregan looked expectant, and then irritated.
"Where is my wife?" His eyebrows pinched.
"M'lord, the lady sent me away, told me she was bleeding," the woman reported. It was clear she was holding something back, and Cregan was not ignorant.
"And?"
The girl hesitated, but spilled at the fear that you were truly sick—which you were at this point.
"The lady, she—m'lord, I fear she is unwell. Her skin was wet with sweat, and she could not keep herself upright. She refused a maester, and for you to know," she concluded, anxiously wringing her hands together to the point the skin went raw.
Concern filled him immediately. What could have made you so ill in such a short time? He had just laid with you two suns ago, and you were fine throughout the day after.
"Send for the maester, tell him to go to my wife's chambers. Immediately," he rushed, standing from his seat to make a beeline for his wife's chambers first.
The servant had not warned him completely about the sight. He heard your cries from a hall down. They sent jolt of fear through him, and they only got worse as he neared your door. He entered cautiously, and seen you holding a hand atop your womb, the other resting on the cushion of a chair while your head rested on it. You didn't even realize who it was.
"I said leave me," you whimpered softly, unable to truly fight now.
"What kind of man would I be if I left my wife in agony?" He argued softly, ignoring your confused sounds to pick you up from your arms. It made you cry out louder than before, clearly taking energy from you. He immediately let you go, then seen how your legs immediately curled beneath you again. You could not be stretched out, and so he picked you up differently. One arm beneath your knees, the other holding your back up, carrying you in bridal style to your bed.
You made soft, low sounds of pain as he sat you down, immediately turning to lay in fetal position. He stopped you, keeping you on your back to try and gauge a better look at what was wrong. Your voluminous, tight curls got in your face, covering parts of your expression. He held your legs with an arm to press over your womb since you stopped whimpering in pain, and brushed the hair from your face. You were covered in sweat, and your eyes were dazed. You involuntarily leaned into his hand, whimpering when he pulled away.
"This is not just your moon blood, is it?" He questioned as his eyes moved down your body, spotting no trace of blood. Cregan knew you couldn't respond, either, seeing how your energy was depleting by the second. It felt like ice-cold water was being poured onto him repeatedly. He'd just begun to care for you, and now it felt The Stranger was claiming you for themself.
The maester rushed in. The servant was much more descriptive when she reported to him, and the maester felt a strong sense of urgency.
Cregan reluctantly pulled back, and let the maester work. He stood outside your chambers the entire time, heart sinking with every cry and pained sound you let out. For what felt like hours, he waited. He waited until the sun begun to set, and the maester calmly exited your chambers with relief on his face.
"What happened? Will she live?" Cregan questioned immediately, eyes searching the man's face for answers.
"Yes. Yes she will, my lord," he assured him, earning a sigh of relief from the man. "The lady was in great pain, but once I found its cause, there was no difficulty to solve it."
"What was the source?" He questioned immediately, still lost.
"I- the moon tea, my lord. It seems the lady made some of her own. It is not uncommon for women to try on their own, too nervous to consult a maester on the matter," he explained, but his tone slowly grew professional as his lord's face grew more confused. He had not a clue that his wife had been avoiding carrying his child, especially to such an extent.
When Cregan did not answer, the maester spoke up, but was cut off with a quick word.
"You're dismissed, I will speak with you later," he mumbled, pushing past the man to speak with the resting woman. You were not asleep yet, only letting the effects of the tea wear off now. When the door opened again, and you saw your husband, you sat up—nose scrunching in discomfort.
"No, no," he made his way to you, a hand pressing your shoulder back to the bed. "Lie down." You looked puzzled. His tone was soft. His eyes were not.
"Am I needed, my l-"
"You drank moon tea?" He questioned, a multitude of feelings swirling through his eyes. Hurt, worry, and realization were the most prominent.
"I-" you began stammering.
"And you hid it from me. Nearly killing yourself," he finished, his face falling more as the words solidified his earlier worries. You did not respond, how would you when you had been caught so obviously? He sat in the seat next to your bed, staring at you as you fought your tears again. Damned emotions got in the way of everything. “Why?”
"I…I did not believe you wanted children with me. You have an heir, and I am no fool. You did not want another wife," you explained through a shaky voice, your thumb rubbing comforting back and forth motions on your aching womb. "And I did not believe a babe would survive in the conditions of a stressed womb.”
He stared at you for a long time, his eyes burning holes through you as the tears continued pouring silently. You were so smart, yet so ignorant at the same time. That, or you truly did hold denial toward his growing affections.
You could deny it no longer when his hand pushed yours aside, the heavy warmth of his hand sending waves of relief through your womb and legs forcing a sigh out of you. His thumb began the same motions yours did not too long ago, and he finally spoke.
"You foolish, foolish woman," he chuckled with no humor. He was furious. But the anger dissipated each time he heard the pat of water drip from your eyes to the pillow beneath your head.
"I will not deny this: I did not want to remarry. My past marriage was filled with false hope and bitterness. I would not subject another, nor myself to the ailment of failed love," he began, his gaze meeting yours as your guilty, wet eyes stared into his. "I believed this marriage would fall to the same fate, and that I had no control over it. I found peace in that, or I believed I had," he swallowed thickly. He was never so open about his feelings. But the warmth in your eyes pulled it from him like a trance. "But I saw you feverish and sickly, and I wanted control over that fate.”
Your mouth twitched as you fought off a true sob, his words melting your heart in a way that always brought tears. Your soft whimpers made his eyebrows come together, and his free hand come to wipe your tears. His soft cooes only drew more, and he realized he simply needed to allow them free.
"Do not ever do something as rash and imprudent as this again," he commanded, though his voice lacked its true power. “Do you understand me?” Earning a quick nod from you.
"I did not realize you cared for me," you sniffled.
"As did I, my girl," he grinned—the name of endearment being a slip of the tongue. At the surprise in your eyes, he realized what he'd said. But, he did not regret it. Neither did you.
"I believe my heart warmed for you long before I realized, as well," you confessed softly. "I did not wish to drink the tea for quite some time, but found it would only anger you if I fell with-child."
"Gods, no," he shook his head, pulling a hand from your face to bring yours to his lips. "I'm angered and ashamed that you believed that to be true," his forehead rested on your knuckles, the days worries crashing upon his mind finally.
"I will leave you to rest, my wife. Do not do anything hasty in my absence," he jested and began standing from his seat. Though, your hand shooting for his in a panic stopped him immediately.
"Wait-" you called, but the words disappeared from your mind. He stood, waiting and patient as you tried to find them again.
"…You would leave your wife, weeping and in pain?" You tried to jape through your desire for him to lie with you for comfort rather than duty, and your tone of voice made that quite clear.
His lips formed into a soft grin slowly, then he shook his head once.
"No. No, I would not."
You'd only experienced the cruelty of men until you met your husband. He'd been cold, indifferent, and then warm, and intense. But never cruel, you did not think he had it in him by then. Your night was spent being treated in a way you believed only existed in books. And, well. You couldn't doubt his growing love for you now.
thinking about how your words mean something to jon snow
even if they’re said in teasing, accompanied with a laugh or a smile, he’s always attentive to what you say. he knows what it’s like to have people not listen to you — for people to disregard your words or not take them as seriously as they should.
so he always listens. always pays attention. to jon, every word of yours carries weight. every single one.
a remark of “yuck,” when feeding the messenger ravens at castle black breakfast and they do something truly disgusting with their beaks, though you huff a small laugh afterward, jon’s already catalogued it. he wakes up earlier to feed them so you don’t have to, but has you feed them midday so you don’t get suspicious when they’re not so greedy and quick to choke.
even when he’s in a mood, or (rarely) ale-sung, he’s attentive. a muttered “stop, jon,” to his teasing — though said with a smile & only to deflect from your flushed features — and stop, he does. he presses a kiss to your hair in an apology, even though you don’t need one.
a sarcastic “move,” when in close proximity — he’s already taking a step back (he wasn’t even in the way); a muttered “huh?” when someone’s explaining something (and of course he notices, no matter how quiet you were) — he leans down to whisper a further explanation in your ear. “gods, its cold,” while outside doing your chores, and he quietly goes to light your hearth so it’s warm in your chambers when you return (mutter a wish to see his lungs and he’ll part his ribs)
summary: when you're attacked on the job, you learn the hard way that you can't love the damage out of everyone, and robby learns just how far he'll go to protect you. (5k)
characters: michael robinavitch / shy!reader, protective!jack abbot, and other misc character sightings
contents: friends with benefits, idiots in love, protective!robby, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for patient/worker assault, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, brief mentions of past abusive relationships, super vague mentions of smut (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Someone told you, once, that the reason you’re so good at taking care of people is because, somewhere deep down, it heals a part of you that needed to be taken care of, too.
It was one of the first things Robby noticed about you, the day you started at the PTMC as an R1. There was a stubborn sort of optimism about you that he had lost some time ago; that he watched save a young man from a certain death that afternoon. He was a college football player, rushed in by his parents after an early morning practice with complaints of chest pain. He had already spent hours sitting around in Chairs, and was last in line for an EKG when you brought him into Central 2.
You had an inkling about that you just couldn’t shake, and Robby watched as you skipped the queue of high-ranking attendings and residents to get your patient the electrocardiogram he needed — the shiest resident he had ever met, who stuttered telling him her own name, already making enemies on her first day.
The EKG detected signs of a previous heart attack, one that had occurred with little to no symptoms, which had undoubtedly been adding to the young man’s strengthening chest pain anyway. The discovery bumped up his prioritization and opened up a room in the O.R. for him, before he could have another, potentially more fatal MI.
“I wasn’t trying to go over your head, Dr. Robby, I swear!” you rambled in a single breath, talking anxiously in your hands, certain you were in for a scolding from the older attending. “But I went to school with this girl, Beth Wildfire— We were on the soccer team together, and she had a heart attack at seventeen because she was training too hard and none of the doctors would take her seriously about her chest pain—”
“Breathe, kid… You’re not in trouble here, alright?” Robby had laughed, hiding his smile behind his fist, because Gloria had sent him to scold you, after all. “You just need to work on that savior complex of yours, alright?”
You flinched in offense, chin jerking as your mouth parted to argue.
He continued before you could.
“You were right this time. I get it. But you’re not gonna be right every time, and we can’t waste resources just because you have a hunch… You can’t save everyone, kid.”
He patted you softly on the back as he walked on by, smelling of a foreign cologne you could feel sparkling in your chest.
“Isn’t that our whole job?” you asked before he could get too far. “Aren’t we supposed to save people?”
“The ones that can be saved, yeah,” he nodded with a heavy huff as he spun in place to face you again, pushing the sleeves of his white undershirt up to his elbows. “But sometimes watering a plant too much— you know, loving it too much— can kill it, right?”
Your brows lowered in confusion. “But… People aren’t plants…”
He exhales hard through his nose. “It was a metaphor.”
“Oh…”
Robby choked back the instinct to smile again.
“In here— you’re their doctor, alright? Not their mother, not their sister, not their friend. Just help the ones you can,” Robby said before turning on the heel of his sneaker and sauntering off in the opposite direction. Over the chaos of the crowded E.R., he called to you over his shoulder, “Don’t over water your plants, kid!”
You realized, then, that that’s probably why you had a tendency to stick around in bad relationships for far longer than you needed to; why you were always so patient even when people didn’t deserve it, especially when they didn’t deserve it; and why you’ve always been so strikingly tender in the face of so much cruelty. Because you were over watering your plants, as it were.
Because you’d suffocate an innocent thing to death just to prove how much you love it. Because you’d strike a match on yourself if it meant keeping everyone else warm.
You figure that’s also why you take the rowdy patient in South 4 that no one else wanted — all bloodied from a fall and far too gone on pills and booze to realize how badly he was hurt. He’s sallow-skinned, glassy-eyed, and smiling lazily despite the blood in his teeth. He spends an hour shifting anxiously on the bed, all twitchy with a pent-up aggression.
He’s like a stray dog in a shelter, with “Don’t touch me, I’ll bite” written outside of the cage.
You reach out to pet him, anyway.
Connor Stevens was young, just a few years older than you, dressed in a nice suit with a glittering Rolex on his wrist that cracked in the fall. He had a long history of drug use in his chart, and a longer history of reckless behavior that borders on masochistic. A number of falls, car crashes, DUIs, fist fights; each of which had landed him in one E.R. or another.
You create a fiction of his life story inside your head — of a young boy with a nice trust fund, working at his parents’ million-dollar firm, slipping into the same cycle as the father he despised, and using drugs and pain to forget how much he hated his life.
You can’t help but see a version of yourself in him. You choke on your want to save him accordingly, and work with gentle hands to clean the scrapes on his pretty face. It feels like teaching an aggressive dog what it means to love again.
“You smell nice…” the young boy murmurs distantly, inhaling sharply through his sloped nose while you lean over to wash the dirt from a deep cut on his jaw. “What is that?”
“It’s drugstore perfume,” you confess with a sheepish laugh. “It was barely five dollars— I’m not entirely sure it even has a name.”
The cheap scent is hardly enough to drown out the smell clinging to the man below you, who smells overwhelmingly of whiskey, sweat, and cigarette smoke — a bitter, sour sort of concoction that hit you the moment you walked into the room.
“Let me guess…” he says and shifts on the bed. He doesn’t seem to notice, or otherwise care about, the dark black bruise on his right elbow as he props his weight on both of them. “My friends always say that I have a really good sense of smell—”
You jerk back on instinct when he leans in too close, nostrils stinging at the bitter scent of blood and alcohol clinging to his breath.
“Jeez…” he scoffs, blonde curls flopping over his forehead as he jerks his chin back. “Didn’t mean to scare you...”
“No, you— you didn’t scare me,” you stammer with an awkward laugh, voice shaking in an unconvincing waver. “I just… Wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
“No, I did,” the boy insists, with an observant squint in his dark brown eyes. “Look at you, you’re trembling…”
Your breath catches in your throat when he reaches suddenly for your hand, halting your movements over his jaw with five cold, long fingers caging your wrist.
