i know i’m late to the game but i started watching love island season 8 like a week or 2 ago and casa amor just ended and let me tell you. i’m conflicted, because i truly feel bad for these women getting screwed over but ALSO. girl wtf are you thinking? like melanie literally listed all the red flags and reasons NOT TO BE WITH SINCERE before CHOOSING TO GO BACK TO SINCERE. and corey setting up that whole picnic and being the exact opposite standing there like wtf????
and ANIYA OMFGGGGGG carl was absolutely perfect. she stated that she was “the happiest i’ve been in the villa” and still chose FUCKING KC? i never liked kc i just pitied him, and aniya fucking CARRIED their couple and what did he do? he bitched about her holding him back and when she expressed concerns he made her feel like she was crazy and overbearing.
and i hate hating on a woman, but titi is evil. she literally came in the casa with the expressed and sole purpose of breaking up aniya and kc. and she was all smirking and shit and defending that asshole, LIKE GIRL STFU YOU DIDNT WIN ANYTHING kc was itching to ditch aniya he was not exactly being picky. and what, like he’s such a fucking prize? i hope those fuckers know they don’t stand one single chance of winning. despicable. DESPICABLE.
The Pitt Dennis x reader who is very confident and asked him out months ago. They’ve been dating and having a blast or whatever. They don’t usually work together, but she is pulling a double. It’s been a long day to say the least and she gets a very bad case. Maybe she loses a kid or has to report something really bad, kids are her soft spot and he loves that about her. When her case is set and done either Santos or Robbie have to tell him where she is and to go check on her. And she’s having a really bad meltdown and crying, hyperventilating. He has to force her to look at him because she doesn’t want him to see him so vulnerable.
here we go y’all, more dennis angst. this is next!!! thank u for requesting 🫶 wonderful idea
summary - for a professional figure skater, you’re awfully clumsy.
a/n - hehehehehehe. trinity. just some fluffy fluff, figure skater!reader, girly girl reader. kinda wanna continue the story between these two, i love sunshine x grumpy!!! and trinity was MADE for it. also, i’m sure it’s obvious, but i am pretty much the furthest thing from a figure skater. enjoy!
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You knew how Trinity could be. True, in your nearly five months of dating she’d been nothing short of doting towards you, bringing your breakfast in the mornings, picking you up from classes, running you warm baths after long practices. Still, you knew her reputation. The second she turned away from you, her smile would drop into a practiced look of disdain.
You were quite the opposite, in many ways. You were pink, frilly, and polished. You knew how to get a crowd to root for you, how to impress judges, how to be the brightest star in the room.
Where Trinity’s instinct was to scowl, yours was to beam. You liked keeping fresh flowers around your apartment, while Trinity didn’t see the point of keeping something that would die in less than two weeks. Still, she brought them to your dates. And she always laughed at the signs people waved in the stands at hockey games (“as if the players pay attention to those”) but she still covered a posterboard in glitter and is the loudest supporter at any of your competitions.
So, no, Trinity wasn’t always a fuzzy teddy bear. But you had each adapted to your environments.
Her focus and drive made her a great doctor. You hadn’t had a chance to see her in her element, in her preferred environment surrounded by beeping machines and constant traumas, but she’d had plenty of opportunity to demonstrate her know-how at home. This was due mostly to the fact that you were the world's biggest klutz.
On the ice? You were an angel. At least according to your girlfriend, and the forty or so medals and trophies you accrued over your career. You could glide around a rink like you were floating on air, executing the most precise of jumps, spins, and poses. Your balance was unmatched, timing impeccable. You had to have complete control over every muscle in your body to hold your leg above your head while teetering on a fraction of an inch’s worth of metal.
So how was it that the second you set foot outside the slipper, slidey surface, gravity turned from a mastered tool to a greatest enemy?
You often attracted odd looks in the warmer months when you let your skin breathe, what with all the bruises in varying states of healing littered about, accompanied frequently with scratches on your knees, elbows, and hands, mostly. Trinity always said you looked like a walking punching bag. All jokes aside, you had been questioned privately with social workers in ERs.
But you always assured concerned parties that you were completely safe. In fact, with the muscles your sport gave you, you might have been in a better position than most to defend yourself.
Besides, Trinity would never let anything happen to you. Her deep mistrust of people, specifically men, had her acting like a guard dog from time to time. If a man dared take a second glance in your direction, she’d be placing her body between you, wrapping a protective arm around you and enacting the trademarked Trinity Glare until left alone.
You were always on the inside of the sidewalk. She insisted on walking close behind you in a stairwell, both to block view of your ass from pervy perversons, and to be at the optimal position to catch you should you slip. Which you frequently did.
Maybe it was her increased presence for the past half year that explained how you’d managed to go so long without an ER visit, but really it was inevitable. That didn’t mean you were excited to pull up in front of the entrance labeled emergency in big red letters. Even worse knowing that Trinity was working.
“Thanks, Liv,” you said tiredly to your chauffeur, a young, prospective olympian you’d been coaching.
“Why don’t I help you in?” she asked anxiously as you gathered your things and opened the door.
“Oh, no, no, I’m fine,” you waved away. “I’ve had plenty of time to rest on the drive, this’ll be a piece of cake.”
If you hoped you could trick your ankle into agreeing with you by being delusional, you were wrong. The second you shifted your weight to the edge of the seat, a searing pain shot right up your leg and you gasped.
“Right,” said Liv, opening her own door. “I’m coming to help you.”
She ignored your protests as she rounded the car, wrestling your bags from your hands and taking your arm.
“Don’t get a ticket just for this,” you sighed, though accepted her assistance. “I can hop!”
“I’m not letting you hop into the ER,” said Liv. “Now lean.”
Still grumbling, you hobbled along at her side, trying to be as light as possible and subsequently yanking poor Liv’s neck as you crumbled. Very slowly, you made your way to the door. As you reached for the handle, a yell came from behind you.
“Hey, you can’t park here!”
You groaned.
“Go,” you said, then when Liv still hesitated, in your coach voice, “get outta here! I’m fine.”
Liv made sure you had a good grip on the doorframe before carefully hanging your bags over your shoulders.
It was certainly harder without the two extra legs. You bumped into several disgruntled people and had said sorry more times than you could count before a nurse spotted you. She was a little older, short and wearing a hijab. She was just handing a man a sandwich when you caught her eye.
“Oh, here you go, hun,” she said, moving like lightning to provide you with a wheelchair. “Have a seat.”
Feeling slightly embarrassed at the looks you were attracting, you plopped down without one iota of grace, heaving your duffel onto your lap. Peaking around your mountain of gear, you tried to reach the wheels, but the nurse got there first, pushing you to the end of a long line.
“Thank you,” you said, and she smiled.
“Of course,” she said kindly. “Had a little accident?”
“Guilty,” you chuckled. “I’m a figure skater.”
“Wow,” said the nurse, Perlah, her nametag read when you craned your head around. “I’m sure stuff like this happens all the time. I can’t even walk down my driveway in wintertime.”
What really happened was this.
You were just finishing up Liv’s practice, demonstrating a perfect triple axel. As you slipped on your skate guards and stepped onto the rubber matting, the tip of your shoe got caught in the strap of Liv’s backpack. You hadn’t made it two steps off the rink before taking a spectacular tumble into the bleachers, ending with your affected ankle tangled in nylon and velcro at an unnatural angle.
However, it was always easier to let people assume you fell doing some elaborate trick on the ice. For someone who could land three triple axels in a row, walking shouldn’t be a major feat. Yet here you were, probably about to be served an outrageous bill for a completely avoidable fall.
You didn’t like how big and clunky the wheelchair was, but at least it was a chair.
After you checked yourself in, and the waiting began, the stress of injury finally started taking its toll on your body. Perlah brought you a bag of ice to prop in the crook of your foot. You spent the next several hours jerking yourself awake every two minutes, arms tightening over your bags in a panic. The chances of getting robbed in a crowded ER waiting room full of sick and injured people were low, but skating gear was expensive enough to keep you on edge.
On hour three, after watching an older guy with a bad comb over disappear and return from behind the double doors three separate times with no update, and only one ice change, you considered texting Trinity. You were sure she would be able to push your case along, and would be mad you had waited the time you already did, but you shook the idea off. You had to remind yourself how insignificant a little sprain was compared to some of the things going on in the ward. There was a reason certain people went back before others. You had to wait your turn like everyone else.
By hour five, the windows were growing dark, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep your eyes open. In fact, if it weren’t for the nagging rumbling of your empty stomach, you probably would have been passed out.
Finally, as the clock struck six, your name was called. You snapped upright, looking around until you spotted a tough looking blonde woman, reading off of a tablet with readers perched on her nose.
“That’s me!” you said gratefully, making to stand.
“You stay put,” she said in such a stern voice you promptly planted your butt firmly on the plastic seat.
She wheeled you expertly around the maze of people, bags, and IVs and through the heavy double doors. Your head was on a swivel as you entered the department, eyes searching for the familiar head of dark hair, unsure if you were hoping you did or didn’t see it. You didn’t, though, and Dana deposited you onto a bed in a small curtained area.
Compared to the borderline stifling air of the busy waiting room, this one was chilly. Perhaps it felt even colder than it was because of the stark white tile covering every surface, or the strong stench of antiseptic tickling your nose.
“Alright, ma’am,” said the nurse, rubbing in a dollop of hand sanitizer and clicking into a computer. “My name is Dana, I’m the charge nurse on staff, and I’m gonna be taking a look at you today, is that okay?”
“Great,” you said.
“Okay, good,” she said typing away already. “So, what’s the story.”
You cleared your throat. You wondered what she could possibly be writing about before you’ve even spoken a word. It made you nervous, but you recounted the tale as best you could, trying and failing to minimize the parts that made you sound like just as much of an idiot as you were sure you were.
“So when you fell, did you hit your head?” You shook your head no. “No loss of consciousness? Any dizziness? Okay, good.”
She sat down on a stool and rolled over to your bedside.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go ahead.”
She tossed the now lukewarm back of melted ice in the bin behind her. You rushed to remove your sock, embarrassed about how sweaty it still was.
“Sorry,” you said. “It’s — I just came from the rink, so I’m not the freshest.”
“Kid, I’m an ER nurse,” Dana chuckled. “Your sweaty foot wouldn’t even make the top one hundred list of worst smells. Besides, you just spent hours sitting in the damn waiting room, that couldn’t have helped anything.”
You laughed along, and tried to relax. Dana put on gloves and slid your leggings up to your knee. She inspected the skin there.
“You’ve got some old bruises here,” she noted.
“Yeah, not an uncommon occurrence,” you said. “I’m always a little banged up.”
Dana was just moving her attention to your purple ankle when you spotted the thick locks you were looking for between the narrow gap in the curtains. Your heart leapt, in relief, and uncertainty. You weren’t sure how Trinity would react to seeing you here, especially knowing you hadn’t texted her to let her know, but before you could help yourself you were calling her name.
“Trinity!”
Both Trinity’s and Dana’s heads turned at your cry. You could see your girlfriend’s swiveling around desperately, unable to spot you. Dana pulled the curtain open to reveal the source of the noise, and the second Trinity’s eyes locked onto you, you could see the panic behind them. They hardened slightly as she marched toward you, completely abandoning a conversation with a blonde, bespectacled doctor.
“You two know each other?” asked Dana, looking slightly amused.
“We’re, um,” you hesitated as Trinity drew closer. “Dating.”
When she reached you, she yanked the curtain back closed, didn’t even glance at Dana, and began questioning you.
“What happened? How long have you been waiting? Can you walk? How’s your pain?”
You smiled fondly at her antics as she quickly pulled on a pair of gloves.
“I’m fine, just tripped over a backpack,” you said soothingly. “No big deal.”
She snorted as if to say I’ll be the judge of that and continued firing questions, this time at Dana. Dana didn’t need to be told, just stood from the stool so that Trinity could take her place.
“Have you conducted an anterior drawer test?”
“No, I —”
“What about a talar tilt test? Ottawa assessment?”
“No, kid, none of that,” said Dana. “I barely got a visual assessment before you came barreling in.”
You glanced between the two.
“What are all those things?” you asked.
Trinity didn’t answer, just bent over your foot, poking and prodding it. Dana sighed, and started untying your other shoe, waving away your attempts to help.
“Range of motion, essentially,” said the nurse. “To assess the extent of damage to the ligaments in your foot.”
You nodded.
“And if it — ah, fucking hell, that hurt!”
Trinity had pressed above your ankle knob and sent pain spiking up your foot. She finally looked up at you.
“Here?” she pressed again.
“Yes, there,” you hissed.
“How about here?” she asked, pressing hard on the bony bump. You shook your head. “Here?”
She moved her nimble fingers from the ankle, to the top of the foot, to the pinky toe. You just kept shaking your head. She slowly tilted your foot inward, and you yelped.
“Stop!”
“I’m thinking ATFL,” she said directly to Dana, who seemed to concur. “Alright, upsy daisy. I need to see you walk.”
“Really?” you sighed. “Need to?”
“Need to,” she said, and for the first time there was a hint of the familiar, soft Trin you were used to. “Just a couple steps. To the curtain and back, okay?”
You nodded, gritting your teeth, and she and Dana helped you rise gingerly to your feet. You were reluctant to put any weight on your injured ankle, but an encouraging nod from Trinity, and the squeeze of her hand as she held you up, had you take a deep breath.
It was excruciating, even more so than before. It was as though something large and spiky, like an enlarged version of a jack, was stuck in between your bones. You limped forward, spun on your good heel, and came right back to the bed. You kind of cheated, doing a sort of half jump onto the mattress in lieu of your last step, but Trinity didn’t call you on it.
The next few minutes were uncomfortable, but nothing compared to walking, so you pursed your lips and didn’t complain as Trinity, or Dr. Santos, here, pulled and twisted your sore joint every which way. Her frown deepened slightly as she worked, and despite the implications of that, and the pain, you couldn’t help but smile at how cute her concentration face was.
“What’s the damage, doc,” you said when she seemed done. She shot you a less than amused look.
“Ottawa negative, no x-ray indicated,” she said, and Dana immediately started clacking away at the keyboard again. “ADT showed moderate mechanical laxity, approximately seven centimeters. Significant ecchymosis and swelling, tenderness and excessive gapping above the anterior talofibular ligament, most likely grade two. Could require up to six weeks of healing.”
“Woah, woah,” you said, holding up your hands. “Honey. English, please.”
She sighed deeply, ripping off her gloves with more force than strictly necessary, you felt.
“It means no skating!” she said, tugging at her ponytail. “No running. No tots classes. A lot of rest, ice, and gentle range of motion exercises!”
You blinked. She was very worked up over a little sprain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had one before, actually, you had had much worse than a grade two sprain before. You looked at Dana, and the two of you smiled.
“I hope you don’t talk to all your patients this way,” you said, voice alive with mirth.
Her eyebrows fell into a straight, rigid line, and her arms crossed. At that point, unable to hide the smile on her face, Dana left the makeshift room mumbling something about fresh ice.
“This is serious,” said Trinity, and you tried to school your face.
“Trin,” you said, pulling one of her hands free and cradling it in your own. “Baby. I’m sorry. But it’s really, really not.”
She wrenched her hand back and began pacing. It was hard with the limited space, and she made tight little circles around the vacated stool.
“How can you say that?” she said. “You could have been seriously hurt! You could have needed surgery! You could have —” she paled “— you could have been operated on by my ex-situationship.”
At that, you let out a loud laugh. You tried to stifle it, but when you saw the corner of Trinity’s mouth turn just the slightest bit up, you just let it out. As you laughed yourself silly, she sat down on the edge of your cot, trying not to smile too much. Eventually, though, she let out a chuckle or two.
“Oh, wow,” you gasped when the giggles finally died down, wiping your eyes. “Yeah, no, you’re right, Trin. That would have been a real emergency.”
She shook her head, but couldn’t regain the stony disposition she’d had before. She laced her fingers with yours.
“Next time this happens, ’cause we both know there’ll be a next time,” she said, and you nodded. “Call me. Okay?”
Your smile turned tender as she let some of her worry through.
“I’ll let you know, but I don’t want you — pulling rank, and giving me someone else’s spot, I know that goes against the… doctor code of… rules, or whatever.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” she said, and you raised a brow. “I mean, I care. But I care about you, too. And, baby, when I saw you all laid up over here, and I just got out of a trauma, and as far as I knew you were safe at home, it —”
Careful of your ankle, you scootched towards her on the bed. You cupped her tense face in your hands.
“I know,” you said, rubbing her cheek where she leaned into you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you worry by telling you, but I guess I just made you worry more?”
She huffed.
“I think I’m just gonna worry no matter what,” she said, gently gripping your wrists. “But less, if I have details.”
“Noted,” you said.
Sneaking a quick glance around, and listening for footsteps that weren’t coming, you pressed a quick peck to her lips.
“I need to wrap you in bubble wrap,” said Trinity, smirking a little. “Only way to protect you from yourself, apparently.”
“I’d manage somehow,” you said.
Her hands slid down to your waist.
“Any chance I could convince you to use the employee entrance next time?”
“Not a chance,” you said seriously. “Don’t go giving short cuts, Dr. Santos.”
She rolled her eyes.
“God, you’re so honest, it makes me sick,” she jested. “I’m gonna go find out where Dana is with that ice. Be right back.”
With one last kiss to your forehead, she stood and reached for the curtain. But the second she pulled it back, she snapped it shut again, shoulders tensing. You shot her a confused look as she turned back around, a hand creating a canopy over her reddening face.
“Okay,” she said, so quietly you had to strain to make out the words. “About half of the Emergency Department staff are gathered just outside, watching our curtain.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, but your lip quirked at how anxious she seemed to be all of a sudden.
“Why do you think that is?” you asked.
“I’m guessing Dana told them all who you were,” she said. “To me.”
“Ah ha,” you said, mockingly tapping your chin. “Alright, well. I think there’s only one way to solve this.”
Much to Trinity’s horror, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and began hopping towards the curtain, she stepped in front of you, trying to steer you back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “You don’t even have a pair of crutches!”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you should start ambulating as soon as possible after injury,” you said. “To avoid complications. There was a poster about it in the hallway.”
Utilizing some of your speed and agility usually exclusive to the ice, you reached around her and pulled back the curtain. Indeed, an impressive group of people stood leaning against a cluster of desks, eyes trained in your direction. They quickly flitted away, trying to pretend they hadn’t been, but you didn’t mind. You thrived in the spotlight.
“Hi! You must be Trinity’s coworkers!”
At your direct address, some shoulders relaxed, and some smiles reciprocated yours. Dana rushed out, holding a baggy of ice and a large boot.
“Oh, here, doll,” she said, pulling a chair. “If you’re gonna mingle, you need to be sitting down.”
Ignoring Trinity’s protests in the background, you hopped right into the chair, grinning around at everyone. They examined you, almost clinically, like it was habit. Their gazes lingered on your pink athletic wear, pink headband, and done up nails. Despite the harsh lighting of the hospital, your appearance seemed to brighten the place.
“So, you’re Trinity’s…” said a young looking girl, Victoria, once names had been exchanged.
“Girlfriend,” you chirped, enjoying the general air of bemusement over the doctors. “Almost five months.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” said the tall one, Robby.
“And you,” you said sweetly, pressing a hand to your heart. “Trin’s told me so much about you guys. You do amazing work here.”
Everyone seemed to preen, but Trinity had had enough.
“Okay,” she said, cutting in. “I know you like talking, but if we don’t get that boot on you soon, you’re gonna, I don’t know, sprain your other ankle. I know you’re the ice queen, but we’re on solid earth, right now.”
She wheeled you away while you waved, rather like royalty on a float.
“That’s funny,” snorted Javadi.
“What?”
“Calling her ‘ice queen’,” she said. “That’s usually a nickname for Santos.”
summary - burnt out and feeling unfulfilled, samira turns to you for help getting out of her shell.
cw - kissing
a/n - first samira work! ik pride month is over but like is it ever really over? i don't think so. sorry the costumes i chose were so boring i just wanted them to be generic enough that anyone might pick them. enjoy!
---
Samira stared at her planner. It stared back accusingly. She was open on the month of September, which would start tomorrow. All over the two page spread was red writing. Red, according to the color code she’d set back in undergrad, meant work.
Red for work, orange for studying. Yellow for exams. Blue for interviews and meetings. Green for social activities. Her planner pages used to be a real rainbow, back then.
After she got into med school, and left most of her closest friends and family behind in New Jersey, green became less frequent, orange and blue much more. Then, when she got into her first choice residency program at PTMC, red overtook the orange and yellow of school days. Green colored only one or two days a month.
Now, as she stared down the last year of her residency, the green pen remained practically untouched.
She’d gotten an early offer for an emergency position in Jersey, at a reputable hospital close to her mom. It was what she’d spent the past twelve months stressing about and working towards, so why wasn’t she thrilled?
Good college. Good med school. Good residency. Now, good career. Right? She did everything she was supposed to, and it went exactly how she expected. In fact, this upcoming month looked hardly different from the last thirty-six, at least. So why, all of a sudden, did it bother her? She’d needed to stay focused, mind on work, to achieve what she’d achieved. Any dedicated doctor in her position would have done the same.