His thumb digs hard into your pressure point and cuts off the blood flow to your fingers almost instantly. A sharp ache blooms where his fingers press into the bone. You twist your hand to free yourself without escalating, but he only holds you tighter.
“Please, let me go, sir,” you try to plead in an even voice, but clear your throat a second later when the words get stuck there.
“Sir?” he mocks with a gritty laugh, smiling with all of his bloody teeth. His canine is cracked and weeping crimson from the fall he took, not that he seems to notice.
He laughs harder when your head whips over your shoulder, peering anxiously through the glass door on the other side of the room, hoping to find someone looking back at you — hoping to find Robby.
But the emergency department is far too busy.
You might as well be invisible just now.
“Look at you,” the boy chuckles with amusement. “I am scaring you.”
“I just want you to let me go,” you say, voice cracking, but firmer still.
His dark eyes narrow in a daring squint. The chocolate irises dart over your features like he’s studying them, like he’s enjoying every ounce of fear he’s etched into your face.
“Say please…” he croons.
You lose your breath when his grip tightens. The pain flares hotter, sharper, and your fingers go numb with a tingling feeling.
“Please,” you spit through gritted teeth.
His smile grows. His hold slips from your wrist.
You jerk your hand to your chest, curling the fingers of your opposite hand around the ache spreading beneath the skin. Your feet shuffle back on instinct at the sly look he gives you — like he’s debating on how to torture you next. You’re rushing out the door before he can utter another word.
You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, strangling all the sharp breaths you struggle to gulp into your lungs. The chaos of the E.R. muffles to a low droning sound in your ears, drowned out by the sound of your thundering heartbeat. Everything falls too bright, too fast, too much.
But anywhere is safer than in that room — anywhere is safer than with him.
“You alright, kid?” you hear a familiar voice call from beside you, though it sounds like you’re hearing it from underwater.
Your head snaps in the direction of the sound, and you go dizzy in an instant. You blink away the haze clouding your vision to find Dr. Abbot sauntering towards you, in his black shirt and camo pants, with his brows lowered in a look of visible concern.
“Yeah,” you answer on instinct, through a series of strangled breaths. “I was just— I was just gonna get some air…”
He nods slowly. His attentive eyes dart over your twisted features, and then to where you cradle your wrist to your chest. “Did you hurt your arm?”
“No, but…” You gulp down another breath. “But my chest feels— a little funny… I think— I might be having an MI—”
Your vision goes distant in a flicker, like you’re suddenly watching your reality play out on a cinema screen. You feel Jack’s hand wrap around your shoulder and underneath your arms to keep you steady, then the warm breeze of a summer’s day brushing like honey over your skin.
Robby feels his phone buzz twice in his scrub pocket from where he stands at the back of the room, watching Santos walk the interns through a patient with an ankle fracture. There are only three contacts he keeps notifications on for during the day, and he drags the device from his pocket in hopes of seeing your name on the screen.
He does, just not in the way he had hoped.
It’s Dr. Abbot’s contact info that he sees first, right over the first message, which is short and hastily typed — your name, ambulance bay, asap — Robby makes out through the typos. The second text, in all caps, says: GET HERE NOW!
Robby forgets to dismiss himself as he rushes out halfway through Santos’ presentation. He weaves through the bustling emergency department with a tunnel vision concentrated only on the exit doors ,and the worry of what he might find outside of them. The distant calls of his name turn into muted buzzing in his ears as he rushes out to find you.
He spots Jack first, kneeling on the sidewalk and looking up at something Robby can’t see until he turns the corner. Then he finds him crouching in front of you, from where you sit on the ledge before the older man, cradled by the strong hands he keeps around your shoulders.
You rub at an ache in your wrist that Robby can’t see from here and try hard to even out your breathing. His footsteps quicken at the sight.
“What the hell’s going on?” he blurts in lieu of a greeting. “What happened— Are you okay?”
Your eyes widen at the sight of Robby when he takes Jack’s place in front of you, kneeling with a quickness and snatching the stethoscope from around his neck. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe when he presses the cool chestpiece against your burning skin, just above the dip in the V-neck of your scrubs.
You had been avoiding him all day, in truth — avoiding him and yet hoping to run into him all the same. Because your conversation from the night before hadn’t ended on the best of terms. No conversation the two of you had ever had about his hiatus ended on good terms, actually, but this one felt especially world-ending
“I’m not just gonna wait around for three months and just hope that you’ll still want me when you come back, Robby!” you’d said, while the boiling water on the kitchen stove began to boil over.
“Is that really how low you think of me?” the older man scoffed with a disbelieving look on his smiling face as he leaned over the kitchen counter. “What? Am I not good enough to wait for?”
“Depends— Am I not good enough to stick around for?”
Neither of you could answer.
The silence felt deafening at the time.
But he forgets to be mad about all that now, as his head fills only with thoughts of taking care of you.
“She was having some trouble breathing, and had some pain in her right hand,” Jack explains for you, grimacing slightly as he adjusts his prosthetic to rise to full height again. He towers behind Robby’s crouched figure with his arms crossed over your chest. “She was tachy for a bit, but it’s even now— I think she was having a panic attack.”
Robby brows lower as he concentrates on the sound of your heartbeat in his ears. He hears a faint flutter in your pulse, and his eyes dart from the chest piece he holds between his fingers to your anxious face.
“A panic attack?” he echoes, plucking out the earpieces and twisting the stethoscope back around his neck.
“I don’t know…” you shrug shyly.
“Well, have you eaten anything today?”
“Yeah, I had a protein bar in the break room.”
“What about water?” he asks and ducks his head when you try to look away. “You staying hydrated?”
“Mostly.”
“Any chance you could be pregnant?” he hears himself ask, getting lost in the basic questions he would ask any patient, and quickly forgetting that he’s talking to you.
You, who he’s been seeing for close to a year now — you, who he fucked within an inch of your life in the center of your bed just last night, an hour or so before you fought.
Your eyes widen and dart wildly between the two attendings standing before you.
You swallow hard and shake your head.
“It’s not— It’s not like that, okay?” you assure him, breathing deeper when you feel the oxygen growing thinner once more. “It’s just… been a hard day, you know?”
“What happened?” he presses.
“Nothing!” you lie and struggle to meet his gaze. “I just… I got a text from my ex-boyfriend yesterday— I haven’t heard from him in a year, not since the—” Protection order, you try to say, though Robby’s already arguing before you can.
“Your ex?” the older man scoffs with the same amused smile the kid in South 4 had given you. “That’s what this is about— You’re having a panic attack over some boy trouble? Is that why you picked a fight last night? Seriously?”
“What?” you exclaim, features screwed in offense. “No!”
“Jesus!” Robby chuckles as he rises to full height, blocking the golden sun as he towers over you like a storm cloud. “Do you need to go home? Is this job too much for you?”
Your jaw clenches as your eyes burn. “It’s not like that,” you choke through unshed tears.
“Yeah, I think it is,” the man scoffs, stumbling backwards with his hands splayed before him. “Go home, alright? I don’t need this liability— Not today.”
“Liability?” you echo, though your voice breaks halfway through. You shake your head and turn away, before Robby can see the emotion glinting in your eyes.
“Brother, c’mon…” Jack cautions lowly, boots heavy on the worn sidewalk as he rushes to catch up with the man’s longer strides. His shoulder nudges into Robby’s as he mumbles in his ear, “You guys are fighting or whatever. I get it. But you don’t get to talk to her like that when you were the one breaking down in pedes last year.”
Robby scoffs in response. A cynical smile curls slowly at his mouth as he shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing—”
They cross the automatic doors and enter the air-conditioned ER. Jack stops the man with a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Yeah, because no one gave you shit for it the way you just did to her.”
Robby softens his hardened edges, but only slightly.
“Look…” Jack sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, man— but she’s still your resident. She needs you right now.”
Robby shakes his head again — too proud to admit when he’s wrong, too stubborn to face the fact that anyone would be counting on him these days; least of all you.
“No, she doesn’t, brother. Trust me,” Robby says in the usual sarcastic lilt he does when there’s an emotion he’s trying hard to bottle up. He just smiles and walks on ahead of him. “She made that extremely clear last night…”
Your first mistake is not going home like Robby told you to. Your second one is not telling anyone about the aggressive patient in South 4. Your third is believing the man inside when he tells you he’s sorry, like you’re a kicked puppy that doesn’t know when to stop coming back.
You make the mistake of doing what you always do — the exact thing Robby warned you about the day you met. You convince yourself that you’re the only one who can help him; the only one who could possibly understand the weight of this man’s situation. You’d tell them what he did, and they’d call the cops; they’d restrain him, sedate him. No one would truly listen; not the way you would.
You convince yourself you’re the only one who could give him the help he needs, and you realize very quickly what Robby meant when he said you had a savior complex.
“I really didn’t mean to run you off, you know?” the young man mumbles, gaze averted to where he picks at pills of cotton on the white blanket beside him.
He winces slightly while you test the range of motion in his knee. His long, scruffy legs hang off the edge of the bed while you hold his dirtied foot in a gloved hand, bending his bruised knee before straightening it again.
“I know,” you nod with a kind smile, though you hardly believe it yourself. “I’m just glad you’re letting me help you now, Mr. Stevens.”
“Mr. Stevens?” the boy scoffs and adjusts his hospital gown when it slips off his pale shoulder. “That’s what they call my dad.”
“How’s your relationship with him?” you wonder tentatively, twisting gently at his ankle. “Your dad, I mean?”
“Shit,” he answers without missing a beat. “Why?”
“No reason,” you shake your head. “I just… had a hunch.”
“What? You tellin’ me you’ve got an asshole for an old man, too?”
“My dad…” you trail off with a sigh, trying hard to find the right words. “…Tried his best. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.”
“Yeah, well, my dad’s best made me a fucking lunatic,” the boy confesses with a dry laugh. You notice his pupils are less dilated as his gaze flits everywhere but at you. “I was addicted to cigs when I was twelve, coke when I was sixteen, sex when I was seventeen… My dad thought he was preparing me to take over the firm, but… Really was destroying my whole fucking life, so…”
Another laugh sputters suddenly from his pink mouth.
Your eyes soften around the edges as you set his leg gingerly back into place, tugging your gloves off with two quiet pops. “I can have a social worker come talk to you if you want. Kiara’s the best; she’s been working with people with addictions for years—”
“I don’t want a fucking social worker,” the boy snaps. “I don’t need to be fixed.”
“I-I’m sorry!” you blurt and shake your head at yourself. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to say that people are here to help you— that I’m here to help you.”
“Yeah, last time I heard that, I was shipped to a psychiatric hospital for two months,” he confesses, dark eyes hardening a flicker. He jerks his strong chin backward, looking very suddenly skeptical of you. “You’re not… You’re not gonna send me back there, are you?”
“No!” you squeak out. “O-Of course not!”
“You are…” he nods slowly. “You are. That’s why they brought me here. To send me back.”
“Sir, I promise, I’m not here to—”
The words get stuck in your throat, in the very most literal sense.
The man rises to his feet in a flash, despite the purple-black bruise on his ankle, and closes the brief distance between you before you can blink.
You feel his cold fingers snap around your neck first, then your feet stumble over themselves second, then your back slamming hard into the nearest wall with a heavy thud third.
You try to gasp, but the oxygen fails to fill your lungs. You just whimper instead, and attempt to pry the man’s strong hand from around your throat. Your features twist in anguish when he leans in close, grimacing at the scent of blood and whiskey on his breath as his it fans over your chin.
The tip of his nose brushes the bridge of yours as he mumbles through gritted teeth: “I’m not going back there. I’ll die before I go back there—”
You don’t have the oxygen to tell him that you have no plans to send him back there, wherever there is — or that you’d still fight to get him real psychiatric help, even after all this. Your mouth just parts to gulp down breaths you couldn’t take if you wanted to, while you keep trying to move his fingers from the bruises they dig into your neck.
Black spots begin to invade your vision. You go from red-hot to ice-cold in a flicker. You lose feeling in your hands first, then your eyesight next. There’s a bright white, a staticky black, and then nothing at all.
You don’t see Dana rush in when she catches sight of the altercation. You don’t see her trying and failing to pull the man off you while she shouts for backup.
You don’t see Robby pushing through the crowd and over to you. You don’t see him wrench the patient away with a strong hand on his neck; or the way Robby traps the struggling boy in a headlock on the ground to force him into submission. You do think you hear his voice, though, as your mind floats in and out of consciousness from where Samira scoops your crumbled body into her arms.
His shouting filled the suddenly crowded room:
“Stop! Stop now, or I swear to fucking god, I will break every finger you think you can lay on her, do you hear me?” Robby had threatened, voice low and lethal.
It took both Ahmad and Abbot to pull the man away, and three more security guards to pin down the screaming patient.
You trace your fingers over the dark splotches on your neck — four on the right and one on the left, from where his thumb dug in to cut off your air supply. You can still feel the man’s fingers on your throat with every breath in; colder than ice, stronger than steel. You force yourself to look away from the blooming blotches on your skin, dragging your eyes instead to where Robby looms behind you in the bathroom mirror.
He passes you a fresh icepack to wrap around your neck, and you let your fingers linger against his for a few moments before you take it from him.
“You gonna answer my question now?” he wonders quietly, voice bouncing off the tiles of the empty bathroom, as he meets your gaze in the mirror.
You swallow hard through a prickling throat. Your voice is still raspy from the assault as you tell him, “I have answered every question you’ve asked me… For the last ten minutes, Robinavitch…”
You watch the man fight back the urge to smile, though his dark eyes soften with it anyway. He crosses his arms and tilts his chin to his chest as he repeats, “Why didn’t you tell me that the patient was aggressive? That he hurt you before you went back inside— You said it was your ex that—”
“Because that’s who Mr. Stevens reminded me of,” you answer through a ragged breath. “My stupid ex. That’s why I freaked out.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t listen,” you rasp. “He’s only aggressive because he’s scared— He needs more than a doctor, Robby, he needs a friend.”
“I know you have this condition where you only see the best in people, and you don’t know when to stop helping them—”
“You used to call it over watering my plants,” you quip with a faux-bitterness.
Robby continues with a smile. “—But you know I wouldn’t have let you handle all that by yourself if you had just told me.”