So why the fuck was she so goddamn lonely?
And why on earth hadn’t she accepted the job yet?
She huffed, pushing the notebook away from her. The only thing in a sea of red scribbles was a blue dot that read dentist. She racked her brains. She’d worked at PTMC for three years and counting — did she really have no friends to show for it?
She and Javadi had a good rapport, but more in a mentor mentee way than a friendship way. It was hard to connect with someone that much younger than you. Santos was crude, and Whitaker boring. Cassie was always nice to talk to, but again, in an entirely different phase of life. Robby was a nightmare, Jack nice, but they were a package deal and much much older than her. Heather moved away. Mel was a good contender, but always much too busy with her sister and work to have a large social life herself.
That pretty much left you. A fellow R4, her age, and perfectly friendly to her. Still, she wouldn’t call the two of you friends. In fact, she had always sensed there was a bit of a wall between you, one that was only noticeable after hours spent inspecting the way you interacted with everyone else.
You were the definition of bubbly, a real firecracker. You could turn yourself into a compatible friend for each person you came in contact with, and yet somehow, you never seemed disingenuous.
You were a “more the merrier” type thinker. Drinks at the bar? Come along! Baseball game? I’ll get some more tickets! Birthday party? Everyone’s invited!
You could make nice with anyone, even some of the most stubborn grumps. Robby, for example. Everyone expected you to tire him greatly when you first started, as bright eyed and energetic as you were. You joked and teased without a worry, lightened even the heaviest of cases in that way of yours.
Even Robby eyed you warily, but within months you were getting him talking, first about case studies, then sports, getting more personal as you went along. You earned his trust.
You were one of Harrison’s favorite baby sitters and a lifesaver to Cassie. You matched Abbot’s dry humor effortlessly. You ribbed with Santos, gave Javadi tips on flirting, and were the one to talk some sense into Whitaker about his farm situation, even heading down with him one day to learn about cattle.
There wasn’t a nurse who disliked you. One phone call from you was enough to speed the lab techs up, or magically come up with a CT slot for a patient. You brought the cleaning staff donuts and coffee, even when your bank account was running on empty.
It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t for your benefit. It was just who you were.
So, no, it wasn’t that you were rude to Samira, far from it. She wasn’t sure you could be rude to her even if you wanted to. You always extended an invite to her and were quick to lend a hand on difficult cases. You smiled that sunshine bright smile of yours. And yet.
It was a small thing, really. Stupid. Insignificant. But not really, because Samira spent too much time thinking about it for it not to mean anything.
You were a nicknamer. Even first names felt too formal for you, apparently. Robby became Bob within your first week. Most new staff members were too nervous to try anything other than toddling around nervously, let alone assign the scary, gruff chief attending a silly nickname. But coming from you with that quickly familiar beam, somehow Robby couldn’t be mad. He tried, he scoffed and glared, but it stuck anyway.
Jack was John Boy. Javadi was Speed Racer, or Speedy. Dana was Big D. Mel became Missy, Kiara, Kiki. Even Esme from sanitation earned the moniker Queenie. But Samira? Nothing.
Of course, she was all too aware she did have a nickname, SloMo, but nothing cute or cheeky like you liked to give.
No, from you it was always a respectful Dr. Mohan, with the occasional Samira. At least you pronounced her surname right, but it still stung when, after working with you for two and a half years, she saw you immediately deem Whitaker “Gus” after the mouse in Cinderella on his first day. Why, she didn’t know. She just knew she was a little jealous.
Picking up the rusty green pen, she circled the next few days she had off coming up. Unsure what exactly she could end up doing, she just wrote HAVE FUN.
Having fun, it turned out, was easier said than done. She got home two hours past her seven PM clock out time after her last shift of four, showered, ate, and promptly fell asleep in front of the TV.
The next morning, she vowed to spend the day doing something new. She dug her old running shoes out of the closet, threw on a sports bra, and headed out for a run. It was slow, and she could feel, rather than hear, the creak of her underused joints as she made awkward, unpracticed strides. She ended up spending more time walking than running. That would have been fine, except it started drizzling fifteen minutes in, and by the time she reached home it was pouring.
Well, the rain had always been a calming sound to her, and with the help of it, and a boring book, she spent most of the day napping.
The morning after that, she spent three hours decluttering her closet. Most of the junk stuffed in there was old, clothes she thought were cute in college but never wore, and now, didn’t fit. By the time she returned from the Goodwill drop off, it was startlingly bare but for drawer upon drawer of scrubs, and her tried and true sweats and hoodies.
Before she could doom shop on her laptop, a call came in from Dana that Mel had called in sick and they were in desperate need of a resident, and would she please come in?
Figuring the day was a dead end anyway, she pulled on a pair of said scrubs and headed into work.
She was certainly more down than usual, though she was especially down a lot these days. Maybe it was becoming less and less unusual as time went on. She was so caught up in her own dreariness that she didn’t notice you until you were pushing a tablet under her nose.
“Labs came back for the back pain,” you said, and she took it absently. “Looks like it was just gallstones after all. You wanna talk to him, or should I?”
She scrolled through the numbers, unsmiling.
“I can, he’s my patient,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” you said, watching her closely. “You okay?”
She sighed. Of course you would ask that. You, so annoyingly in tune with everyone around you, and so willing to help.
“Fine,” she said, a little snappier than intended. “See you later.”
Samira turned and retreated to curtain three without another glance in your direction. She was in such a foul mood she was sure one look at your open, kind face would push her over the edge. She certainly wasn’t going to be setting any records in the patient satisfaction score game, anyhow.
By the end of the day, you weren’t the only one eyeing her sideways. Dr. Al-Hashimi had already reprimanded her once for spacing out, and Dana, Whitaker, and Jesse had all inquired about her mood.
Samira packed her bag with ferocity, hardly returning Jack’s nod of acknowledgement as he passed her on the way out as he made his way in. She was almost to the edge of the parking lot when she heard your voice.
“Samira!” you called, and she turned. “Wait up!”
She waited impatiently for you to catch up with her, your keys jingling merrily on your bag as you jogged.
“What’s up,” she asked, using all her energy to keep the frustration from her voice.
“I just wondered if you needed a ride home,” you said easily. “I noticed you didn’t drive in today.”
Brushing past the momentary shock that you’d noticed something so small and insignificant about her, she shrugged.
“I’m fine, I took the bus.”
“Right,” you said, infuriatingly immune to her less-than-friendly attitude. “It’s just, it’s supposed to rain. Wanted to give you the option.”
As you spoke, Samira felt a cold drop land on the top of her head. Looking up, she got another one right in the eye.
“Son of a bitch!” she swore, rubbing it furiously. “Great! Perfect!”
Your eyebrow lifted just a centimeter in surprise, as Samira wasn’t normally a cusser, but fuck if she hadn’t had a long day. You pointed over your shoulder behind you.
“I’d love to give you a lift,” was all you said. Not “you sure about the bus?” or “bet a warm car sounds pretty good right now, huh?” Just “I’d love to.”
So she conceded defeat and followed you back to your Subaru. She didn’t say a word until you were pulling out of hospital property with her address plugged into your phone.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked, unsure if she meant it to be snarky or not.
“Where would I have to be?” you asked, turning down the radio.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “’M just surprised you don’t have plans. It seems like you’re always out doing one thing or another.”
You smiled.
“Actually, I’m having some old high school friends over for a movie and wine night,” you said, and for some reason, that sank her mood a little deeper. She was about to say something mean, or condescending, but then you spoke again. “You’re welcome to join us. If you want.”
And there it was. Your proof to Samira that she’s just a dick to be mad at you, who had done nothing wrong. It seemed you couldn’t even let one moment slide by. She rolled her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said stiffly, looking determinedly out the window.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today,” you said thoughtfully. “I believe this one even less.”
“Well, you should,” she said, crossing her arms. “Because I’m really fine. I mean, we’re not even friends. How would you know?”
“Because you’re a bad liar,” you said. “And even if I don’t know you that well personally, I can spot a bad liar a mile away. It’s why I’m such a good poker player.”
She shook her head. It was true. She didn’t have much cause to lie, she didn’t really see the point of it. It made her feel dirty, to lie for no good reason. And really, she admitted, she had no good reason to lie to you now. Why not?
“I don’t have any friends,” she said suddenly. “All I care about is work, which was fine, I thought, but now I’m looking up after all these years and realize I’m wasting away my youth. The last time I left my apartment for some reason other than work, doctors appointments, or groceries, was my mom’s birthday seven months ago. Not even a friend’s! My mom’s. I haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, haven’t even been on a date since undergrad, and I’m probably gonna die alone! My life has no purpose!”
There was a ringing silence as she finished her rant, still refusing to look at you. She didn’t want to see pity in your eyes. After a minute, you responded.
“You have an overwhelming amount of purpose,” you said simply.
“How would you know,” she scoffed, “we’re not even —”
“Friends, I know,” you said. “But not for nothing, I have worked with you almost every day for several years. I see the way you light up when your patients ease up. How much it means to you when they trust you, and how good you are at earning it. I see the passion that has driven you to some of the most impressive and spectacular saves I’ve ever seen. Your patients are your purpose. Do you know how rare it is for a person to find purpose in something that has nothing to do with them?”
Samira was stunned into silence. She had absolutely no idea you paid that much attention to her, or any at all, really. Her face was feeling hot.
“I have no work life balance,” she said weakly. “None of my patients are going to hang out with me, or fall in love with me, or see me as anything other than a doctor. It’s not the same.”
“Of course, it’s not,” you said. “You’ve put everything you have into them, and we rarely get the recognition we deserve in this field. But that doesn’t mean you’ve wasted any time. Your career is not a waste. It just seems like your priorities might be starting to shift. That’s all.”
“I’m almost thirty,” she said.
“Uh huh,” you said.
“I should have this figured out by now,” she sighed tiredly. “I’m gonna be forty by the time I’m married.”
You let out a loud laugh that surprised her.
“Dude, no one, and I mean no one, has this shit figured out by the time they’re thirty!” you said.
“You do,” she said grumpily.
“The fuck I do!” you said. “I often let socializing get in the way of work. And I worry about the future, and how much farther along I might be if I had been more like you. I can’t maintain relationships because I prioritize friendships over girlfriends, and let’s be honest, no one wants to hear about open fractures over dinner.”
Samira laughed despite herself, and your smile widened.
“As for the friend thing,” you said, turning onto her street. “I think they’re closer than you think. You’re easy to like, I promise. Just agree to drinks every once and while, and you’ll be a hit!”
She picked at a hangnail, unsure.