“It’s not my fault that—”
“I’m not saying that it is.”
“No, I’m saying it’s not—” You cut yourself off with a huff and wince at the ache it puts in your throat. You turn around to face him and tilt your chin to keep his gaze at the proximity between, which makes his musky cologne swaddle you like a shroud. “I’m saying it’s not my fault that you make it impossible to talk to you sometimes.”
Robby’s scruffy features soften with hurt.
“I didn’t want to tell you about the patient because I knew you wouldn’t listen to me about getting him proper psychiatric care,” you say before clearing your scratchy throat. “It’s the same reason I didn’t want to bring up your sabbatical last night, because I knew you’d just fly off the handle without even trying to understand where I was coming from.”
“You’re right,” Robby concedes with a firm nod.
“And I know what you’re gonna say— Oh,” You cut yourself off when his response finally hits you. “I didn’t— I didn’t expect you to agree with me so quickly.”
Robby exhales a quiet laugh despite the stinging in his chest.
“No, you’re right. You always are,” he tells you and lifts his calloused palms to your neck, cradling the icepack to your skin to give your hands a break. His stomach swirls with warmth when you rest your palms against his chest. “If I wasn’t so goddamn stubborn, this wouldn’t have happened to you—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” you argue firmly, though your voice is still a bit weak.
“I know it’s not. ‘Cause you’re too nice for that,” Robby hums with a solemn shake of his head. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
You swallow hard and struggle to meet his gaze as you wonder meekly, “What’d they do with him? Mr. Stevens, I mean.”
“Well, I took you off the case while you were in North 1 with Dr. Mohan and Dr. King,” Robby tells you, faking an apologetic grimace. “So unfortunately, I can’t give you all the details without Mr. Stevens’ permission.”
Your eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “How long have you been practicing that one?”
“About the entire time I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that question,” Robby grins. “But he’s safe. And we’ve got him on meds to keep him calm— not sedated. I’ll make sure he gets the psychiatric care he needs, I promise.”
Your eyes glaze over with fresh tears.
“Thank you…” you murmur, voice cracking.
A quiet smile blooms beneath his mustache as the pads of his thumbs smooth over your burning jaw, from where his fingers cradle gently at the sides of your neck. “And I think you’ll be very happy to learn that the rest of the E.D. is now calling me your guard dog, so…”
“That does make me happy, actually,” you say with a giggle, though it comes out a little more raspy than normal. You twist a rogue thread on his scrub top as you go suddenly shy. “Maybe my guard dog should stick around for a little while, then… You know, keep me safe and everything…”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow in a playful squint.
“You didn’t plan this whole thing just to keep me from leaving, did you?”
“…I really didn’t want you to find out this way,” you quip with a fake grimace.
He smacks his lips against his teeth and shakes his head. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”
You jerk your chin back when he ducks down to kiss you.
“Love?” you echo in a fragile voice, wet eyes dancing between his darker ones.
“I probably would’ve killed that guy for hurting you if they hadn’t pulled me off,” he confesses with a scoff, before tilting his head to his shoulder. “And all the poets say love makes you crazy, don’t they?”
“Yeah…” you nod. “I'm pretty sure that was the acclaimed poet Beyoncé, actually.”
“That’s the one,” Robby laughs before ducking down to kiss you, hard, like he should've been doing this whole time.
Summary: The gods grant your request to mentor a mortal, but only for two months. In that time, you fall for a man: Jason Todd. He discovers that you're not quite what or who he believed and decides to fight his way to Olympus for you. Can there be a future between goddess and man?
Warnings/Word Count: angst, r gets tortured, doubt, burying feelings, EPIC references, Poseidon, Google Translate Greek, Bruce's guilt makes an appearance, pacing picks up a few scenes in, fluff, comfort, love letters, confessions. 13.4k+ words
A/N: I have loved The Odyssey since high school and recently became fixated on EPIC: The Musical... add my love for Jason Todd, and, ta-da, this! ps there's a playlist on my spotify I listened to while writing :)
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The legends immortalized in the Library of Paradise say that the beaches of Themyscira were sculpted to reflect the soft, shimmering horizon of Mt. Olympus. Today, reclined in the warm sand while quiet waves lap at the shore, you think the sculptor of this land took the right creative liberties. Even as the tide rises, soaking the hem of your linen garment, something about being between worlds makes an occurrence as ordinary as foamy ocean waves washing away your footprints seem more beautiful, more profound in meaning. Your world, the mountain of the gods — Olympus — lingers somewhere far beyond the horizon and the mortal world bustles in the opposite direction. The way has been blocked for as long as you can remember, a safeguard put in place by the gods when you first voiced a desire to explore a world beyond your own. Lying back in the sand, you close your eyes and embrace the quiet. There are no gods bickering here.
If only the peace and beauty of Paradise was enough for you.
“You’re back,” Princess Diana, Wonder Woman herself, muses. Her voice carries on the ocean wind, soft enough to keep you relaxed, hesitant as if she could ever disturb you.
She stops beside you, her long shadow extending over you and into the water. When you open your eyes, she’s smiling down at you. Carefully, you push up to perch on your knees.
“This is as far as they’ll let me roam,” you murmur, tracing a heart in the sand.
“I see,” Diana hums. She squats beside you, smiling kindly. “Have you asked them for more? Have you explained why you want it?”
You bark a laugh and shake your head at the idea. “Last time I asked to go farther, to help someone, Zeus laughed and called me σωτηρία.”
“Salvation… Just because the others look down on your kindness and care for mortals does not mean you should give up on it. Abandoning your true nature will not appease the gods forever. Nor will it make way for any other happiness.”
“Trust me, Princess, I know.”
Diana nods in reply to your plight. She looks over your shoulder and frowns at the seemingly endless sea behind you. “When were you last in the mortal world?”
Exhaling, you still your fingers in the sand and mentally calculate the time. The days have long since begun to stretch oddly, blurring together as weeks became years stranded in a world you’ve already explored in its entirety. “Decades, I think.”
“I’ll ask Hera for permission to take you to a meeting,” Diana offers. “It’s the least I can do for a hero, a savior of those who need it most.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I never said I did, dear friend.”
“Where is your meeting?” you ask, pushing up to stand.
“Gotham,” Diana raises, rising beside you. “With the Batman.”
You narrow your eyes and suggest, “Perhaps you should withhold that part if Ares is nearby.”
“He’s still angry?”
“If there is one thing Ares is good at, it is holding a grudge. As far as he’s concerned, Batman should have indulged his bloodlust the moment that clown stole his son away.”
“Then there’s one thing Superman and Ares agree upon.” Diana lays her hand on your shoulder and meets your eyes to offer, “My kingdom is yours. Make yourself at home, and I will ensure you receive Hera’s answer as soon as I do.”
Nodding, you whisper, “Thank you.”
Diana leaves you alone on the beach again. You sigh as the sun inches toward the horizon. If you stay here on the beach, you may be able to witness the sky flashing green and illuminating the silhouette of Olympus. Instead, you turn in the sand and march toward the library. Vibrant orange trees grow at the corners of the white building while flowering ivy works its way up the columns bracketing the entrance. In this land, there are no business hours, nothing to cause hesitancy to come out at night.
“Good evening, goddess,” someone greets when you step into the ornate library.
“Good evening,” you reply, offering a soft smile.
“Looking for anything particular?”
Glancing around the shelves, you consider all the options. Usually, you come here because you are researching something. Now, you have the freedom you dreamed of as a young goddess. There is no one here to tell you what you can or cannot indulge in, to ridicule your choices or comment that a goddess should not buy into ridiculous fairy tales created by mortals.
“Something romantic, dramatic, with a good ending that makes it all worth it,” you decide.
The book she hands you takes place in the mortal world, and you fall asleep between the pages long after the moon appears over Themyscira. In your dreams, the main character leads you through the halls of his manor, telling you about his adventures and the woman he has been falling for since he first laid eyes upon her. It all spells of poppies. Focused on the story, you don’t spare the Oneiroi in the corners any attention.
When you wake, blinking against the blurry ink of the final chapter, you wonder what Morpheus wanted bad enough to visit you in your dreams. He didn’t force it on you, so perhaps it is neither important nor urgent.
Diana steps into view when you sit up, her lasso of truth clutched between her fingers. Bad news it is then, you realize as you close the book. Good things always die anyway; happy endings aren’t an option for goddesses in your experience.
“I tried my hardest to convince them,” Diana begins.
“I know,” you assure her, laying a hand on her arm after you stand. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“Hera suggested you go to the gods directly and ask for freedom to explore as you want,” she says.
You nod, walking beside her to exit the library. The sunrise is painting the boundaries of the world, pastel pinks and oranges taunting you with ideas of the exploration you want but will never have. Diana is leading you to the hills, your senses numb as you follow her.
When does giving up on a dream get easier? Haven’t I abandoned enough that this should be the norm?
“I don’t have a great history with getting what I ask the gods for,” you admit, dragging your feet through the tall grasses swaying in the gentle morning breeze.
“And that means you should stop asking?” Diana challenges. “What if this is the request that they approve of?”
“It won’t be,” you scoff. “Even my fellow goddesses prefer to treat me like an ignorant, invalid child rather than an equal. I have all the powers and abilities of a goddess but have never been awarded the trust, the freedom, any of the things that truly matter! I prove myself every day and they don’t care.”
“As long as you know your worth and that you are deserving of these things, who cares what those on Mt. Olympus think? You have the strength to do this and the eagerness to not give up until you get what you desire.”
“I’m glad that is how you perceive me,” you hum. “But the cost could be too great. If I wrong the gods… I’m just not sure this I fight I can stand to endure. Even if I were to win, what would I have to trade for the opportunity?”
“You’ll never find out with that attitude, let alone win, goddess.”
You reach the peak of the hill, the palace of Themyscira and the surrounding landscape cascading down to the ocean shimmering like a safe haven beneath you. Diana is leaving for Gotham today, so you offer a hug and wish her well. Rather than staying here and watching her go, waiting and wandering in your sorrow and self-pity, you elect to take her advice.
Gathering your strength, supplemented by the faith of your friend, you leave Themyscira behind. Olympus may not greet you with open arms, but it never turns you away. Even if you don’t want it to be the only place you reside, can you risk sacrificing your home for an opportunity to visit a world that may abuse your powers?
“What good thing was ever earned without a bit of suffering?” you ask yourself. You don’t allow yourself to answer. You can’t always trust those kinds of replies.
Standing at the base of Zeus’s throne on Mt. Olympus, you look at the adornments above his head rather than the gods and goddesses seated beside him, staring down at you. Hera is the last to arrive, and her eyes soften when she sees you. She sinks into her seat and whispers something to Athena, who rolls her eyes and taps the hilt of her sword.
“What is it you seek, child?” Zeus asks then, reclined in his seat with a golden goblet hanging from his fingers.
“I’d like to roam the mortal realm,” you answer, willing your voice to be even as you clutch your clothes in both hands. “I want to find someone in need of help, to become a mentor.”
Zeus straightens, the air around the mountain vibrating with his thumber. “Absolutely not,” he rumbles.
“Please,” you whisper in reply. You step forward, looking at each god as you wonder, “Why should I be forced to spend eternity here?”
“Because you are safe here,” Athena points out.
“I am a goddess, just as you are. I would be safe wherever I went.”
“We’ve allowed you to travel to Themyscira as you please, have we not?” Ares counters. “Are there none in Paradise in need of mentoring?”
“That is not the same and you know it,” Hera points out.
“You side with the child?” Zeus inquires, his brows raised in shock and silent challenge.
“I do,” Hephaestus interjects. “She has forged a life marked by trust and responsibility. I believe we should indulge her an opportunity to demonstrate how she will use it. If it is only her safety that is a concern, I can arm her.”
“Her safety is not the only concern,” Zeus rumbles.
“Are we to take a vote?” Athena asks Zeus. “It has been many years since we made up the majority over you, God King.”
Zeus glares at Athena, who only smiles back, then shifts to stare down at you. His arms tense against his throne before he nods. “We will discuss it.”
You nod to communicate your thanks, then step back. One thing you learned long ago is that you don’t have to pretend not to listen because any discussion amongst the gods does not stay private for long. Hera exclaims the moment someone includes her, her approval or indignance obvious to anyone nearby; Zeus creates thunder of varying volumes when he speaks; and Ares and Aphrodite finish each other’s sentences. It’s never quiet, nor it is boring.
“Give us a good reason she should not go!” Hera demands. “She’s not asking to grant anyone immortality, just to see a world beyond what she knows.”
“She is too naïve,” Zeus argues.
“She’s been training with me since she could walk, Father,” Athena reminds him. “She has more strategy than Ares and Apollo combined!”
“Hey,” Apollo interjects. “Archery is an inherently strategic sport.”
“Strategy is not a substitute for experience,” Zeus continues. “If she should come across someone like the Greek, how should we know that she will not tell him-”
“Your concern for her judgement of character is wrongfully placed,” Hephaestus challenges. “She can evaluate humans, gods, and monsters alike with a word.”
“And if she’s learned anything from me,” Aphrodite interjects, “she’d be less likely to tell him who she is rather than what she’d like to do with him.”
Zeus continues arguing, not slowing when the sound of a crashing wave draws your attention from the throne. Smiling, you realize that none of the gods above you feel the misting that precedes his interest. Or perhaps they are simply too enthralled with arguing to react.
“And her strength?” Zeus demands.
“You are afraid for her!” Apollo accuses. “She has the strength of Olympus at her fingertips, and we are on her side. What is there to fear?”
“What do they quarrel for this time?” Poseidon inquires, stepping to your side with his trident in hand.
“It’s about me,” you reply, glancing at his blue hair cascading down his back.
“Ah. Why?”
“I asked to roam the mortal world.”
Poseidon steps forward, blocking your view of the others. He sneers down at you before he demands, “Why?”
“I want to explore, maybe help someone who really needs it,” you answer softly.
“You have spent far too much time with Athena,” Poseidon sighs, pinching his nose. “You are aware that mortals are revolting creatures, no? Their habits and relations are abhorrent, utterly abysmal.”