“I’m not the best with crowds,” she admitted. “I tend to stay quiet, and fade into the background if I’m around too many people.”
You pulled in front of her apartment, yanking the parking brake.
“You should ask Mel sometime,” you said. “I think a night out would do her some good, too.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Samira.
She liked Mel, really. But they were a little too similar. It would be easy to talk the blonde into spending a quiet night in with a movie, which was hardly different from all her nights off. She turned to you, nervous.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you think, maybe, if you’re free, you could… we could go out? I mean, you could show me around.”
“Sure,” you said happily. “Where do you like to go?”
Samira thought hard. She had lived in the same city for years, and she couldn’t come up with a single location. Sensing her difficulty, you helped her out.
“Why don’t I pick a place?” you asked. “Something busy, but lowkey. Ever been to the Cellar, on Main?” She shook her head. “It’s great, you’ll love it. Text me when you’re free. I’ll pick you up.”
Well, that was easy, she thought as you exchanged numbers and bid each other good night. Perhaps she should have approached you earlier. What did she think you would do, laugh in her face? It wasn’t quite your style.
Samira was more than nervous as she walked into the low lit bar next Saturday, in one of her three nice outfits with you by her side. You were cool as a cucumber, looking nice but relaxed, with just a smidge of makeup and simple jewelry.
You quickly found a table.
“I’ll go get drinks,” you said, waving away her hands as they reached for her purse. “My treat. What do you drink?”
“Uh,” she faltered. The last time she’d ordered a drink at a bar she was twenty-one and broke, with a taste for whatever was cheapest. You smiled again.
“I’ll surprise you,” you said, and you disappeared.
Samira glanced around suspiciously. You were right, this bar did seem her speed. Certainly more so than the loud, sweaty places she pictured group hangouts at. There was a small dance floor where the odd drunk solo dancer wiggled, and a few couples and groups of friends swayed softly. There was an old juke box in the corner, and lamps on the tables. Instead of a din of plastered partiers she was surrounded by a low hum of talk and laughter. She tried to loosen her shoulders.
“Try this,” you said, placing a tall glass topped with a slice of lemon and cherry in front of her.
She took a tentative sip. It was fizzy and light, with a zip of lemon. She hummed appreciatively.
“Like it?” you asked, taking a sip from your own copper cup. She nodded. “Tom Collins. One of my favorites.”
“It’s amazing,” she said, taking another, larger sip. “What did you get?”
“Moscow Mule,” you said. “Wanna try?”
You swapped drinks. The Mule was tasty too, she thought. She hadn’t realized how wonderful cocktails could be, having barely drunk a warm beer since the days alcohol was purchased at Trader Joes. Sitting in a quiet bar, floor not sticky, she felt very grown up.
“So,” you said, returning her glass. “Are we gonna be friends?”
She smiled shyly.
“If you want to be,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“Of course I want to be,” you said, laughing like she was ridiculous. “You’re one of my favorite coworkers. Easily top five.”
“Really?” she questioned. “Well, can I ask you a question? Since we’re friends, and all.”
“Shoot.”
Samira rotated her glass, feeling a bit anxious now. But, you’d said you wanted to be her friend.
“How come I never got a nickname?” she asked.
Your face remained passive.
“I didn’t know you wanted one,” you said.
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone got one. I don’t think you asked Robby if he wanted to be called Bob. Or that you cared if Shen wanted to be named Sir Dunksalot.”
You snorted a little. You raised your hands as though admitting defeat.
“Alright,” you said. “Okay. I never gave you a nickname because I… respected you too much.”
Now it was Samira’s turn to snort.
“Bull,” she said, crunching on a bit of ice.
You laughed.
“It’s true!” you said. “But there is a second part.”
All of a sudden, you seemed like a hesitant one. Odd, seeing as Samira couldn’t recall a single instance you’d hesitated before. Not with a treatment, not with your friends, never. She leaned forward, intrigued.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Promise you’ll listen to my explanation?” you said seriously, and she nodded. “I was the one who came up with ‘SloMo’.”
The straw slipped from Samira’s lips. You? Sure, you teased people, but she’d never known you to be meanhearted. It stung a little, remembering those first months at PTMC, and the imposter syndrome that that title did little to help with. But she promised to hear you out. She motioned for you to go on.
You watched her with apprehensive eyes.
“It was, I don’t know, not even the first month of being an intern,” you said, regret lacing your tone already. “We’d been working there for a week, maybe two. I didn’t really know you yet, you know? We hadn’t figured out our rhythm, and I hadn’t seen you at work.”
You placed your hands around your drink to stop yourself picking at your nails. A habit you and Samira had in common, she realized.
“All I really knew about you was that you were nice, pretty, and — well, and the stuff I heard about you from other people,” you explained. “I was assisting Robby with a trauma, and he made some jab about you needing to pick up the pace. I was nervous, and I wanted to make a good impression, and it just slipped out. I thought it was clever. But then I started to get to know you, and realized how stupid Robby is, and… I never expected it to stick the way it did. I’m really, really sorry.”
Samira didn’t know what to say, so she just sucked on her straw for a while, until an obnoxious slurping sound made the table next to yours send irritated looks. She pushed the empty glass away from her.
It was weird, knowing the origin story of the joke that haunted her for so much of her intern year. Maybe she would have felt resentful towards you then, but it felt so far in the past now. She smiled.
“It was kind of clever,” she said. “To be fair. Slo, Mo. Slow Mohan. You’ve got a knack for nicknames.”
You shook your head.
“No, it wasn’t,” you said. “You’re an amazing doctor. I didn’t want to pull attention from your potential with a stupid joke. It wasn’t cool.”
“It wasn’t cool,” she agreed. “And it used to hurt my feelings, but I can’t fault you. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it. It’s ancient history.”
You grinned at her.
“So, what do you want your nickname to be, now that we’re really friends, and neither of us have our heads up our asses anymore?”
“I get to choose?” she asked.
“I’ll make an exception for you,” you said.
“Give me some options,” said Samira, settling her chin in her hand.
“Okay,” you said thoughtfully. “Um, Sam. Sami. Mira. Mimi. Miri. Mo. Momo. Mimo. Siso.”
“Okay, now you’re just making up sounds!” she giggled.
“Everything is made up sounds!” you said.
“Okay, okay,” she said, thinking it over. “Um… how about…” she drummed her fingers against her lips. “Miri.”
“Miri it is,” you said with a smile. “Can I get you a refill, Miri?”
“Only because you came up with SloMo,” she said cheekily.
You laughed, taking her cup and your own back to the bar. Samira felt a little giddy, from the alcohol, and the nickname. Her whole chest felt very warm. Not the panicky, tight heat that plagued her over the summer, but fuzzy and familiar. Good.
You spent the rest of the night talking, learning about each other. You both already knew more than Samira had realized, having spent so many hours together saving lives, or charting. But there was still more to learn.
She told you about her mother, and New Jersey, and the job offer she had yet to take. You told her about where you grew up, your siblings, and about the EMS fellowship you were doing next year. You were to be trained to manage both on site and emergency department traumas, and regulate safety protocols and standards of care.
You worked through enough drinks to get to the dance floor, laughing at each other as you tripped over air and missed the beat of the music. By the time you dropped her back at her place, Samira felt lighter than she had in months, maybe years.
You were a presence, a light in the room. You brought her to life in a way she didn’t know was possible. She had a hard time believing you had been right in front of her face for years and she hadn’t thought to explore you.
She wanted to collapse into bed, but stumbled to the bathroom to wash up only because you reminded her. Something about keeping her gorgeous skin as perfect as it was that made the warm in her chest pulse like a living breathing thing. She could hardly stop smiling long enough to remove her lip gloss.
Over the next few months, you’d text Samira every week or so with a new activity planned. You took her everywhere. Restaurants, more bars, sports games, your favorite brunch spots. The two of you visited art galleries and pretended to know what you were talking about, you made sushi at culinary class, you painted pottery. Even something boring, like an afternoon spent perusing the shelves at the library, was made fun by your presence.
You had an infectious laugh. Your lips pulled to expose all your teeth, and you threw your head back, letting the angelic noise fill the air. There was no hand over your mouth, or stifled giggles. You were completely unabashed in your joy.
Samira liked to think that she was learning from you. You were spreading your happiness, your unbridled appreciation for life, to her each second you spent together. Thanks to you, she was getting much better at stopping to smell the roses, so to speak. She could look over a seemingly mundane scene and find good, if only to think how she wished you could see it. And when you did, she’d point, and relish in the smile that would spread over your face.
With you, she wasn't Dr. Mohan. She was just Miri.
But she taught you things, too. You liked it when she talked through her thought process with difficult patients. You begged her to teach you her mom’s masala vada recipe, something she hadn’t made in years, but found that she enjoyed spending time in the kitchen. And you certainly thought her painting skills were far superior to yours.
“How did you get them so evenly spaced?” you asked, examining the blueberry patterned mug she just got back from the pottery place. “Mine looks like a six year old made it.”
“No,” she said kindly, taking your butter dish from your hand. “It’s… really good.”
You guffawed.
“You’re too sweet for your own good, Miri,” you laughed, poking her dimple. “But whatever. It’ll keep butter just the same as any other dish.”
She smiled as you popped to the kitchen to find a place for the thing, feeling warm. She rubbed her cheeks and placed her dishes carefully back into their wrappings. It had been such a joy having you around so much. It was almost November, although it felt like less time.
It wasn't just how you were when you were around, either. When you weren't, Samira found herself missing you. Desperately. She spent more time thinking about you than she would admit, to you, to herself, to anyone. And if your familiar touches, the pokes, the caresses, the hugs, set a fire burning in her belly, who cared? As far as Samira was concerned, that was no one's business, not even hers. Least of all yours.
Your near constant presence also helped her ignore the reality barreling towards her, that she would soon no longer be a resident, and that the job offer still sat in her inbox, no closer to being decided on. She tried to rid herself of such thoughts as you came back into the living room.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” you said, flopping beside her on the couch.
“What’s up?”
“So, Whitaker and Santos are having a little get together on Halloween,” you said. “For those of us lucky enough to not have to work the Halloween night shift. I was gonna go, and I know you prefer keeping things small, but I was wondering if you’d go with me?”
Samira chewed her lip. A Halloween party. She hadn’t been to one of those since high school, and she hadn’t enjoyed it much. She generally preferred to hand out candy to the kids in the neighborhood, then turn in with a scary movie or a good book, even when she was a teenager. The past few years she’d been picking up night shifts for parents who wanted to take their own kids trick or treating. But you loved Halloween, and if you were together, how bad could it be?
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?” you asked. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated just because I’m going. In fact, I could join your quiet night if you wanted company.”
“You’re too sweet for your own good,” she parroted. “Seriously. I think it’ll be fun.”
You beamed.
“Awesome!” you squealed, pulling your phone out and scooching right next to her. “This is what I was thinking for my costume, I’ve already started putting it together. What about you?”
Samira was embarrassingly blank minded, so you spent the last week of the month helping her pick out something she liked. When she realized you were going as a honey bee, she timidly suggested she just continue the theme, and you jumped at the idea.
So, on October 31, the two of you walked into Trinity’s apartment as a bee and a ladybug. The only light source was from the plastic pumpkins and ghosts strung haphazardly all over the living room and kitchen area, and everything seemed to be covered in a layer of fake cobwebs. The music was pretty loud, and the apartment already full.
“You okay?” you whispered to her, hand finding hers in the dark.
“Fine,” she said, honestly.
“Let’s go find the hosts,” you said.
You didn’t let go of her hand as you led her through the crowd, something she appreciated. Suddenly, she hoped her palms didn’t get sweaty like they sometimes did in uncomfortable situations.
“Look at you two!” said the voice of Santos from behind them, and they turned.
She was dressed as Coraline and carrying a plate of jello shots. You still didn’t let Samira’s hand go as you greeted her.
“You look great!” you said, taking in the outfit. “Let me guess — Whitaker is your Wybie?”
“Guilty,” she said. “The idiot’s around here somewhere. But enough about me, what about you two! Matchy, matchy.”
Samira was used to Santos’s teasing at this point, but her cheeks still heated. She reminded herself that the R2 just admitted to matching with Whitaker. Her male roommate. Besides, there was no inherent link between a bee and a lady bug, they just both were insects with wings.
Still, she slipped her definitely slick hand out of yours and crossed her arms over her chest self consciously. As though you noticed, you took up the question.
“It was a little last minute,” you excused, grabbing a jello shot. “Want one?”
Samira nodded, and you handed it to her, then grabbed another for yourself.
“Well, you go find Wybie,” you said to Santos, motioning for Samira to follow you. “We’re gonna go mingle.”
The shots seemed to be 80% alcohol, 20% jello. If it hadn’t been for the red color, Samira wasn’t sure she’d have been able to discern the slight strawberry flavor. You pinched your face too as you slurped it down.
“Eugh,” you said, taking her empty cup and throwing both away. “I don’t even really like jello in the first place.”
Samira laughed, trying to relax. Nobody at this party would stop to think twice about your outfits. If they were partaking in the jello shots, they probably would even notice.
You spent the rest of the night dancing, snacking, and occasionally drinking. Samira was rattled by the panic that had overtaken her at Trinity’s most likely benign comment. So what if she thought you were dating? The idea sent a tingle through her stomach she was reluctant to describe.
She’d had crushes in her life before, though mostly on celebrities or TV characters. She’d hung One Direction posters in her room, and cried when she found out Brad Pitt was married. She even flushed each time Josh Matthews met her eye in junior year calculus class. But she didn’t feel like that with girls.
When she saw a pretty girl, she admired her. She studied her. She liked being around beautiful women, just like people liked to fill their homes with gorgeous art. It made you feel good to look at something pleasing to the eyes. It was human nature. The flutters she got in her stomach when first came across her screen in a rerun of Fools Rush In was jealousy.
That was what she always told herself. And living in the little bubble with you for the past two months hadn’t done anything to refute that. To force her to examine your relationship in a different way. But when Trinity could look at the two of you and raise a brow, what did that mean?
So, like a real grownup, each time your smile or gentle touch sent butterflies around her midsection, she took a swig of her drink. And by one o’clock in the morning, she was drunker than she had been in a decade.
“There you go,” you said, depositing her carefully onto your bed. “Nice and easy.”
Samira groaned, feeling disoriented. She hardly remembered the cab ride over, or recognized that the sheets she was burrowing into were not her own.
Your lithe fingers made quick work of her shoes, and you disappeared and reappeared from your bathroom holding a bottle of liquid and some cotton pads. Samira’s face scrunched in displeasure as you began working the makeup off of her face.
“I know,” you said quietly. “Trust me, you’ll be grateful in the morning. Promise.”
She opened her eyes a sliver to see your face, twisted in concentration as you worked. Your own makeup was beginning to smudge and had been rubbed off in places. She tried to reach a hand up and swipe away a bit of glitter from your chin, but her arm felt heavy and she missed by a mile. You just laughed.
“I’m just going to grab you a cup of water,” you said when you were done. “Be right back.”
But by the time you returned with a glass, some Tylenol, and an empty trashcan to put beside the bed, Samira was out cold.
When she woke, she was in almost exactly the same position, and a pool of drool made the corner of her mouth sticky. She opened her eyes and immediately regretted the action. Her head was pounding.
Wiping her face, she turned away from the window to the bed side table. There lay the meds, water, and a clock that told her it was almost noon.
It took her about ten minutes to gulp down some pills and stand up.
“I’m never drinking again,” she muttered to herself as she padded out through the hallway.
Familiar as she was with your apartment at this point, she made for the kitchen, expecting you to be up making breakfast. But when she reached the common area, it was to find it deserted and the remnants of a makeshift bed on the sofa. Clearly you had slept out there, but where were you now?
Not in the apartment, she confirmed with a quick search. When the grumbling in her stomach took charge, she finally noticed the note on the fridge telling her you’d been called into work and wouldn’t be back until late, but she should make herself at home.
Jesus, you had been on call? And you were running on, what, four, maybe five hours of sleep? At least you hadn’t drunk as much as Samira.
She was about to toss the note aside when she noticed a PS.
P.S. stopped by buns & co :) coffee in the fridge!!! <3
She smiled giddily. Then she frowned. No boyfriend, however few and far between they were, had done something like this for her. Buns & Co, her favorite cafe, was way out of the way, and she felt sure she hadn’t mentioned it more than once. And you remembered.
The butterflies were back, with a vengeance. You were a good friend, the only one she had gotten close to in Pittsburgh. Three months ago, she was fine. Now, a simple gesture was enough to send her spiraling. How had this happened?
Suddenly she felt very trapped in your apartment. Grabbing the coffee and bag of pastries, ignoring the protesting ache in her skull, she slipped into her shoes and ran. Upon returning home, she beelined straight for her laptop, pulled up her email, and accepted the job offer in Jersey. And immediately regretted it.
For the rest of the day, she went back and forth. One second she was in shambles, drafting an email taking it back, the next she was mentally packing up her things. Meanwhile, the coffee grew cold and forgotten on her kitchen counter.
You also texted her several times throughout the day, mostly when you finally got off work. You asked if she was okay. If you had gotten the right pastries. If she wanted to see a new movie next week.
She didn’t answer a single one. Not until nearly midnight.
Got home fine, just been napping all day.
It was simple, and short, and she knew you’d see right through it. Still, she turned her phone back off until her next shift. As she predicted, you sought her out almost immediately. You proposed lunch, and she accepted.
You were halfway through recounting your pediatric patient from earlier in the morning when she cut you off.
“I’ve been thinking more about the job offer,” she said. “The one in Jersey.”
You swallowed your bite of sandwich.
“Me too!” you said. To her confusion, you pulled out your laptop. “I know there are a lot of pros about that hospital, but as it turns out, there’s a position at Presby that’s almost twice as good. Emergency Med, but they offer dual training in public health. Awesome, right? I know you might not want to apply to something this late in the game, but the deadline isn’t until December!”
As you rambled on, Samira thought perhaps the room was running out of air. How much time had you wasted putting together options? Options, she couldn’t help but notice, that all involved her staying in Pittsburgh. The wavering back and forth on her acceptance was gone. The feeling pouring over her like a heavy rain now was all, 100%, unmistakable guilt.
“I appreciate it,” she said when you were done. “But… I was gonna tell you… I already accepted the offer. I’m moving back to New Jersey.”
She snapped her gaze quickly down to her salad so she didn’t have to see the way your face fell. Even still, it was all she could picture. The downturned lips, the droop of your eyes, clear as day in her mind’s eye.
“Oh,” you said. “You’re not staying?”
“Well, I’m not leaving until June,” she said.
“Right,” you said sadly, then, “right, yeah! We’ve got plenty of time to plan your going away party! Congrats!”
But with as much time she had spent memorizing your smile, Samira could tell this one wasn’t full. You made a good show though, patting her on the back, praising her abilities.
She got a lot of that, from you and others, over the next week. It was a security many people would have loved, and she used to dream about it. But now, all she could think about was not seeing you every day. She sat at home, turning down your requests to hang out, hearing your glum voice on a loop. You didn’t seem to act any different afterwards, because you would never try to rain on someone’s parade. If this was what Samira wanted, you would do everything you could to support it.
If only you knew that it wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Maybe she wasn’t sure before, but when you had to spend hours convincing yourself something was right, maybe it wasn’t really right.
At least, that’s what Jack told her when she confided in him.
“But how could I change my mind?” she asked him. “I’m not wishy washy. I’m a planner. I make a plan, and I stick to it.”
Jack smiled.
“Kid, coming from a former military man, who used to think plans were a good idea too,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “something will get in the way. Always. And more often than not, that something will be feelings.”
She crossed her arms.
“I don’t know what my feelings are,” she said.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I’ve been noticing one name in particular popping up a whole lot in a discussion about your career.”
She flushed.
“That — that doesn’t even matter,” she said. “It’s been months. And even — even if… I don’t even know how she feels.”
“I do,” he said simply, matching her defiant posture. “She’s been putting on a brave face, but she hasn’t been her usual sunshine and rainbows. She’s practically sulking, by her standards. And I think you have something to do with it.”
That thought stayed with Samira for the rest of the shift. Were you upset? Maybe. The idea made her heart clench, but she didn’t realize how much it was weighing on her until she left for the day and walked straight past her bus stop in the direction of your apartment.
What am I doing? she thought as she stood in front of your door. Seriously, what am I doing? as she raised her hand and knocked.
You answered the door in your pajamas, and looked shocked to see her standing there.
“Hey, Miri,” you said. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said. “Didn’t know if you’d be home. No plans?”
You looked down at your cereal brand pajama pants and smiled.
“Nope, just me, some sushi, and love island,” you said. “Wanna… come in?”
You stood aside as she shuffled in, entirely unsure if being in your house was a good idea.
“How was work?” you asked, shutting the door behind you.
“Good,” she said. “Fine. It’s just…” she sighed. “I don’t want to go to New Jersey.”
Your head cocked to the side like a puppy.
“No?”
“No,” she said, laughing at the relief of that sentence coming off her chest. “Not at all. I hate it there. I hate the people, the roads. I hate my mom’s new boyfriend. Everything.”