“I am aware that you loathe mortals, yes. Especially those whom Athena engages with.”
Poseidon nods tersely, not bothering to feign offense. “You have often had my support,” he reminds you. “But a trip to the mortal realm… I am unsure I can argue in your favor in this matter.”
Your lips part but Poseidon turns and approaches the gods before you can reply. Without the chance to plead to change his mind, you know the answer you’ll receive. So much for standing up for what I deserve, you think.
When they decline your request, perhaps Themyscira can once again become an escape for you. Maybe requesting to accompany Diana will seem like less of an ask next time.
“Quiet,” Poseidon hisses when he reaches Zeus’s side. “Who is in her favor?”
Hephaestus, Hera, and Apollo raise their hands. Aphrodite shifts on her feet, then lifts her hand. Ares follows soon after.
“She can protect herself,” Ares affirms. “The violence of the mortal world is no threat to her.”
“Athena?” Zeus asks.
“I’m not saying she should or shouldn’t go,” she explains. “It is not my place to dictate her fate.”
“It’s dangerous,” Poseidon points out. “We risk losing her. If not to an enemy than to a mortal. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You care for her,” Zeus reminds him. It’s a pointless reminder; Poseidon forgetting how much you mean to him would be preceded by the sun failing to rise or the waves curling the wrong way. “What do you say, brother?”
Poseidon sighs. “There is sea and sky in the mortal world. She would not be alone… I think we owe her the opportunity.”
“She won’t be alone,” Ares agrees. “I have an idea to make sure of it.”
“And I have a sword she can take,” Hephaestus offers.
“I guess we have a decision,” Zeus murmurs.
“A decision about what?” Hermes interrupts, landing behind Athena. Aphrodite flinches, inching closer to Ares and Hephaestus.
Athena juts her chin toward you and explains, “Trip to the moral world.”
“How exciting!” Hermes exclaims, bouncing on his toes. “Who said no? Fill me in on everything. Someone brought up the whole ‘men are pigs’ — not a Circe reference — thing, right?”
“How ‘bout you do that?” Poseidon deadpans.
“We have made a decision,” Zeus calls.
Nodding, you await the refusal that is sure to come.
“I stand by my opinion that this is a bad idea,” he begins. “You have many thanks to give Poseidon and Ares.” Hera and Athena make argumentative noises, but Zeus only waves his hand toward them. “We have decided to grant your request.”
Straightening, you smile up at the gods. “Th-”
“Not so fast,” Ares interrupts. “There will be limitations. You have one week to find a mortal in need of a mentor. If you have not found one by then, you shall return immediately. If you should find one, you must return to us in no less than two months to account for your time in their world. If you chose to accept these constraints, you are free to travel between the worlds.”
“I agree!” you call quickly. Then, you press your hands to your sides and repeat, “I agree. Thank you.”
“A week,” Zeus reminds you. “Take care of yourself, and if you decide to return sooner than we have requested, there is no shame in it. Olympus is your home.”
You hope that’s true. No matter how you feel now, there is still a risk of letting down the gods and goddesses who let you do this. You may ruin the only relationships you’ve ever known if you do the wrong thing or go to the wrong place. The faith of the gods is enough to push those doubts aside.
Poseidon, Aphrodite, and Athena leave their places at Zeus’s table and walk toward you before you can leave. Poseidon’s jaw is set, his trident clutched tightly in his hand. Athena and Aphrodite look more approachable as they separate to stand on either side of you.
Aphrodite brushes your hair over your shoulder and sighs. “I hope you find love, beauty, and pleasure in your travels.” She traces her fingers down your arm, then takes your hand and taps the love line on your palm.
“Don’t let your guard down looking for those things,” Athena reminds you. “Strategy over feelings, just as always.”
Aphrodite scoffs as Athena notices Poseidon lingering beside you. She pats your back twice before she pulls Aphrodite away. The god of the ocean looks displeased with the decision even though Zeus told you he was to thank for it.
“Poseidon,” you greet.
“Should you need anything,” he grumbles, looking at his trident rather than you, “call out to the sea. I will send my aid, day or night.”
You sober, looking up at him. “Thank you.”
He scowls and nudges you toward the door. “Don’t make it weird, kid.”
“Too late, mer-boy!” Athena taunts over her shoulder.
“I should have drowned her when I had the chance.”
“Wait, dahling!” Hermes exclaims.
You pause at the door, smiling as he rushes to your side. He pushes his yellow glasses onto his head and takes your shoulders to pull you closer.
“Mortal men don’t deserve you, dahling,” he murmurs, bending to look in your eyes.
“Okay,” you reply.
“They won’t accept the power you have to offer. They’ll be threatened by it.”
“I’ll be careful about who I trust, Hermes.”
“That… I’m not worried about you and what you choose to do, love. Don’t forget who you are and what you can do, but don’t let anyone use it.”
He nods and releases you. Ares waves before you step out of the palace. A week isn’t much time to do anything, much less to find a deserving mortal in need of a mentor. More pressing, you realize, is that you have no idea where to go. The maps in Themyscira are probably outdated. You’ve only heard of the realms where Wonder Woman is needed. Gotham is supposed to be pretty rough, you remember.
And you have your answer. You have a destination: the mortal world, Gotham, home of the Batman. Hopefully Ares doesn’t regret his decision to side with you over this.
It’s raining in Gotham, the streetlights reflecting off the puddles on the asphalt. Red Hood is perched on the roof of the police department, half-tucked beneath the extended wing of a gargoyle in effort to stay dry. Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Spoiler are out tonight, too. That’s part of the reason he allowed himself the desperately needed break. Beneath the helmet, Jason Todd takes ragged breaths as he fights to calm his racing heart. He can still feel the knife in his hand, can smell the blood that the rain washed away.
Gotham is a powerful monster, one that turned Jason into a warrior long before he realized what the transformation would cost him. He’d been on the street, fighting just to survive, when Bruce Wayne arrived dressed as a bat and looking for someone to save, for someone to fix. Jason had offered himself up to be molded without hesitation or question. He never considered what would happen if he hated what he became. Or, worse, if Bruce hated what he’d created. Then the Joker came along and broke the soldier Bruce’s mold created, and the Lazarus Pit stitched it back together wrong. Jagged edges, missing chunks, and a mind filled with rage took the warrior’s place.
“Jay.”
The voice that interrupts Jason’s thoughts is staticky and distant even through the state-of-the-art speakers built into Jason’s helmet.
“Hood,” they call again.
Jason blinks, squeezing his eyes closed on a deep inhale. Gotham doesn’t pause for the rain, nor for his worries or the monster he fights to keep trapped inside. Maybe that’s what the armor has been for all along.
“Littlewing!” the voice yells, echoing in his helmet.
“I’m here, Dick,” Jason sighs into the comms. “Sorry.”
“I have good news for you,” Dick says. He grunts softly like he’s throwing a kick, then adds, “Just found out from Cass.”
“If it’s from you and Cass, the odds of it being good news for me is infinitesimal.”
“Okay, hurtful. I’m still telling you, but I don’t think you deserve to know now: Bruce has a visitor coming by the manor tomorrow.”
“B has lots of visitors all the time,” Jason points out, raising a gloved hand to the gargoyle for support to stand on the rain-slick roof. “Batman has even more.”
“Jay, Diana is coming!”
Jason lifts a brow under the helmet. “That’s not the worst news you’ve disguised as good news.”
“Ah, you’re excited! I can hear it in the timbre of your voice.”
“Hear this in the timbre of my voice-”
“Boys,” Barbara calls over the comms. “Clayface is attacking a crowd outside the theater. You two are the closest.”
“We shall fan-vigilante later then,” Dick sighs. “Meet you there, Wing.”
“Please don’t modify the word fangirl ever again,” Jason requests as he hooks his grappling hook in the base of the gargoyle.
“I’ll let that slide, but Diana won’t, so you have to be nicer to me tomorrow, baby bro.”
Jason scoffs, then repels down the back of the GCPD building. He’s been called to be a warrior again. It’s a call that never waits, that never takes a raincheck, even in a city that sees more rain than sun. In his best dreams, he can outrun the warrior he really is, can adopt the fighter the people closest to him think exists and find out what survived the Lazarus Pit. Whatever is left of him needs to be saved, but he’s too busy saving everyone else to look for it.
The moment they approach, Clayface turns his attention to Red Hood and Nightwing. Jason steels himself beneath the helmet to shove himself into Bruce’s mold despite the pain and uncomfortable stretch caused by the simple fact that he no longer fits in it. Wonder Woman once told Red Hood he was a valiant warrior. Jason is still unsure if Diana was referring to the warrior he pretended to be or if she saw the dangerous, deadly warrior he buried when he realized it couldn’t be killed.
“Clay!” Dick calls. “What are we doin’?”
Clayface roars as Jason slides between his legs and aims a special-made taser between his shoulder blades. He pulls the trigger, watching as Clayface seizes. Still, he remains standing.
“Hood, do something!” Dick requests, dodging a heavy ridge hand from Clayface.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jason replies. “Move him forward.”
Dick flips back, luring Clayface away from the crowded theater. Jason feels eyes on him; he’s been watched enough to tell the difference between a concerned crowd and someone who is watching because they’re not supposed to look away. It’s been a while since Bruce had someone tail Jason, but it’s the most likely explanation.
“Move!” Jason demands.
Dick taps his forearms together, activating the new gloves Tim installed in his suit. He jumps up and grabs the power line drooping above him. Jason places a disc explosive against Clayface’s changing form then takes three long steps back. He runs into a flying kick, burying the device in Clayface’s leg before he lands on one foot and presses a button on his belt to arm it.
Dick swings his legs up and Jason crosses his arms in front of his face, kneeling on the wet road. Braced for impact, they don’t flinch when the boom echoes in the alleys. Clayface collapses, spread longer and wider than he was when he was standing.
“Oracle, we could use some cleanup,” Dick radios.
“On its way,” Barbara replies.
Jason turns in a slow circle, looking along the rooflines in search of the gaze he feels. There is no one obvious. Bruce got better at briefing his dirty work employees.
“You didn’t come to dinner Friday,” Dick says, wiping rain from his forehead.
“I- uh- just got busy,” Jason mumbles. “Maybe the next one.”
“We’re still here,” Dick reminds him. “If you don’t want to go to the manor, that’s okay. We can do it somewhere else.”
“Yeah, the manor isn’t the problem.”
“I’m not going to lie and say I get it, but I want to understand. Whenever you’re ready to talk… Call me, okay?”
Jason nods. Dick has no idea what it’s like to be at constant war with who you really are because other people felt obligated to infuse you with what they thought you should be. Jason hopes he never understands. He wouldn’t wish this on Bruce, even for all their animosity. At the end of the day, he’s still a warrior. But he has to face the idea that he’s fighting for something he doesn’t even stand for.
Deep down, Jason knows that trying to outrun something that is attached to him will kill him. He’ll be hanging on by a string until it happens. He’s spread thin enough fighting for the people who need it more than him. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved after all he’s done. That’s what the bad dreams try to convince him of, at least.
“Jason,” Barbara says. “We’re on a private channel.”
“That’s never good,” he replies. “What am I in trouble for?”
“Nothing. Bruce wants to talk to you.”
Jason’s hands curl into fists, his mind racing with the familiar waves of the pit. He forces his eyes closed, thinks of a different ocean, and measures his breathing.
“I can’t,” he replies.
“I’ll tell him you’re busy.”
“Thanks, Babs.”
“You’ll have to talk to Father eventually,” Damian interjects, watching Tim do the grunt work of collecting Clayface.
“Stay out of this,” Jason snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be-”
“That’s enough,” Dick interrupts. “Dami, help Tim. Jay and I are headed toward Arkham to make sure it’s clear for Clay’s return.”
Damian tsks, then nods and listens to Dick’s instructions.
“He’s trying, you know?” Dick murmurs when they reach the rooftop of the theater. “Bruce wants to do better.”
“I can’t talk to him, Dick.” Because I’m not who he thinks I am, because who he wants me to be died in that warehouse and a monster took his place in the pit, because I hate him for not accepting me for who I was. Because he’s the reason I realized I hated the warrior inside of me… maybe even more than he did. “Not yet.”
“What has to change first?”
“Both of us need to learn some more, I think.”
Dick nods. “I’m glad you’re back. Sorry I never said it before.”
“It’s okay,” Jason murmurs. “Sorry I shot you when I got here.”
Dick laughs, then stops on the edge of a roof when Jason turns suddenly. “What is it?” he inquires.
Dick’s domino mask reflects the moonlight shining through the clouds. Jason can only shake his head. They’re being followed, he’s sure of it, but he isn’t in the mood to tell Dick why. Bruce still can’t trust him — or simply won’t. Jason doesn’t hold it against him; he’d have someone watching him all the time, too, if he weren’t so scared to let someone that close.
“So, Diana,” Jason redirects. “What’s she coming for?”
“I don’t know,” Dick answers. “Just that Cass overheard B and Alfred making arrangements. League business, I’d assume.”
“Interesting we never get a trip to Themyscira. We’re just free labor.”
“What more are kids good for?” Dick jokes. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Her biggest fan.”
“Or she likes seeing me because I don’t ask her for a trip to Japan for sushi and call her uncle.”
“Leave Uncle Clark out of this!”
“You’re so weird. Has Diana ever brought someone with her? One of the girls from the island or Hera?”
“Not that I’ve known about. Bruce has been to Themyscira a few times but always refuses to tell me anything about it. I’ve heard it’s pretty.”
“Yeah, me too. I found a book in the manor’s library about it.”
“Stolen?” Dick inquires.
“Almost definitely,” Jason affirms. “There’s maps, history, legends.”
“What kind of legends?”
“The usual kind about crazy or talented rulers, some about why the island was created, that it was sculpted to reflect the horizons of Olympus.”
“Where the Greek gods live?”
“From what I gathered.”
“We should ask for a trip,” Dick decides. “Right after we tell dear, sweet, talented Oracle that Clayface is clear for entry.”