You shook your head, confused.
“Then why did you accept a job offer there?”
She sighed.
“I thought it would be a good idea,” she said. “I could be closer to my mom, and get a change of pace.”
“But now…?”
“But now,” she said nervously. “But now… I’m realizing Pittsburgh is where I belong. It has a much better food scene, and better hospitals, and my mom doesn’t live here. I won’t be running into any old high school acquaintances. And, it has… you.”
Your lips tilted upwards, just slightly, hopefully.
“Yeah,” you said, stepping closer. “So stay.”
Samira didn’t know what came over her, only that one second you were standing in front of her, looking adorable as ever in your lounge clothes, asking her to stay, and the next, you were wrapped in each other. Your lips were as soft as she imagined, and your body as warm. You snaked your arms around her waist, pulling her ever closer.
It was the best kiss she’d ever had. When she reluctantly pulled away, out of necessity only, she stayed just as close, hands in your hair, cradling your face. You smiled, widely.
“Jersey definitely doesn’t have this,” you breathed.
ok y’all, i just watched top gun maverick randomly last night after quite a hiatus and it got me thinking. I AM CONTINUING WITH ALL MY REGULAR CHARACTERS AND THE STUFF I HAVE LINED UP WILL NOT CHANGE, but i am officially moving rooster to my will write for priority list.
so if you have rooster ideas, i would love to get requests!!! i’m so excited to add him to the rotation 🥳
I’m the one who requested that Samira fix! Let me tell you I was so PUMPED when I saw your blog today. AHHHH!! Can’t wait. Thank you so much for responding.
That was actually my first time ever requesting a fic.
I don’t expect a response I just wanted to let you know. Love your stuff :)
my hearrrttt dude tysm for requesting and i hope u like it!!! and i hope if inspiration ever strikes u again u make another request bc it was a great prompt and im so excited to write it😭🥰
basically the outlines for all of these are sitting in my drafts ready to go but there are SO MANY TO CHOOSE FROM and i’m getting decision paralysis. they’ll all get done eventually ofc but i’m making you guys decide for me!🤗
Samira’s never really had any other priorities other than becoming a good doctor and furthering her research. Always. After all, it’s been what she’s been working towards for years. But just as she’s nearing the end of her residency, she takes a pause. When she subtracts the medical, clinical aspect of her life, there isn’t much substance. So, she confronts the most exuberant, weirdly wise, adventurous resident she knows: reader. So anytime they aren’t working, they’re out hanging out, doing something new an exciting. And soon Samira realizes she’s gonna miss a lot more than just her colleagues. (She discovers that she might like girls after all but naturally, she’s scared.)
Smut is okay! All up to you. Love your work :) Take care.
summary - you've been part of the pitt family for years, so why don't they know who put that rock on your finger?
a/n - made reader a social worker because it's more realistic if she's meant to be wearing her ring around. love this, love emery, love u <3 i feel like i kinda rushed through the set up of their love story but i didn’t want to say too much in case i came back with the whole thing 👀 we’ll see we’ll see! also confirmed rabbot 🫡 if i’m ever writing for someone other than those two you can assume they’re together off screen, i fucking love that ship.
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As a social worker at the pitt, you were desperately in demand and chronically underpaid and undersupported. Even with all the years of experience now under your belt, the praise from your coworkers and hospital administration alike, and your hard won comfort in your position, you still had lingering school debt. You still lived in a crappy small apartment. Still found yourself the only social worker on shift more often than not, being stretched thin fit to snap, constantly being pulled in a million different directions.
But you loved what you did. You loved working with people, and problem solving. Looking at the system, acknowledging its overwhelming faults, but not succumbing to the weight. You were good at finding loopholes and work-arounds to get your patients out of tight spots. Every time you succeeded in getting a child out of a bad home, a woman out of trafficking, or a family’s hospital bill covered, all your problems seemed so insignificant, worth it.
Your friends and coworkers made it more bearable, too. Kiara was your rock, Lupe was always a kind, understanding presence. It was easier to connect with your fellow non-medical workers, because they too felt the pressure of the job without adequate compensation. The nurses, too. You could bond together in the face of day to day mistreatment. You were sneered at, looked down upon, underestimated, all while keeping the whole system running and getting paid jack.
You weren’t there so you could have your names published or buy a boat, or a vacation home, or be publicly praised. You put up with being ignored and shoved aside and overworked because you were dedicated to your jobs.
Doctors were another story. And surgeons? They were the worst.
It took you a bit longer to accept the doctors into your good graces, but you learned how to weed out the respectful ones as opposed to the ones who would look down their noses at you.
Dr. Robby, however snappy and short-tempered, always made sure to thank you for your work, and treat you the same as his fellows. Sometimes that meant yelling, but hey, at least it was equal treatment across the board.
Dr. Abbot, of course, one of your favorites. He won your trust right off the bat with his slow smiles and ability to stay calm in tense situations. He praised the social workers beyond a doubt, and you could always count on him for a ride home, or a shoulder to cry on, even.
Samira? No competition. You often told her she’d have excelled as a social worker, with her once in a lifetime empathy, her heightened sense for the socioemotional aspects of her job. You’d reprimanded Robby more than once for being harsh with her.
So, you weren’t too picky. After all, you were a people person. If you were to be seeing the same people almost every day, you’d make an effort to try and get on with them. That, and, despite all the ugliness you had seen in your job and out of it, you were still a firm believer that everyone has good qualities, even if it takes a little longer to see them in some than in others.
It took you quite awhile to see the good in Emery Walsh.
You had been working on the day shift almost exclusively for your entire multi year long career at PTMC, maybe picking up someone’s shift here and there, when you got the news that one of your coworkers was leaving and needed a replacement. It was only for a few months, you were assured, but still relatively long term. Social workers, to no one’s surprise, were in short supply, and Trish had had a family emergency and an abrupt departure.
You weren’t thrilled to be leaving your usual team, who at that point viewed you like family, and you right back, but you liked Jack, and you liked Lena, and you were nothing if not open to new experiences. So, you said your goodbyes, purchased some blackout blinds, and started the aggravating process of shifting your circadian rhythm.
It wasn’t easy, and you spent the first several weeks pounding espresso and running on thin patience. So it was no mystery why the generally sharp, sassy surgeon did not make a great first impression on you.
You found her acerbic, and cocky, much too sure of herself. This assessment was of course not helped by your sleep deprivation, nor her stubborn nature. Upon walking into the room, she didn’t even glance in your direction, speaking only to Dr. Abbot. You bristled, and pushed, and she pushed back. It was the beginning of a turbulent relationship.
You’d snipe at each other like school children whenever in contact. You’d go out of your way to request any surgery consultant but her, and she’d act awful lofty when you were around, using advanced language she knew you wouldn’t understand.
But as time went on, tensions were heightened by one inescapable fact; she was one of the hottest people you’d ever laid eyes on.
It took months, and several strong drinks, for you to admit that. Turned out, she felt quite the same. And so began a secret love affair.
By the time you were meant to return to the day shift, one of your biggest annoyances had become one of your greatest sources of joy.
You were proven right in your convictions that everybody had good. It was a long and slow process to break down those walls, to reach the person behind them.
Some days, you would cry and fight, and your mission to reach her felt less steady, and more like trying to find the end of a rainbow. Was it there? Were you wasting your time?
No, decidedly, you weren’t. You came to know Emery Walsh like no one had before, in the sheets, at home, even at work. You could look at her, and where before you only saw an arrogant surgeon, annoying but typical, now you could see the dedication, and curiosity, the desire to learn, and the desire to help.
It was beautiful to see in action, and you were reluctant to leave. You remembered confessing your hesitation to Emery, a week before the new hire started. You sat on her counter in your underwear, sipping the tea she had made you.
“The night shift is horrible,” Emery insisted. “We get all the weirdos. Our sleep’s fucked up. It has no sunlight, no steadiness, no anything. It has sleep deprivation and bad coffee.”
You set down your mug and grabbed her face, pulling her in between your dangling legs.
“Yeah, it does,” you said, twirling the baby hairs at the base of her neck. “But it also has you. When am I supposed to see you if I go back to the day shift?”
She looked at you then, really looked at you, deep into your eyes, and smiled. She placed her skilled hands against your waist.
“Well, if you moved in with me,” she said, “we can see a whole lot of each other.”
It took three iterations of the same proposal for you to believe she wasn’t joking. Once you did, you jumped off the counter, clinging to her like a koala as you squealed. After six long months together, a blip, really, but a lifetime to you, you moved in together.
It was no question whose apartment it would be. Emery was a surgeon, with a surgeon’s salary, and she lived like one. Her apartment had huge windows, good plumbing, and no mold. It had plenty of space for your things. You didn’t have too many, a fact Emery was only too quick to fix.
By the time you celebrated your first anniversary, you had a small collection of designer bags in your closet, fresh nails every fortnight, and luxury perfumes lining your vanity. Your student debt dried up, your car stopped making that noise, and your fridge was stocked with the bougie yogurt you never allowed yourself.
All those years you spent worrying about money, and it turned out all you needed to do was fall in love with a surgeon.
You loved your girl, and she loved you, and you weren’t ashamed. When you first got together, it was too new to tell anyone. Then, it was fun keeping it a secret. Then you went back on opposite shifts, and there were hardly any clues to pick up on. Hardly anyone knew that you went home after a long day to a cushy apartment shared with an attending at their very hospital, played with a cat she got you, and slept in a bed that smelled like her. They never asked, and you never told.
Emery liked staying private, and you didn’t mind. With as little contact as the two of you had, during the day, it was easy.
You had to tell Kiara, of course, and Dana would have figured it out anyways. Abbot and Robby knew because they were higher ups, and it was hard to file with HR without them knowing. You went to work, you went home. Emery did the same. You didn’t talk about your out of work ventures, referred in passing to “my partner” but gave no further details. Your phone background was of Mitzy, your cat, innocuous enough. Nothing, at first glance, really tied you and Emery to each other.
At least, not for years. But now, you were looking down at your gorgeous, very large, very noticeable stone resting in place on the fourth finger of your left hand, and you realized the jig was up.
It was a pretty impulsive idea. You woke up the morning before, after a wonderful night spent celebrating your third anniversary, and the question just slipped out of your girlfriend’s mouth.
“Will you marry me?”
This time she proposed something hasty and wild, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t backtrack and take convincing. You smiled wide, and said, “yes.”
You’d never wanted a big wedding and neither did she. So, you went to the thrift store for a nice white gown with your mother that very afternoon, bought a grocery store cake with a congrats piped across the top that was surely meant for a graduate, and went to the courthouse. Your flowers came from the few vases you kept around the house. The photographer was Emery’s sister. It was chaotic, and sudden, and a little panicked, but it was perfect.