Jason blinks beneath the helmet. He feels at home with Dick, like he belongs. Dick never wanted to leave him, not like Bruce, who was more interested in how he could fight than who he was. Someday, when he’s brave enough to say it all, he’ll tell his brother everything. If he lives that long.
You’ve trained with the goddess of wisdom and masters of war, learned to love and fight for both pleasure and pain, but the mortal world still overwhelms you when you first arrive. There is love and hate in the same place, beauty and devastation at every turn. Everything you’ve heard about Gotham being dark, rainy, and dangerous seems to be true. You could have traveled to Ithica or Rome, but here you are. On a wet rooftop looking down at a man made of clay as he threatens a crowd of helpless humans. Diana may be in town, but she has more important things to do than show you around, and you’ve decided to remain invisible for as long as possible.
Athena’s lessons have proved helpful already. The spell you placed on yourself allows you to remain invisible to the mortals, empowering you to travel through the shadows. It bothers you that you can’t rush forward and save these people, but the whole purpose of coming was to find someone who was already endowed with that desire for heroism and mentor them further.
Ares once told you that the air shifts when a true warrior arrives. You’d laughed when he said it, pointing out that the only thing that changed when he arrived was how annoyed everyone else was going to become. You owe him an apology. Two humans step onto the scene — one is wearing spandex and a small mask covering his eyes, while the other tips his head beneath a red helmet as rain drips from his broad shoulders, covered with a dark leather jacket. The moment they step forward, the air does indeed shift.
They don’t hesitate to jump into action, drawing the creature away from the people before they incapacitate it. You’re drawn in immediately, unable to look away. It’s a whole group of heroes; you realize when two more arrive. Despite the ease with which they talk to one another, it’s clear to you that one of them is an outsider. Rather than being a cohesive team, it’s a motley crew of warriors. The one in red, however… He’s worthy of attention, possesses both the heart and mind of a warrior.
Red Hood and Nightwing are their names. Passing a 24/7 convenience store as you follow them through the city, you see their names and fuzzy silhouettes on the front page of a newspaper. The gods didn’t teach you how or when to approach anyone, though, so you hesitate to remove your spell. Maybe you can find an opportunity later. That’s the idea that makes you follow Red Hood, even when he and Nightwing split ways.
You sit on the cool metal fire escape outside Red Hood’s apartment all night. Goddesses don’t sleep like mortals, so you watch the city. More heroes emerge as the night progresses, present until dawn, when the darkness and filth of the city is illuminated for all. The man beneath the hood doesn’t stir until nearly 9 a.m. Rather than looking through his windows, you wait until he leaves, trailing behind him.
Dressed nicer, you can see that the man is large, imposing in his size and strength, and has a broad white streak in his otherwise dark hair. He walks with his shoulders hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he navigates easily around people, doors, and things on the sidewalk.
Unknown to you, Jason Todd knows there’s still someone behind him. Whoever Bruce hired this time is much more thorough than the others. They’ve never been this close when the helmet has been off. He’ll confront Bruce when the time comes. Today, he has better things to think about.
You want to look at the city as you walk, but the warrior leading the way holds your attention.
“They won’t accept the power you have to offer. They’ll be threatened by it.”
Hermes’s message enters your mind unwelcomed. He very well may be right, but you won’t know if this Red Hood needs a mentor unless you get close enough to see if he’s threatened by power that isn’t his. He clearly has strength and skills of his own, but even the best can gain something from partnership and supplementary lessons. Aphrodite taught you that, though you think she was talking about something else.
Red Hood leads you to a manor on the hill overlooking Gotham. The script above the gate is old but well-maintained. Wayne. His chin dips closer to his chest as he approaches the door. You’re intimately familiar with the feeling of not belonging somewhere you really should. For you, it’s the internal separation from Olympus. For this Red Hood, it’s whoever the Waynes are.
You stay outside after he enters, wandering the grounds as you look through windows and run your fingers over the smooth, downturned petals of flowers. Gotham is no Themyscira, but it’s beautiful in its own right — melancholic, serious, and dark.
“Jason!” a familiar voice exclaims.
You hold the edge of a stone windowsill and look inside. Diana Prince of Themyscira is wrapping her arms around Red Hood. Jason, it seems. He leans into her, smiling as his cheeks turn pink at her whispered words.
“Aww,” you whisper to yourself. You release the stone and fall to the ground, your brows drawn together as you wonder where that came from. The whole point of finding a mortal to mentor is to make them better, not to get invested in their life. You should walk away now. You should find someone else. But you know it’s too late because the idea of doing either of those things makes you feel like Ares when someone tells him the battle is over.
Hours later, Red Hood emerges from the manor. He slings his leg over a motorcycle and drives into the night, his helmet firmly in place and a thigh holster strapping a gun to his side. The boy who walked inside the house and was touched by Diana’s words has been replaced by a man prepared to fight.
You don’t hesitate to follow him. He finds a fight quickly, abandoning his bike and his gun in an alley to jump to action. He’s outnumbered; it’s the first thing that truly makes you want to step in and help him. You’re two days into your seven-day exploration, so you have time to wait. You don’t want to, and that’s something none of the gods or goddesses thought to warn you about. Unless, of course, Aphrodite did, but it was covered in flowery metaphors that you forgot as soon as she stopped talking — or she was distracting you by playing with your hair when she said it.
Red Hood throws the first punch, then takes two to his back. The men circling him aren’t fighting fair, their faces painted white and red and their hair tinted green as they laugh when he falls.
You want to help, want to do something. The fact that you’re a goddess has no bearing now; you are simply scared that you’ll let him down, that you’ll fail a warrior in need.
The men form a tight circle and grab Red Hood by his jacket. You stand then with a question on the tip of your tongue.
Jason is mad. More than the rage he fights to control when he is engaged in combat, this anger settles deep within him, festering with each move he makes, and each hit he feels connect with his body.
“Get off!” he screams, twisting into a hook kick that sends on Joker wannabe falling back onto another.
Three more reach out for him, clutching his jacket while someone punches just above his kidneys. Jason yells as he’s pushed to his knees, clawing at anything he can touch. He knew better than to walk into this fight unarmed and alone. He’s not even connected to the comms, so he can’t fall for backup. He’s alone, no matter what happens.
“Need a hand?” someone asks.
Unless I’m still being followed, he thinks bitterly. But Jason is no fool. He knows that the voice of whoever is speaking isn’t Bruce Wayne’s private investigator. It’s not someone on leave from the Gazette doing Batman’s dirty work. The offer to help must mean more.
“I’m losing,” he snaps. “What do you think?”
“The one in the green shoes is their leader,” you point out, inching closer to the fight. “Subdue him and the rest will flee.”
The red helmet tips before Red Hood surges forward, pulling three men with him as he wraps his hands around the leader’s throat. Almost immediately, the men release him and step back. Red Hood slams the man against the wall, his chest heaving as the first henchman runs.
“Please,” the criminal begs breathily. He digs his fingers into the brick wall behind him, searching for purchase to stay upright. “Please.”
“No,” Red Hood answers lowly.
Within seconds, the rest of the man’s crew abandons him and they’re alone in the alley.
“Run,” Red Hood instructs. “And don’t ever come back to my city. Understood?”
Nodding against his hand, the man agrees. He trips on his way out of the alley, unflinching when his knees scrape open, leaving a red streak not unlike his fake smile on the asphalt.
“Who do I have to thank for the assist?” Red Hood asks, looking around the alley.
You smile when he looks past the alcove you’re tucked in. “A friend.”
He stops then, facing you as he rubs his pec. “I know you’ve been watching me. Show yourself,” he requests. After a breath, he murmurs, “I can see you.”
“How can you see through my spell?” you demand, stepping forward and shedding the magic, just as Athena taught you.
The helmet drops, then rises slowly, like Red Hood is taking you in. Beneath the helmet, Jason’s eyes widen in admiration, appreciation, and recognition. He’s never seen a goddess in the flesh before, but he realizes now why so many people pledge their loyalty and their lives to women like you.
“I was lying,” he answers. “Guess I’m a good liar.”
As much as you’d like to act differently, you’re amused by his trick. “Well done,” you offer. Then, to get him back, you add, “Jason.”
He doesn’t seem surprised you know his name, or he’s good at hiding what he’s feeling. “You know my name. What’s yours?”
“Nice try.”
Jason steps forward and tugs something from underneath his jacket. He offers the grappling hook to you, nodding when you refuse it. Another step, and he slowly wraps his arm around your waist. You make no move to stop him. So far, he has given you no reason not to trust him. And while you may have just come across it while following him, you know Diana trusts him, too. She sees something in him, so you know you haven’t been led astray by the pursuit of pleasure.
He fires the hook over his head, then holds you close as you rise to the roof. Jason releases you and steps back the moment you’re firm on your feet. You hold your breath when he lifts his hands to either side of his helmet. The seal hisses when he releases it, and then you’re looking at Jason Todd. Not Red Hood, not any other warrior, Jason.
“What now, κόκκινος?” you ask softly.
“Don’t be modest,” he murmurs with a smile. “I know you’re a goddess.”
“And how do you know that?” you inquire.
Jason shrugs, a boyish grin on his face as he looks at you.
“Well, the Greek was a bit of a clue. You called me Red, right? Creative.” He cracks the joke, but he’s never more appreciate for Bruce’s foreign language lessons than he is now.
“Okay,” you hum, tapping your chin. “You know I’m a goddess and I know you’re Batman’s son.”
He tips his head to one side, his smile unchanging. There’s no challenge between you, no animosity, just an understanding that stems from something unseen.
“Look, you’re fighting more foes than you can even see,” you continue. “If you’re looking for a mentor who can separate the two, I’ll make sure your time’s well spent.”
Jason offers his hand. When you place your palm against his, Jason answers, “Sounds like a plan.” His smile alone threatens your willingness to go home in two short months, and then he uses your joined hands to pull you closer. “Goddess and man, bestest of friends?”
“Hmm. We’ll see where it ends,” you counter playfully.
“Okay.”
“Put your helmet back on,” you demand when he releases your hand. “You’re not done fighting yet.”
“Let me guess, you don’t want me to kill anyone either? Like Batman. How am I supposed to win this?” he asks. Despite having questions, he does as you said and puts his helmet on.
“Do you think you can trust me? Can you accept help?”
I’d trust you even if it cost me my life and that terrifies me, he thinks. “I can try,” he says instead.
“Goddess and man, huh?” you repeat.
“We’ll see where it ends,” Jason jokes, shrugging one shoulder. “Where to, goddess?”
“Those men you scared away didn’t heed your warning. They’re on their way downtown.”
“Do we need backup?”
You consider the question as you follow Jason to his bike. Growing up at the base of Mt. Olympus, you were taught to call on the gods when you needed assistance. But where if there’s more to life? What if being here and helping a mortal is the very way you find your own strength?
“Would you have called for help if I hadn’t arrived?” you wonder.
Jason throws a leg over the bike and looks back at you. “No.”
“Then there’s your answer. The real question then becomes why do you think you don’t deserve the help that’s offered?”
The red helmet shifts away from you. Asking tough questions serves a purpose; you’ve been on the receiving end of Athena’s seeming interrogations (though she prefers to call them helpful spurs) more than once.
“Relying entirely on your own strength is a gift,” you add. “And one that many people are unable or unwilling to grant themselves. Punishing yourself by facing the world alone is something else entirely.”
“Then show me,” he requests. “You just saved my life. I’m still here with you because of your strength.”
“You’re willing to accept what I can offer?” you check. Hermes argued that this would never happen, yet here you are — trading secrets and building alliances with a mortal that has held you utterly enraptured since you first laid eyes upon him.
Jason taps the seat of his motorcycle and lifts a shoulder. “Give me another win and I’ll let you know.”
“It’s not about winning.”
Despite your argument, you step forward and slide into place behind him. He offers a helmet before he grasps your wrists gently and wraps your arms around his waist.
“First time on a motorcycle?” he asks. You can picture the accompanying smug smile even through his helmet.
“Maybe,” you murmur as you press your chest to his back.
“Hmm. Guess I’ll have to make it memorable.”
“I thought I was calling the shots.”
He releases your wrists to tap your leg while he shifts the bike into first gear. “Give me all you’ve got, goddess,” he encourages.
“Who is she?”
Diana doesn’t flinch when Batman’s voice echoes in her hotel room. She straightens the knot on her robe and sits on the edge of the bed with a smile. “Take a guess, Bruce.”
“There’s an unfamiliar woman in my town helping my… helping Jason win fights he shouldn’t even be involved in,” Bruce explains, stepping out of the shadows and into the room.
“Fights plural?” Diana challenges. “What’s the problem here, Bruce? That you want to be involved or that she’s doing something you couldn’t?”
“I’m concerned for his safety,” Bruce argues, “that’s all.”
“That is certainly not all, but we don’t have to get into that right now. What is it you’d like to know?”
Bruce exhales slowly, then looks toward the tinted window overlooking Gotham. After several breaths pass between them, he whispers, “Can she help him?”
“She’ll do more than that,” Diana assures him. “Jason is a formidable warrior. She can show him that there’s more to him that than, even with everything he’s been through.”
“Everything I put him through, you mean.”
Diana stands and places her hand on the break in the armor across Bruce’s sternum. “You cannot blame yourself entirely, Bruce. Acknowledge your mistakes, learn from them, and keep going. Stalling in the present with your eyes on the past does neither of you any good.”
“It’s all my fault,” he admits softly. “I should have saved him.”
“Then tell him now. Save him from the fear that you blame him, save him from the doubts and the hesitation instilled in him after losing his way. Save him from wondering if you hate him.”
Bruce nods. “You- you never answered my question. Who is she?”
Diana murmurs your name, and a thunder crack breaks the monotonous thrum of rain throughout Gotham.
“Let me see, let me see, let me see,” Aphrodite pleads, her hands clasped in front of her chest. She stands between Ares and Hephaestus, whose arms are crossed in defiance, fear, or something else they’re hiding behind emotionless faces.
“So predictable,” Athena chides from Zeus’s side.
“Not too predictable, I hope,” he replies. “Had you any idea she wished to go to Gotham?”
“No. She didn’t tell me her travel plans and I didn’t ask. I’m sure Poseidon had her choices narrowed down in his mind. Gotham has a lovely harbor from what I hear.”
“Let me see!” Aphrodite calls out.
“It is a mortal,” Ares sighs tiredly. “Do they not all look the same to you?”
Aphrodite gasps, her fingers spread on her chest to show her shock. “No! If my fellow goddess has dedicated two months of her life to a mortal I want to see why!”
“Perhaps it is something within that made him or her worthy of a mentor,” Hephaestus suggests.
“Ah, you’re so cute,” Aphrodite replies. “Seriously, Athena, let me see.”
Athena shakes her head and looks to Zeus, who shrugs. When Athena waves, Aphrodite seems to teleport to her side, gazing into the shifting images of you and a man in Gotham.
“Oh,” Aphrodite breathes out. “I see.”
“He’s… built to be a warrior,” Ares murmurs when he approaches.
“Commendable weaponry,” Hephaestus adds.
“He’s gorgeous,” Aphrodite corrects.
“That’s enough,” Zeus mumbles. “Find something to do.”
“Should we tell Poseidon?” Athena asks. She smiles when Zeus turns toward her because she knows the answer.
“Ooh! A message?” Hermes exclaims, rushing over the threshold. “Perhaps I can help.”
“The last time I sent you to my brother, he attempted to skewer you with his trident,” Zeus reminds him.
“True, but you know what they say about third time being the charm.”
“Perhaps we should simply assume Poseidon already knows,” Apollo suggests from his seat. “He would be the one to keep tabs on her, after all.”
Jason rolls his wrist, stepping over the extended legs of a demobilized foe to reach you.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he muses through the helmet.
“I’ve had good teachers,” you deflect, looking away from him.
“So have I, but it’s never been this easy before.”
You nod, gazing out at the harbor. Jason finishes his journey to your side and leans against the bike wordlessly.
“Who are you really?” he whispers.
“A friend,” you offer. “Someone who can work with you, someone who can see that underneath the warrior you’ve been trained to be survives a man who needs more than fighting to truly live. You have survived, and that is commendable.” Bringing your eyes back to him, you ask, “But what if you can do more?”
Jason shifts but doesn’t look away from you. “What if finding out just hurts more?” he counters.
On an exhale, you promise, “Then I’ll share the burden of hurt. You’ve shouldered it alone for too long, Red Hood.”
“Jason,” he corrects. “Please.”
You offer your name then, smiling when he says it like a prayer.
Three days later, you find yourself in Jason’s apartment. You’ve yet to admit that you were the presence he felt on the fire escape the first night in his world, but it seems irrelevant now. The pain shooting through your shoulder is far more compelling than any truth you may confess.
“Easy,” Jason murmurs, pressing a cool cloth to the broken skin beneath your collarbone. Nearly immediately, his tone drops and he chides, “That was stupid.”
“Letting my mentee die would have been stupid,” you counter roughly. “Forgive me for caring about you.”
Jason scoffs. Deep down, you know that he’s still fighting the truths you’re telling him — that he’s enough on principle not because of what he can do, that if he hung up the Red Hood mantel tonight people would still love him, that he is worth something despite what that clown put him through. His demeanor changed, however, when you stepped out of the shadow and took an arrow intended for him.
“I’m sorry,” you offer.
Jason’s jaw works beneath his skin, his pinky dragging comforting lines along your inner arm.
“I’m sorry that you’re upset,” you add, “not that I did it. I would take every injury if I could. Had the gods given me a chance to take your place in Bosnia, I would not have hesitated.”
“That’s not your responsibility,” he grumbles, reaching over your waist for a fresh roll of gauze. “My lifestyle brings a lot of injuries; nothing to be worried about.”
“Just because they’re typical doesn’t mean you should accept them!”
“What would you have me do instead?” Jason demands. “Leave Gotham?”
“Yes!” you yell, pushing up into his hand. “If that is what you truly desire, yes, I would have you run as far from Gotham as you could possibly go.”
“Helping me win a few fights does not mean you know everything about me!” he argues. “Now lay down!”
You want to argue, wish to follow Zeus’s example and bring down lightning to punctuate your point. Jason deserves so much more — more mercy, more understanding, more acceptance, more love in place of all the inadequate excuses for care and home he’s received.
“Please don’t push me away,” you request softly. “I’m trying to help.”
Jason swallows thickly, then checks the gash in your skin. It’s already closing. Raindrops patter against the window behind you, the doom and gloom of Gotham forgotten in the warm embrace of Jason’s home.
“It was snowing that night,” he begins. “I had planned to ask Bruce for hot chocolate at the hotel…”
Halfway through your stay in the mortal world, you make a decision and refuse to let Jason fight alone. He yells when you step face-to-face with a high-level drug lord yet ends up pressing his back to yours as you fight your way through the Narrows of Gotham.
Ending a war will be quite difficult to explain to Ares, but Gotham’s drug problem is affecting children, something you and Jason share a negative opinion on. So, when he chose Carmine Falcone’s right-hand man and most affluent distributor as his next target, you readily agreed to help him win the fight.
Somewhere between when Jason threw the first punch and when he ushers you onto his bike as sirens echo down the street, you make a startling realization. Jason isn’t just a mortal; he’s not just someone you’re helping. This is absolutely nothing like Athena and the Greek because you’re falling in love with Jason Todd.
Sitting before you, glancing down at your hands gripping his jacket, Jason has no such revelation. Because he’s known since the first night, when he took your hand, that he was falling for you. He’s read enough books to know that goddesses and mortals are rarely a good match. But everything you’ve taught him, all you’ve reminded him of, your constant gentle reassurances, it all leads him to wonder what if?
Seven weeks into your mentorship of Jason Todd, you nearly blow your cover. Nightwing and Red Robin join him unexpectedly, leading you to duck behind a dumpster and utilize Athena’s invisibility spell once more.
“So, that Bane fight last night…” Red Robin begins.
“How’d you do that?” Nightwing inquires. “Oracle was screaming in our ears that you were about to crushed, but Bane was the one to end up in the street. So, what’d you use?”
“There’s this thing you’ll never truly understand,” Jason begins. “It’s called a brain. Many of us have one behind our eyes.”
“Ha ha,” Nightwing deadpans. “Seriously, was it the new flash bomb?”
You step out, invisible to any human who may look your way. Jason glances in your direction and for a brief moment you wonder if he truly could see you that first night.
“I had some help,” Jason admits. “I’ve learned a lot in the last two months.”
Two months. Your time is almost up. The brothers’ conversation fades to little more than static as the crashing of waves draws your attention. Tonight’s red flag warning is unusual for Gotham; the harbor typically remains calm even in Gotham’s seemingly never-ending thunderstorms. When you turn toward the shore, however, foamy waves curl, colliding powerfully with the sand. The salty water sprays inland, beckoning you forward.
Still invisible, you don’t notice Jason look around for you. Walking to the shore, you trust his brothers to have his back should an unexpected threat arise.
“Poseidon?” you call softly.
“You were injured,” his voice accuses. “And you did not call out for aid.”
Glancing over your shoulder, you see Jason watching the space you left while his brothers continue asking questions. “He helped me,” you explain.
“Mortals do not act selflessly without expecting some sort of repayment,” Poseidon warns. “These waters are not easily trodden.”
“I’ll be back to Olympus soon, remember?”
“And what will you say? Will you tell Ares that you ended a war? Will you admit to Aphrodite that you care deeply for the mortal? Will Hermes remain quiet about the letters the mortal has slipped beneath your pillow?”
“How do you know about that?” you interrupt, standing from your squatted position. “I didn’t tell anyone about those. I haven’t even conjured the courage to read them myself.”
“Precisely. The gods know more than you’re willing to discuss. You’re running out of time to fix this.”
The salty air burns your throat when you swallow. “What are they going to do to me?” you whisper.
A cooling mist brushes over your cheek. “I do not know. But I will provide all the help I can.”
“Why?” you question. “Why am I worth it?”
“Because you’re not as insufferable as the others,” Poseidon answers flatly. “Perhaps I even care about you and do not wish to see you killed in the arena.”
“I… Thank you, Poseidon.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
The night before you must return to Themyscira, you curl up in Jason’s reading chair and open each letter in the order you received them. They start cordial and friendly, offering thanks for your assistance. Slowly, they become more personal—a mention of how you ran your fingers along the flower petals outside Wayne Manor, admiration of your focus, a comment about how your smile shines brighter than the stars over Metropolis. By the final letter, Jason has put words to his feelings: he loves you.
Jason Todd loves you.
Jason Todd, the man you love, has expressed his feelings, has used his most-admirable courage to say the words you’ve attempted to ignore.
Jason Todd loves you, too. And that’s why you choose to lie to him.
“It’s just a trip to Themyscira for a few days,” you tell Jason the next morning. “There are a few things I need to tend to.”
Jason nods, twisting the end of your linen belt around his thick, calloused fingers. He uses it to tug you closer. “When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“But you’re coming back?”
The question and the doubt in his voice make you pause. You have already lied to him once. Unsure of how much more your heart can take, you spread your hands over his chest.
“I plan to,” you answer honestly. “I will do all I can to return to you quickly, Jason.”
Jason nods, his eyes not quite reaching yours. His hand rises to your shoulder, his thumb pushing beneath your collar to trace the scar you got protecting him. It’s only one of many — but it’s the only one he can see, feel, look to for a reminder that you’re still here with him. You draw a careful line over a mirror scar on his chest, one of many earned in battles you were not present for.
Looking at the box of letters on his coffee table, you drop your forehead to Jason’s shoulder. “Keep those safe for me?” you request. “I’d like to read them again when I return.” What you mean is, I want to remember all of this, but I can't miss any more. I want my life to be wholly intertwined with yours, I want to be yours.
“Of course,” Jason answers, holding you against him like it’s the last time your hearts will beat together. “You don’t have to say it back.”
“I have to say what I feel. But I want it to mean something. I need you to know that it isn’t a goodbye, that it’s not the end of us.”
Jason nods against your temple. “Be careful,” he pleads.
You straighten, smiling softly as you hold his jaw. “I will do everything in my power to come home to you, Jason.”
“Home?”
“Home.”
Jason smiles then, interlacing his fingers with yours to walk you to the door. He presses a kiss to your cheekbone and closes the door behind you. It’s what you asked for: a quick separation. The first tear falls to the carpet of his hallway, and though you don’t look back, Poseidon’s oceans would be jealous of the tears you spill for Jason Todd.
The gods are angrier than Poseidon led you to believe they would be — if such a thing is possible. Ares is infuriated at your role in ending a war, Athena has made it clear she feels betrayed by the loss of a strategic warrior, and Aphrodite remained quiet when you did not argue against the claim you fell in love with a mortal. Whatever comes next will be bad, so you stand at the base of Mt. Olympus and remain silent. You’d cry if you had more tears to shed, but you have emptied yourself for Jason Todd. It’s a sacrifice you would make over and over if it brought you back to his side.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Zeus demands.
“I would defy you for eternity for him,” you admit, clutching the same belt Jason held this morning like it’s a tether to his world, to him.
You can’t hear what Ares says over Zeus’s thunder.
“Where is she?” Red Hood demands.
Diana wipes under her eyes and leans away from the mirror. “You’re too much like Bruce,” she murmurs.
“I don’t have enough time to tell you how remarkably offensive that is,” Jason replies. “Where is she? She told me she was going to Themyscira, but you’re still here.”
“She went home, I presume. The gods gave her a limited time here.”
Jason stops pacing her hotel room and releases his helmet. “What?”
“The gods did not want her to visit the mortal world. When she finally convinced them, her trip was allowed with very specific limitations.”
“She spent her limited time on me?” Jason clarifies. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell me? I wouldn’t have let her do that.”
“That’s why she didn’t tell you,” Diana points out. “She’ll answer for her time here, all she did… who she did it with.”
The letters, the shared moments, the stolen touches. Jason’s voice breaks when he asks, “What are they going to do to her?”
Diana stands, shaking her head. “They may send her to the arena,” she answers. “They- they may do worse.”
“You’re going to let that happen?!” Jason demands, extending an accusatory arm. “Diana, she’s your friend!”
Diana raises her hand and presses into Jason’s shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do, Jason.”
Jason. Not warrior or Red Hood. Jason. The man you saw even through the helmet and the emotional mask he clings so tightly to.
“There’s something I can do,” he argues, stepping away from Diana’s hand. “And I will do whatever it takes.”
“Even fighting the gods?” Diana challenges. “Jason-”
“I love her,” Jason interrupts. “I’m not letting her be punished for that.”
She nods and reaches for her lasso. “You’ll need help, then.”
The gold chains holding your arms above your head dig into your wrists when your legs give out. Your weight hangs as your breath catches. Blood leaks into your mouth from your injured nose, but you can’t find the strength to spit it out.
“All your training to fight and you chose to keep a fight from occurring,” Ares seethes. “Pathetic.”
He swings a weapon, and you can’t tell if it’s one of Hephaestus’s before it makes impact with your side. You cry out, but it doesn’t change anything. Zeus watches you, his eyes darker than storm clouds.
An unexpected mist sprinkles down on you, comforting with its stark coolness. Poseidon isn’t in view of your non-swollen eye; still, he must be close. A moment later, the blood is rinsed from your face.
“What did you do after you ended the drug war?” Athena asks.
“I stayed with Jason,” you admit.
Zeus stands from his seat. Poseidon is standing behind him, you realize then. The god of the sea has his head inclined toward the mortal shores. He shoots you an apologetic look, settles a continuing mist over you, then leaves Olympus.
You nod before your chin is clutched in Zeus’s hand. “Answer,” he demands.
Jason is in crystal clear waters, carefully guiding his boat according to Diana’s map, when he hears your voice. Hera was the one to warn him about the sirens blocking the passages between the worlds. He pushes the beeswax she provided deeper into his ears, blocking out the one voice he wishes to hear most.
When he turns toward the port of the vessel, he sees her. She has disguised herself to look like you, but it’s not quite right. The eyes aren’t the same captivating shade, and her smile doesn’t bare her heart like yours does.
“Swim with me,” she says, though Jason has to read her lips to decipher it.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “You know I can’t swim.”