You’d said your I Dos in front of your parents, siblings, Dana, and Kiara, and had cheap cake out on the cement steps. You went to the bar you had your first date at, danced, drank, and celebrated. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.
A few days later, you took a trip to a jeweller. You picked out her ring, and she picked out yours. You’d laughed and cried, felt all the emotions, dreamed of what the future looked like for the two of you. Then reality hit.
“I don’t want to hide this,” you said, tangled up with Emery in bed, turning your hand from side to side.
“Me neither,” she said.
“So… what’s our gameplan?” you asked. “I mean, they’re gonna freak out. They don’t even know we’re dating.”
She fingered her own band, thinking. Then she grinned.
“Let them freak out,” she said. “Mine’ll be hidden, I can’t exactly have it on when I’m sticking my hands into people’s body cavities.”
“Right,” you said grumpily. “So I’m gonna get all the questions, and the badgering, and the attention, and no one’s gonna bug you at all. I have to take all of the heat?”
“I’m pretty sure it was in our vows,” she chuckled.
“Our vows said in sickness and in health,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re not sick. Unless you’ve been diagnosed with chicken-itis.”
“Ha, ha,” she drawled as you started making chicken noises in her face.
Really, it wasn’t a big deal, you tried to tell yourself as you got ready the next morning. They’d find out, they’d freak, and then they’d get over it. The question was whether or not to tell your friends exactly who your counterpart was in all this mess.
You’d only made the mistake of introducing a partner to them once. It wasn’t even serious, just a guy you’d met at the gym and brought along to drinks. After that night, they’d been insufferable. They made up nicknames, teased you about his clothes, his hair, his job. Even now, eons after your breakup, you’d still hear a jab about “how’s Walmart Bieber?" or “Is he still living with his mommy?”
So okay, yeah, he wasn’t the best choice of boyfriend, but he had helped you learn a very valuable lesson. Never introduce anyone you care about to the Pitt crew. They’d be able to drive off anyone. And sure, Emery wasn’t exactly a stranger to them, but that wouldn’t excuse her from receiving a barrage of insulting monikers and teasing about your relationship.
It wasn’t an experience you were eager to relieve.
As you walked into the ED, you got all your usual greetings. Lupe buzzed you in with a smile, Dana nodded. The only slightly unusual thing was the wink Kiara sent you as you set up in your office.
It wasn’t until you were filling out some paperwork for your first patient of the day, a single mother whose insurance wouldn’t cover a procedure for her son, that someone said something.
“I like your ring,” said Samira, handing you the pen you’d asked for. “Is it new, or…”
You saw the gears turning in her brain, trying to pull itself from work mode to friend mode. Then she gasped loudly and pointed, drawing several people’s attention. You grimaced.
“Is that an engagement ring?”
“Um…” was all you could force out. Your mind was suddenly blank.
“It is!” said Javadi, eyes wide as usual. “You’re engaged? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone!”
“Engaged?” said Whitaker, pulling up to the hub with Mel in tow. “Who’s engaged?”
Samira pointed to your ring again, and both dark blondes lit up.
“Congratulations!” said Mel, hurriedly freeing herself from her gown and gloves, and giving you a friendly hug.
“Damn, that’s a rock,” said Perlah, coming over and grabbing your hand.
“A rock?” snorted Princess. “That’s a fucking glacier.”
The two played tug of war with your hand, each trying to pull it closer for inspection, while Javadi was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Do you know when you’re gonna have the ceremony?” she asked. “I’ve always thought I’d like a spring wedding, but the rain is temperamental. I think you’d look amazing in fall colors, though, surrounded by the leaves, and everything! Of course, the color scheme has to be well thought out, too —”
“You know what you should do?” said Samira, snapping her fingers. “Get married in a library! Ugh, that’s my dream!”
“Yes, yes, the Boston Public Library is gorgeous!” piped in the new nurse, Emma. “Not insanely expensive if you keep it small, and not too far away from Pittsburgh, so like destination, but not inaccessible, you know?”
“Yeah, but why keep it small?” said Javadi. “Miss Popular over here, she’s gonna want to invite everyone and their neighbor.”
“Um —” you said again.
“Well you could still get married at the library then,” said Emma. “If you save. Or if your fiance is rich.”
“Yeah, is he?” said Princess. “What does he do?”
Quiet suddenly fell as the jabbering ceased and all eyes fell on you. You stammered a bit.
“My fiance?” you said. “My fiance… is a doctor.”
Why, why did you say that? Of all moments to tell the truth! If you thought they were all over you like before, it was nothing compared to now. Now that they knew there was a possibility they knew the person, seen them, even worked with them. It was like bees on honey, buzzing nonstop.
“Oh my god!”
“Does he work here?”
“Is it Park?”
“Ew, don’t say that!”
“What, he’s jacked!”
“It is not Park the shark!” you said, yanking your hand back.
“But it is someone at PTMC?” said Perlah.
You hesitated, just for a second, but it was a second too long.
“It is!” said Javadi with a gasp.
“This changes everything,” said Perlah, looking devilish.
Luckily, you were saved from another wave of questions by Robby.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said sharply. “I have a feeling it’s not related to your work. And unless it’s about labs, or x-rays, or differential diagnoses, gossip doesn’t save anyone’s life!”
“Fascist,” Princess muttered under her breath as she turned back to her tablet.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, chief!” she said, overly cheery, before turning and whispering something else to Perlah in Tagalog.
“This isn’t over!” said Javadi, as she skittered away.
As they all cleared out, Robby stepped up to you, a knowing glint in his eye.
“Thank you,” you said, picking up your pen and getting back to work.
“Sure,” he said. “And by the way, congratulations.”
You smiled back at him. He knew, of course, had been invited to the wedding, both he and Jack. When you called their apartment, however, it was to learn that Robby was working and Jack was attempting to sleep off a nasty cold.
“Thanks,” you said. “Sorry you couldn’t be there. But, you know, it took less than a day to put together. It was cheap, simple, easy, memorable.” You smirked at him. “Maybe one of these days you take that silver fox of yours and make it official, huh?”
He immediately turned tomato red, as he always did at any mention of feelings. He cleared his throat.
“Yeah, it’s really not appropriate to discuss these things at work,” he said, skirting away from your knowing eyes. “Don’t make me call HR!”
You just chuckled.
Later that night, you came home to a delicious smell and an open bottle of wine. Emery was swaying in the kitchen, humming along to your cooking playlist and stirring pasta on the stove. You dropped your things, kicked off your shoes, and joined her.
“How was work?” she asked as you wrapped your arms around her middle.
“Fine,” you said. “Vodka sauce?”
“The best in Pittsburgh,” she said, lifting the spoon and blowing on it. “Taste.”
You carefully grabbed the hot pasta with your teeth and hummed.
“Good.”
You wandered over to the wine. There were two glasses out but empty. You took the liberty of filling both and handing one to your wife. Your wife.
“Thanks, baby,” she said, taking a sip.
“Isn’t this kind of the equivalent of drinking at eight AM for you?” you said, nodding to the clock. “I mean, you just woke up.”
“Maybe, but I’m off today,” she said, grabbing bowls. “And I figured you could use it.”
“You would be right,” you sighed, bringing your legs up to your chest.
“They were bad, huh?”
“They were as you’d expect,” you waved away. “Actually, it made me kind of sad, more than anything.”
“How’s that?” said Emery, spooning pasta into the dishes and finishing with some basil leaves.
“Well, you should have seen how excited they got when they thought I was engaged,” you said. “They started picking out venues, and color schemes, and stuff. They really wanted to be involved.”
“What did they say when you told them you were already married?” she said, placing the hot plate in front of you.
“I didn’t have the heart to tell them,” you said. “I was thinking that maybe we could have a party? Like a big one, with outfits and dinner and a big cake, and everything.”
“Isn’t that the whole reason we got married at the court house?” said Emery. “Not dealing with all that?”
“Yeah, I guess,” you said, stabbing some rigatoni onto your fork. “It’s just — I really care about those people, you know? And I know they care about me, and I think they deserve the chance to celebrate with us. I know I’d want one if one of my friends had a secret wedding.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, rubbing your arm with her free hand. “Really. And it’s also sweet that this has nothing to do with the idea of a registry. Really selfless, babe.”
You shot her a look while she laughed.
“Why pass up the opportunity?”
It seemed your mom had been holding back her disappointment at your small, makeshift wedding to spare your feelings, because the second you mentioned the party idea to her, she was over the moon. You had to convince her not to go ahead and start booking without you and Emery.
It was certainly a lot. Even keeping it simple, in your brother’s backyard, with homemade decorations, it was complicated. You needed to decide on music, live or DJ? Food, catered or homemade? Cake flavors, dresses, itineraries, everything.
Finally, you had to put your foot down with your parents and inlaws. No caterers, no ceremony, no live band. A simple night with drinks and food, and maybe you’d allow some slideshows of embarrassing childhood photos.
You were more comfortable sharing the blow then, with a plan, the next time you walked into work. Immediately, though, you knew the news of your “engagement” had spread like wildfire. Most obviously by the hubbub around the betting board in the security office.
Spotting Robby in the mix with his wallet out, you made for him, less than thrilled. He tried to hide his cash behind his back when he saw you coming.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly. “I hope it’s not cheating.”
He glanced from the board, to Ahmad, to you. You turned to Ahmad.
“Don’t take any money from him, he already knows the answer,” you said, and Robby groaned. “Actually, don’t go anywhere near Abbot, Dana, or Kiara, either. They all know.”
While the other betters reprimanded Robby as though they wouldn’t have done the same thing, you examined the board.
There were a good few names up there, some eyebrow raisers. Devin from radiology, as if. Dr. Cruz from the nightshift; he was nice, but you thought his girlfriend might have a thing or two to say about it. Matteo, who was practically a child to you, in his early twenties. Ellis, the only woman, with just one vote from Santos. Then there was Abbot, which as you watched, gained five more bets from Ahmad’s hand.
Shocked though you were, you supposed his and Robby’s relationship wasn’t completely common knowledge.
“You said he knows,” said Princess. “Obviously he would know if he was the fiance.”
You shook your head with a smile, turning back to work.
“You people are incorrigible.”
Okay, maybe you’d wait a little longer, let them sit in it before you spread the word. Emery’s name wasn’t even mentioned. If you played your cards right, maybe you could convince Mel to cheat with you, and get a cut of the winnings. Your phone buzzed.
Tell them yet?
You smirked.