“I’ll help you float,” she insists.
“μέλι, I don’t know.”
“We’ll have fun!”
“We? What do I get from this, then?”
She tips her head to think of what she can offer. “Ask any question!”
Jason takes the opportunity, not hesitating to ask, “How do I get to Mt. Olympus?”
The moment she finishes answering, Jason lifts the crossbow Roy lent him and fires into the water. He’ll leave a trail of blood across the threshold of the mortal and god worlds if that’s what it takes to find you. Before he plunges his oar back into the sea, a wave pushes his boat off course.
“You conned a siren,” a deep voice booms as the waves continue.
Jason braces himself against the sides of the boat. “She was trying to kill me,” he points out through gritted teeth.
“I didn’t mean to sound unimpressed.”
The sea calms in a heartbeat, and Jason sees the man in the water.
“You must be Jason Todd,” he says.
“Depends,” Jason replies. He clutches the crossbow, keeping it lowered behind the ship’s boards. He’ll fight his way into a watery grave before he lets anyone talk him out of finishing the journey he has begun.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” the man says. The waves rise around him, raising him so he can step onto Jason’s boat. “I’m Poseidon. And I believe we are planning to save the same goddess.”
“Why would you go against the other gods?” Jason asks, releasing his weapon. “I mean, they’re going to hurt her, and-”
“They already are,” Poseidon interrupts. “We don’t have time to talk about why I have chosen to disagree with my brother again. Do you think you can trust someone, this one time?”
“What am I up against?”
“A handful of gods. Nothing someone like you can’t handle.”
“A handful of gods sounds exactly like something I can’t handle,” Jason argues, incredulous as he drops the bow.
“Then you’re not as courageous or as smart as she made you out to be,” Poseidon muses. “If she believes in you, why do you refuse to believe in yourself?”
Jason looks out at the sea, the clouds of Mt. Olympus beginning to shimmer at the horizon. “Help me get there,” he requests. “Please.”
“We need a plan for when we get there.” Poseidon inclines his ear toward the storm forming in the distance. “She’s alright for now, but Ares and Zeus won’t back down simply because you come for her.”
“Tell me what to do,” Jason pleads. “I’ll do anything.”
Poseidon’s eyes harden. “She’s already risking her life for you. Will you do the same for her?”
Jason’s answer comes quickly. “I will die for her.”
“It’s a start,” the god of the sea grumbles, calling up a wave.
“You used no weapons,” Hephaestus booms.
Ares steps into view, his jaw tensed. “Explain yourself!” he demands.
You flinch when he screams. Poseidon’s mist stopped cooling you soon after he left, and the cold water can’t numb you deep enough to eradicate the pain the gods are inflicting upon you.
“You did this yourself,” Zeus reminds you.
Swallowing, you keep your eyes closed. Every word that you utter, any truth you could offer, will only increase their anger.
“You claimed you wished to mentor a warrior,” Athena hums. “Why did you decide to break the very thing that made the mortal worthy of his title?”
“Because he’s more than a warrior,” you whisper. “If all you can see is how well someone can fight, perhaps that is why so many of your warriors have perished in battle.”
The arena fades before you feel the impact of Athena’s swinging weapon. Memories of Jason Todd’s voice fill your mind, but even unconscious, you know he’s not here. You’re bruised, broken, but you made a promise. A promise to fight, a promise to do all you can to get home to Jason.
“I will not apologize for reminding Jason that he’s worthy of love without his armor,” you say wearily, sending tears over your cheeks with each blink. “And if you think you’ve lost a warrior, you’re wrong. Because he gave me something to fight for. Something none of you could ever do.”
Jason Todd, who considers himself well-read and relatively smart, vastly underestimated the grandeur of the arena at Mt. Olympus. He slides on the fine sand when he rushes in, shocked and slightly disoriented. Though the architecture and the open sky above vie for his attention, it’s you that draws him in.
He gave me something to fight for, you argue. Jason can tell from your voice and the curve of your back that you’re tired, weak, and injured. Even before he sees the blood on you, he knows that you’re not the same goddess he said goodbye to in Gotham. You’ve expended your strength; it’s time to rely on his. You’d do the same for him, but even if you hadn’t shown him that already, he’d dedicate his entire being to you.
Steeling himself, Jason clutches the weapon Poseidon shoved into his hand before they arrived. “And she’s not fighting alone!” he calls.
The gods and goddesses turn toward him, thunder shaking the arena. You turn too, wide-eyed at the sight of him.
“Is he actually here?” you murmur to no one in particular.
Jason uses the move you taught him before he fought Bane — the double spin that allows someone to move nearly undetected, even when being watched closely. He lands behind you with a muted thump, looking up at the golden chains restraining you.
You take a shuddering breath when Jason lifts you, taking your weight from your wrists.
“Ready to fight one more time, goddess?” he whispers against your shoulder.
“With you? Always,” you reply. “And remind me to thank Poseidon.”
“I’m already indebted to him.”
“Yeah, that’s not true.”
Jason doesn’t have time to ask what you mean by that. Ares throws a spear that shatters the chains, sending your weight into Jason’s arms. He doesn’t falter, just sets you at his side, keeping a hand extended toward you until he’s sure you’re steady.
“Goddess and man,” you murmur, bracing yourself when Athena steps forward.
“Bestest of friends,” Jason finishes, spinning Poseidon’s weapon before he lunges toward Ares.
Zeus steps back, watching you and Jason fight together. When you’re blindsided by one of Athena’s moves, Jason takes your place, allowing you to utilize Athena’s strategies against Ares. You fight well together; better than you ever did with Athena, Ares, Hephaestus, or even Zeus himself.
“Shall I intervene?” Hephaestus asks, reaching for his warhammer.
“No,” Zeus answers. His thunder rumbles so powerfully that you drop your hands to the ground to steady yourself. “Enough!” he calls, stepping forward. “Ceasefire.”
“But, Father,” Ares begins.
“You have not lost a warrior,” Zeus points out. He gestures toward Jason, and adds, “He nearly beat you.”
“I felt like I was doing pretty well too,” you grumble, taking Jason’s hand before he wraps an arm around your waist to hold you up.
Zeus glances over his shoulder, summoning two others without a word. You sigh when you see Hermes, but the appearance of a third silhouette makes you smile.
“Hi,” you greet. “Thanks.”
“For what?” Poseidon asks.
“Not watching me get beat up. That would’ve been super embarrassing.”
Poseidon rolls his eyes, but when you meet his gaze, he nods once.
“Dahling, you look terrible!” Hermes frets, walking in circles around you and Jason.
“Hermes, move,” Asclepius requests. “I need to see her wounds to treat them.”
“Then look!”
You close your eyes and lean against Jason, ignoring the bickering and soft apologies around you. All that matters now is the mortal beside you, how his hand rubs comforting circles along your back, and the debate that is to come. You finally have a home to return to, no matter what it costs.
Jason is engaged in a very animated conversation with Athena and Aphrodite when you find Poseidon staring out of a window.
“Why’d you do it?” you inquire from his side.
“What?” he asks, glancing at you quickly.
“You’ve done more than I can list… Why am I worth it? Really. Of all the goddesses you could show favor to, why me? Even when Athena was growing ever-closer to the Greek, you chose to-”
“You threaten to wipe out Ithaca ONE TIME!” Poseidon exclaims. “Yes, I had issues with that mortal. You are not a mortal, and you have potential they refuse to see.”
Softening, you wonder, “How did you see it?”
Poseidon turns toward you, trident in hand. “Because I cared enough to look. You… You carry a fire within you that Olympus had not seen in far too long. If willing you the opportunity to fan that flame is favoritism, so be it.”
You nod, watching as he turns toward the window again. “You love me so much,” you taunt, tugging his sleeve. “You’re a big, soft, seahorse of a god.”
“Get off me, gnat,” he hisses. “Go save your boyfriend.”
“From what?” you ask, laughing.
“Athena and Aphrodite.”
You stop laughing immediately. Running toward Jason, you hear Aphrodite offering advice while Athena provides a fitting threat for each love-related topic.
“Whoa, whoa, that’s enough,” you interrupt, catching yourself on Jason’s shoulder. “Leave him alone.”
“He needs to know what is at stake now,” Athena argues.
Jason is staring at the ground, his ears pink and his nose scrunched. Still, he takes your hand.
“Now?” you repeat.
Zeus lays a hand on your back, covering your shoulder and Jason’s. “You’ve proven more than we could ask,” he explains. “You are free to travel to the mortal world as you please.”
At that, Jason looks up.
“What?” he whispers to you, ignoring the growing crowd around you.
“Ooh, ooh, Dahling!” Hermes calls, pushing through to reach you. “I have a letter for you.”
The familiar envelope is ripped out of his hand by Jason. “I didn’t ask for this to be delivered,” he argues.
“You didn’t have to,” Hermes explains. “I know these things.”
Interlacing your fingers with Jason’s, you urge, “Let’s go home.”
There’s a letter on Jason’s pillow when he gets out of the shower. Olympus has better stationary than the craft store in Gotham, he finds. The admission inside is just long enough to be descriptive and specific without being meaningless. Your handwriting is a representation of you; intriguing, unique, bright, and filled with love and purpose. Jason has the letter memorized by the time you knock to check on him.
“Oh,” you say, realizing what has kept his attention for so long. “Is… Is that okay?”
Jason looks up, his eyes glassy and his lips pressed together. He reaches out, takes your hand, and pulls you forward to stand between his legs. Looking up at you, holding your hips, like a man at the altar, he begs, “Say it.”
You brush your fingers through Jason’s hair and smile. “I love you,” you say. “I love you, κόκκινος. I love you, Jason Todd. I love you, my warrior.”
Jason exhales, then pushes his face into your stomach. He speaks into your skin, his words indiscernible but the weight of them grounding as he clings to you. You don’t hesitate to kiss him when he raises his chin.
“Come with me,” he requests, his hands wandering your sides as you move together. “Forever.”
“Less talking,” you encourage against his lips, tangling your fingers in his hair.
There are far more people in Wayne manor than it looked like there were through the window. Hiding behind Jason, you elect not to admit that you watched these people speak to Diana a few months ago.
“You’re okay,” Jason promises over his shoulder, clutching your hand in his. “They’re annoying, not intimidating.”
“So many voices,” you murmur, pressing your chest to his back.
“Well, you know the thing about mortals?”
“Hmm?”
“There’s more to life than saving him. You can get to know them, too.”
“No, you’re way too cool for Jason,” Dick decides, talking around a mouthful of Alfred’s souffle.
“Yeah, he’s pretty boring,” Tim agrees. “If you want adventure, he’s not really your guy.”
“I got enough adventure on Mt. Olympus,” you murmur, looking at the desserts spread across the table. You only look up when no one comments on your reply, then draw your shoulders up when you see you’ve made yourself the center of attention once more.
“Stop staring,” Jason barks. “Did Alfred teach you all nothing?”
“Ο φίλος σου είναι ένας ηλίθιος,” Damian mumbles.
“Μιλάω ελληνικά!” Jason responds. “And I’m am imbecile, demon brat.”
You meet Damian’s eyes and smile. “Τον αγαπώ όπως το φεγγάρι αγαπά τον ήλιο, ικανοποιημένος που περνάω τις μέρες μου αντανακλώντας το φως του, ώστε ο κόσμος να μην ξεχάσει ποτέ τις θυσίες του.”
Jason doesn’t comment on his ability to speak Greek again, nor does he let his brothers see how much your confession affects him. He takes your hand and drags you out of the dining room, carrying his plate — piled high with what you enjoyed — with him. Bruce watches you go with a smile, making a mental note to thank Diana the next time they see one another. Maybe he can do something for you and Jason too, start working on showing Jason that he’s still his son, cherished and loved.
“I love you,” Jason promises in the privacy of his room.
“I love you,” you remind him. “Enough to stay here with you, to align my forever with yours, because a lifetime without you would be no life at all.”
Jason kisses you because it’s easy. Easy to show his feelings for you, easy to exist in the same space, the same air, and easier than telling you that Zeus offered him immortality to fight at your side, to bring peace through love rather than war.
A week after you return to Gotham, you and Jason sit on the coast of the Gotham Harbor, your head on his shoulder and your hands joined.
“He’s going to think we’re rubbing it in his face,” Jason points out.
“I am Poseidon’s biggest soft spot,” you point out. “He’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
“He does. He wouldn’t have given you a weapon if he didn’t.”
“What did you mean back there?” Jason asks. “When you said I wasn’t indebted to him.”
“She meant there was no debt owed because I would have saved her myself had you been too cowardly to,” Poseidon answers for you, suddenly looming over you, dripping salt water onto your legs.
“Good to see you, too,” you deadpan. “You remember Jason.”
“Yes, the man,” Poseidon grumbles. “Your bestest friend.”
You narrow your eyes at Jason, who shrugs and says, “Aphrodite asked. She’s hard to lie to.”
You shrug in understanding.
“I’ll take care of her,” Jason promises Poseidon.
“Why? Because you love her or because she loves you?” he challenges.
“Why can’t it be both? I give her all the love I can conjure, and when I can’t love me, she’s here to carry the weight, pouring into me, too.”
Poseidon grimaces, mumbles, “If you need anything…” and disappears again.
“Is he always like that?” Jason asks, wiping the drops of water from your legs.
“You get used to him,” you answer.
“No, I won’t.”
Smiling, you lean against Jason. He kisses you before you can say that you love him. Everything you do, everything you are shows it. When the mortal beside you first joked that you’d become the bestest of friends, you didn’t allow yourself to dream that the result of your time in his world would be that fantastic. Instead, you found a future, you found love. And his name is Jason Todd.
Summary: Robby doubts your place in Jack’s life, thinking you’re with him for the wrong reasons, but when Jack is hurt, your love and devotion change his perspective.
A/N: This was a lot longer than intended. This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
Jack and Robby had worked together for years. They knew each other's rhythms, both in and out of the hospital. What started as a simple coworker relationship had long since turned into something closer to brotherhood.
They have seen one another through loss, heartache and the constant chaos of the emergency department. There was a certain kind of bond in being able to talk someone back from the edge after a shift that went too far.
Who was the night-shift attending without his day-shift counterpart?
When a wave of illness swept through the ED Staff, schedules were thrown out the window. The day shift scrambled to fill the gaps with anyone who could stand upright, never mind their ability to handle blood.
Jack picked up the slack on his days off, swapping his usual nights for long daylight shifts. He told himself it was temporary, just helping Robby out so he and the department didn't struggle.
Truthfully, Jack didn’t mind the day shift. He’d worked it before, and slipping back into that rhythm came back to him easily.
But lately, something has shifted between them. A tension lingered where there had once been only ease. A difference in opinion that neither seemed willing to change their mind about.
At the center of it all was you.
You had met Jack months ago at the grocery store, of all places. You couldn’t reach a box of cereal on the top shelf, and Jack, being the sweetheart he is, offered to help when he saw you struggling. Not only did you walk away with your morning cornflakes, but you also picked up a new contact on your phone.
Jack was different from anyone you had dated before. Maybe it was the years or the things he had been through. Or maybe it was the calm demeanour that came from working in the ED, the way he seemed steady, even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
After a couple of months of dating, Jack decided it was time for you to meet the people who mattered most to him. And what better way than the ED Christmas party at Dana’s house?
The party brought together a mix of night and day shift staff, whoever was lucky enough to manage to get the time off. It was a rare chance for the team to relax with good food, cold drinks and a break from the constant pressure of the hospital.
Jack brought you as his plus one.
He had mentioned you before, of course. Dana had immediately insisted that you come. She was more than a little excited to meet the person responsible for softening Jack’s usual grumpy demeanour.
Robby, on the other hand, was just glad to see Jack smiling again, something that wasn’t only triggered by an incoming trauma.
For the first time in a long while, Jack didn’t seem like he was standing so close to the edge during his shifts.
Robby just wasn’t sure how long that would last.
Dana’s house was louder than you expected. You figured that, after hearing the constant noise of the emergency department, they would want something quieter.
Laughter echoed in the hallway the moment Jack pushed the door open, the warmth of the house hitting you just as quickly as the noise. Voices overlapped, music hummed somewhere in the background, and the faint smell of gingerbread lingered in the air.
Jack’s hand rested lightly on your lower back as he guided you inside, grounding in a way that settled your nerves.
“Hey! There he is!” someone called from across the room.
A few heads turned. Then a few more.
And just like that, all eyes seemed to find you two.
Jack greeted his people easily, slipping into conversation like he never had left, exchanging jokes and comments that made it obvious that he cared about everyone in this room. You stayed close to his side, offering small smiles when introductions were made, putting names to faces that you had heard so much about.
Everyone was nice. Friendly, even.
But there was a difference in some of the glances you caught. Slight hesitations. Subtle pauses when you enter conversations. People would laugh, then glance at Jack before continuing. You tried to brush it off, telling yourself it was normal. You were just new here. These people just wanted to relax for an evening.
Then your attention caught on Robby.
You recognized him immediately from the many photos and stories Jack had shared. He was Jack's safe place in the hospital.
Robby didn't say a word to you, not a joke, not a comment, not even a nod, but every so often, his eyes found yours. Slow, deliberate, Assessing.
You gave a small wave at one point, thinking he didn’t want to interrupt a conversation, but when he noticed, he quickly looked away. A tightness settled in your chest. He wasn’t being openly hostile, but the message was clear.
He didn’t trust you.
You could feel a little pain in your heart at his welcome, because if there was one thing you knew about Jack is that he couldn't live without Robby.
Jack noticed. His hand squeezed gently at your back, a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone. That he was there.
“Don’t worry about him,” he murmured. “You’re fine.”
You nodded, focusing instead on other people that Jack had pulled you into conversation with.
Ellis Parker, by far, was your favourite. She was easygoing, warm, and genuinely interested in getting to know you.
Still, Robby’s gaze lingered at the edges of everything.
Later, Dana stepped into the kitchen and found Robby leaning against the counter, taking a sip of his beer.
“You’ve got that look again,” she said, a frown forming.
Robby exhaled, a little tight. “I just… don’t know if she’s good for him.”
Dana nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking the same. She’s nice, but… I’m not sure she fits into his life. He’s stable. Established. And she’s younger. Ten years just doesn’t feel right.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not saying she’s bad,” Dana added. “But this world… I don’t think she can handle it.”
The fluorescent lights of the ED were harsh this early in the morning. The hum of monitors and distant voices was a familiar rhythm to Jack. He adjusted his stethoscope and noticed some residents whispering to one another, glancing in his direction.
Jack caught a few words: “... tension…Robby…” and “using him for his money...”
He sighed to himself. He had tried to keep his personal life away from the ED, acting like nothing was brewing between him and Robby. He kept things normal, slipping into his usual rhythm, throwing in the occasional joke while they worked side by side. But obviously, people noticed.
The tension wasn’t as invisible as he hoped.
Jack knew what the problem was. It had become clear after the Christmas party. He had seen it in Robby before: the skepticism, the judgment, the silent doubt about his relationship. He didn’t need the gossiping residents to tell him what he already suspected.
Still… part of him just wanted Robby to say it. Not rumors. Not looks.
Him.
Jack walked over to the nurse’s station where Robby sat, focusing on charting, eyes locked on the screen as nothing else existed.
Jack leaned against the counter beside him, casual. “Busy morning already, huh?”
Robby didn't look up. “Always is.”
Jack nodded slightly, glancing at the board before looking back at him. For a moment, the only sound between them was the stray tapping of keys.
A beat passed.
“If you’ve got something to say, you might as well say it,” Jack added.
Robby’s jaw tightened, but he kept on typing. “I’m working.”
Jack huffed softly, almost amused, though the tension underneath it was clear. “Yeah. You’re also avoiding me.”
Still nothing.
Jack straightened, giving a nod to himself. If Robby wasn’t going to say it, he would. “You know what…” he said quietly, voice low. “I think I already know what the problem is.”
That made Robby pause just for a moment, but Jack caught it.
But Robby didn't look up. Didn't answer. Just kept typing like nothing was happening between them.
Before anything else could transpire–
“Trauma incoming!”
The shout cut through the room, sharp and immediate.
Robby’s head snapped up, already moving before the words fully registered, his focus shifting instantly to the incoming patient. Staff scattered into motion, the organized chaos swallowing the room whole.
Jack stayed at the station for half a second longer, jaw tight, the unfinished conversation still sitting heavy in his chest. Instead of following the trauma team, he grabbed a chart from the counter. A patient from earlier, stable, but needing a follow-up. Something simple to start his rounds.
The hallway grew quieter the farther Jack walked; the noise of the trauma room faded into the distance. It felt calmer here.
He pushed open the patient’s door. The man was still, probably asleep from morphine. Monitors beeped steadily, nothing out of the ordinary.
Jack scanned the chart, checked vitals, and adjusted the IV line. Routine. Simple.
Then, suddenly, sharp pain.
It hit before his brain could even catch up. Jack sucked in a breath, his entire body locking as he felt something drive into his side. For a split second, nothing made sense; the shock and the force of the pain made the air leave his lungs all at once.
His hand dropped instinctively, pressing against his side.
Warm.
Too warm.
He looked down.
His hand was ruby. Blood.
A lot of it.
The world seems to tilt.
The patient was moving erratically, but Jack couldn't focus on that. His ear rang, the sound of swallowing everything else as he stumbled backward, hitting the side of the bed. His knee gave out. He fell hard.
Jack didn't know whether it was the monitor's alarm going off or the sound of him that sent people in his direction.
He could faintly hear footsteps getting closer.
The door burst open.
“Jack–”
Dana, with security behind her, appeared instantly.
“Stay with me,” she said sharply, dropping beside him, pressing her hands against the wound. “Stay with me, Jack.”
Jack's vision blurred. The lights above him were too bright, too harsh. The pressure in his side spread agony through his body.
More voices. More movement.
“Get him on that stretcher, now!”
“Someone get Robby!”
“Pulse is weakening!”
The room spun.
“Jack!”
Robby’s voice. Closer. Tighter than it had been this morning.
Jack tried to focus on the people above, tried to open his eyes fully, but everything felt heavy. Hands moved him, the world tilting again as they placed him on the stretcher. The ceiling lights blurred above him as they rushed him to a trauma room. He barely registered it, wanted to speak, but couldn't.
Robby leaned in, as if he could read Jack's mind. “I’ll call her. She will be here.”
Jack gave the smallest nod, or at least he tried to before everything went dark.
Robby didn't know how long he had been on the roof. The cold air had done nothing to settle him. If anything, it made everything louder in his head. The image of Jack on that stretcher, pale, barely conscious, replayed over and over again.
When he pushed through the doors from the stairwell, the ED’s noise came rushing back around him. His eyes immediately found the cluster of staff standing to the side, all facing the same direction.
Watching.
Robby slowed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he followed their line of sight—straight into the family room.
You.
You were pacing, hands running through your hair, trembling, breathing unevenly, mind spinning a million miles a minute.
“Get back to work,” Robby barked. Staff scattered. Suddenly, the hallway was clear.
Robby moved closer, observing you.
You sank into a chair, your hands pressing against your face as sobs broke through. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn't a rehearsal. It was raw, uncontrollable.
Robby swallowed hard. He wasn’t expecting this reaction or anything close.
He stepped forward then, pushing the door open just enough to step inside.
“Hey…”
You looked up at the sound of his voice, eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears. Recognition hit first before panic took over.
“Robby—” your voice broke immediately. “Where is he? Is he okay? No one will tell me anything—”
Robby’s edge softened, replaced with steadiness. “He’s in surgery. They got him in fast. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s in the best spot, kid.”
You nodded, but it didn’t really settle your worries. Your hands were still shaking.
You let out a broken breath, pacing again like you didn’t know what else to do with yourself.
“I just—I need to see him,” you whispered. “I need to know he’s okay.”
Robby watched, really watched. The panic. The fear. The way everything about you was centred on Jack. Not his job. Not his money. Him.
The door opened behind him, and Dana stepped in, her expression tired but steady.
“He made it through surgery.”
The words hit like a wave.
You let out a sob, your knees nearly giving out beneath you.
Robby moved without thinking, catching you before you hit the floor, steadying you as you clung to him for a second, overwhelmed.
“He’s stable,” Dana added gently.
You nodded quickly, tears still falling, but relief breaking through the panic.
Robby glanced down at you, something quiet and heavy settling in his chest. He had been wrong. Standing there, holding you up while you fell apart over Jack, he finally understood.
A steady beep filled the space, slow and consistent, the only real sound cutting through the haze.
Jack stirred slightly, his brow tightening as consciousness came back in pieces. He could only remember going to check up on a patient before he registered the pain that was sitting deep in his side.
His eyes fluttered open, the ceiling coming into focus in fragments.
“Relax,” a voice said.
Robby.
Jack’s gaze shifted, slow and unfocused, until it landed on him standing beside the bed, his arms crossed but his posture loose.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Robby added.
Jack swallowed, his throat dry, his voice coming out rough when he tried to speak. “...what…”
“Patient got you from behind,” Robby said. “Surgery went well, only a couple of stitches.”
Jack blinked slowly, trying to piece it together, but his thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Searching.
“...I need..”
Robby didn't even hesitate. “She’s here. Outside.”
Jack’s eyes closed briefly at that, something in his shoulders easing despite the pain.
Robby gave a small nod to himself, already turning toward the door. “I’ll grab her.”
A pause, then a glance back at Jack. Something had changed; there was no tension, no judgment. Just steady. Certain.
We’re good.
Jack didn’t need to hear it. He saw it anyway. And that was enough.
The door closed softly behind you, the noise outside fading the second it clicked shut.
Just you and him.
Jack’s eyes were on you, like he’d been waiting, like everything else had been nothing until you arrived. He tried to smile, but couldn’t muster the energy.
“Jack…”
His name broke in your voice as your hand found his, gripping tight. Your other hand came up to his face without thinking, brushing carefully along his cheek, your touch so gentle it almost hurt.
“I’m okay,” he murmured, his fingers curling weakly around yours.
There was a pause, his eyes soft on yours, before the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly. “... I just wanted to go back to the night shift,” he added quietly. “Thought this might be the easiest way to get it.”
You let out a small, broken laugh through your tears, shaking your head immediately. “That’s not funny.”
“A little funny,” he muttered, his voice still rough.
You sniffed, your hand pressing more firmly against his cheek. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you carefully. “I’m still here, though.”
That did it.
You leaned closer, forehead against his, grip tightening.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “They couldn't tell me anything besides that you were in surgery, and I felt like I couldn't breathe.”
His thumb brushed slowly over your hand, grounding, steady, even through the weakness.
“Hey… look at me.”
You did. Eyes meeting his, overwhelmed.
“It’s okay,” he repeated softly. “We’re here.”
His thumb moved again, slow and steady against your skin, like he was anchoring you the same way you had anchored him.
“I’m not alone,” he added, his voice quieter, but certain. “Not this time.”
You stilled, your breath catching.
“The last time I felt like this…” he continued slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, “when everything went sideways… I woke up alone.”
Your grip on him tightened immediately.
“But this?” he said, softer, warmer, “I open my eyes, and you're right here.”
Tears slipped down your cheek.
“You came,” he murmured.
“Of course I did,” you whispered, your voice breaking again. “It was you.”
Jack’s shoulders eased. Forehead pressed to yours, hand holding yours like an anchor.
“Because you’re here,” he added quietly. “I’m not alone anymore.”
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you too.”
His fingers tightened around yours, just a little stronger now.
“Hey…I think Robby likes you now,” he murmured, voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, blinking through the last of your tears. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, a small, tired smile finally managing to break through. “Pretty sure you won him over.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah… All it took was him seeing me crying, pacing, and probably covered in snot.”
“Mm,” Jack hummed, eyes soft. “A very convincing argument.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face didn’t fade this time.
“Good,” you said quietly.
Jack’s gaze stayed on you, steady and warm, like he was seeing you clearly now in a way that mattered more than anything else.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Good.”
Your hand tightened in his. This time, neither of you let go.
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