No. Let’s let them tear each other apart for a while first. We can laugh about it at the party.
summary - you misinterpret spencer’s invitation to be his valentine, and in doing so, discover his true feelings, and your own
a/n - bau!reader. a little angsty but ends in fluff obv, reader is unbelievably oblivious (projecting). probably won’t do another spencer fic at least for a while but i figured if i already had this almost done i might as well put it out for those who might like it. hope you enjoy! also sorry if you're into improv, it's like hell on earth for me. no offense.
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“Ugh!”
Spencer jumped as you all but threw your heavy bag on the chair, and ripped off your coat, huffing like an angry rhino. Your shirt was wrinkled, hair falling out of its normally pristine updo, and the entire cuff of your right pant leg looked to be soaked. In what, Spencer couldn’t tell; what he, and any passerby, could tell, was that you were not in a very good mood this fine February morning. Spencer hesitated, glancing nervously across the way at Derek, who shrugged, but didn’t look particularly keen to cross your path.
Spencer was torn. He had always been rather taken with you, and found you incredibly difficult to read as a result of that. It seemed his schoolboy affections clouded his normally sharp mind and observational skills, as Emily would say, slashing his IQ of 187 down to 60. He found himself equally eager to talk to, be around you, listen to you, as he was terrified at saying the wrong thing. Over the years you’d worked together, however, it became easier to chat, and the two of you had found a comfortable friendship.
You were snippy, direct, confrontational, with a sense of humor that rivaled Emily’s in dryness, yet you also cared deeply for those close to you. It had been hard to tell, at first, for Spencer at least, whether or not you liked the group. But over time, they had come to understand the little things, the things you did to show you cared without saying it outloud.
You brought Rossi expensive bottles of Italian wine, the real stuff (i.e. Rossi approved) on his birthdays, and never failed to entertain his ramblings, being something of a wine connoisseur yourself. After a particularly hard case, you would sit next to Derek on the plane with your own headphones on, knowing exactly when he needed quiet company, space, or a listening ear. You almost always let Emily drag you out when she was desperate, nevermind your disdain for the loud, sticky, sweaty clubs she frequented.
While quiet around those you weren’t too comfortable with, you could yap up a storm, something you always did with Penelope, no matter how tired. You always made yourself available when she needed to vent, and had a lifetime of pop culture knowledge to gossip with, and the second JJ felt the burnout, you were right at her side, rocking baby Henry to sleep like a pro so that she and Will could have a night to themselves. With the ever stoic Hotchner, you appeared to have a special place in his heart, one that allowed you to float above the rougher, less pleasant aspects of his personality, and the only one brave enough to put your foot down when he was behaving badly.
Then there was Spencer. You had never once made him feel unwanted, or stupid. Sure, you teased him, but with a gentle touch the others didn’t have, that comforted him. You teased everyone, it came naturally to you (“I grew up with an older brother, what do you want me to do?” you would always say whenever someone hassled you about it) but you took special care with Spencer. Your voice would soften, every jab accompanied with a sweet smile, or goodhearted chuckle. He could feel your protective gaze sweep over him, pick him out of the group and check that he was okay, with the simplest of glances.
You never made him feel weird, knew exactly where to toe the line, and took him seriously. You carried hand sanitizer everywhere, an extra pair of sunglasses, or a tube of sunscreen, watching over him like he was a special bloom, and you needed to prune and protect his precious petals.
It was these things that had Spencer feeling okay about his extra level of attention on you.
He knew what it was like to feel overwhelmed, overstimulated, or just plain tired and grumpy. Socializing was not your strongest suit, and you were forced to do quite a lot of it with your schedule. So, likewise, he carried snacks and water, knowing how often you got buried in a case and forgot to be hungry. He would never tire of the glow in your eyes as he handed you goldfish, or trail mix, always saying something like “Oh my god, I didn’t realize how hungry I was!” every time without fail.
He stocked up on moisturizer during winter, knowing you tended to pick at your cuticles when your hands got dry, or tea bags because the police precincts tended to run solely on coffee, which gave you a headache.
He held a special type of fondness when it came to you, that much was clear. He used to blush fiercely whenever Derek or Emily would send him that knowing look, or hand you snacks discreetly only when no one else was around; but as time went on, he learned to tune them out. All he really cared about was getting those fleeting moments in the sun, when you would say “Thanks Spence!” or “You’re the best!”.
Though you seemed totally oblivious to every obvious display of preferential affection, the team had designated the two of you as each other’s people. You could talk him down from a nervous ramble, and he could smooth the bumps when you were in a funk. Which, decidedly, you were in now.
“Um,” Spencer cleared his throat, after a pointed look from JJ across the bullpen, “What’s wrong?”
You growled into your freshly brewed tea, slumping down in front of your computer.
“Valentine’s day,” you spit out, eyebrows stuck in a permanent burning glare.
“Uh, Valentine’s day isn’t for another five days,” he said, pointing to his watch. “It’s currently February ninth.”
Your piercing daggers snapped to his innocent face.
“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious,” you sighed sarcastically. “But I hate that stupid holiday, and the week before it might be worse than the day itself.”
Spencer’s brow furrowed.
“Elaborate?” he requested.
You sighed heavily, leaning back with a worn expression.
“Valentine’s day creates an expectation,” you drawled. “I don’t usually fall victim to the ridiculous societal pressure of finding someone; I mean, I get through New Years fine! Christmas fine! But I always find myself down in the dumps when I spend this damned holiday alone. The week before the fourteenth is spent scrambling around, desperately trying to find anything with lips just to save face and feel good about yourself.”
Spencer blinked. True, he had never had a valentine before — he had never even done more than kiss someone (information he was taking to the grave) so maybe he wasn’t the best person to talk about this with, but he was sure you were being dramatic.
“That’s bleak, Pretty Girl,” said Morgan from the desk diagonal to yours.
“But true,” you said, sipping tentatively at your scalding tea. “And it’s so much harder now that I’ve cut myself off from dating apps. After what happened the last time I was this desperate.”
“What was the straw that broke the camel’s back?” asked Emily with a mischievous curiosity, coming back from the kitchenette with a fresh brew. “I know there was that guy with the scooter —”
“— the guy who wore sandals to a four star restaurant,” JJ chimed in.
“The one who called his mom ‘Mommy’,” said Derek.
“The one who yelled at a waitress,” Emily speculated.
You groaned, placing your head on your desk and covering it with your arms.
“Yes, okay, I redownloaded those apps way too many times,” you said. “But even those weren’t as bad as this one.” They all gathered ’round. “Well, we got dinner. Just a little pizza place, it was okay, but we got to the end. I was ready to split the check but he argued that he had a surprise for me, and since he would be paying for that, I should cover dinner.”
There was a general round of disgusted and sympathetic noises from the group. To your credit, you seemed a little perkier, now able to laugh at this dilemma.
“Yeah. So, I pay, pretty much already prepared to give the ‘it’s not gonna work out’ speech after this ‘surprise’ unless it was, like, and yacht, or something,” you continue. “But no. No. It was certainly not a yacht.”
“Oh, oh, it was a strip joint!” Emily guessed eagerly.
“No, it was just a crummy ice cream joint, right?” said Derek. “Just to get out of paying for dinner?”
“Worse,” you said, harrowingly.
“A sex toy shop!” said JJ.
“Worse!” you said. “It was an improv show.”
There was, again, a minor uproar of disgust and laughter from the group.
“Wait, wait, wait, there’s no way you would actually prefer a sex shop to that!” said Derek skeptically. “C’mon now.”
“Well obviously it would suck, but at least I could run like hell outta there!” you said, laughing along with your friends. “But with the show, I knew I never wanted to see him again, but now I gotta sit through this show, in this tiny ass theater!”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I was going to the bathroom, and booked it. But I sat sweating in that seat for a good fifteen minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Improvers should be ashamed of themselves,” said Emily. “That’s not something you broadcast, people! That’s something you hide forever, wait until you’re married and it’s not as easy to get away.”
“Best part was, he was friends with one of the ‘performers’, and he got the tickets for free,” you said, shaking your head. Then you made them all jump. “Hey Hotch!”
They all spun to see the statuesque figure emerging from his office.
“You used to do improv, didn’t’cha?” you said delightedly. “Back in highschool?”
None of the others would have dared tease him that way, but he just ignored you.
“Briefing room, now.”
Still laughing slightly, you gathered your things and joined Emily to walk up together. Spencer began to collect his things too, feeling a strange mixture of giddiness and shameful jealousy; he very much realized how ridiculous it was to be jealous of a bunch of guys who had done nothing but waste your time and upset you, but, said a little voice in the back of his head, at least they’d had the balls to ask you out in the first place.
Shaking his head, he made towards the briefing room, but found his path blocked by Derek Morgan.
“Pretty Boy,” he said in a low and serious voice, glancing behind him. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Spencer blinked vacantly, glancing around, too, thinking maybe there was some visual clue as to what the hell Derek was referring to. He shook his head hopelessly. Morgan groaned dramatically, flopping his head forward and rubbing it like a fed-up dad dealing with a frustrating toddler.
“This is your chance to ask her out!” he said.
Spencer spluttered, his head on a swivel as he made sure no one was looking their way. He could already feel his cheeks heating up. Sure, he knew Derek knew, but no one had ever proposed so directly the idea of him and you actually getting together. Just the thought made him sweat behind the knees. When he found his voice again, he shushed Derek.
“What are you talking about?!” he asked, eyes bugging a bit, as he pulled Derek to the side.
“Dammit, Reid, use that big brain of yours, will ya?” asked Derek exasperatedly. “She just poured her heart out to you about how much she wants a guy! A guy who is nothing like those previous Tinder guys! A guy who’s nice, and cares, and would never take her to an improv show!”
“I — I — she wouldn’t want — she still doesn’t like me!” Spencer stammered. “Just because I’d never mistreat her doesn’t mean she would go out with me! And even if she said yes, just because of desperation, that would just be sad! And it would get awkward, and we’d never be friends the same way again!”
“Man, you’ve been thinking about this too long,” Derek tsked. “You’re letting the worst case scenario cloud your mind! What if she says yes? I know you’ve thought through that possibility.”
“I —”
Yes, Spencer had imagined such a situation before. Where he asked you out, and you said yes. He knew that you didn’t like getting too fancy on a first date — you said it created a tense, expectant environment — so he’d take you out to a movie, something classic. A small, local theater, showing a rerun of one of your favorites: Rear Window, Fatal Attraction, Thelma and Louise, perhaps. Then you’d go get some sushi from the little place on Quincy Street, and you’d laugh at him for his poor chopstick skills before going over to your place, because of course you’d insist on including your cat, Tina. Then yes, hopefully, maybe, if everything went well, there would be a goodnight kiss.
But most importantly, he would never, ever, take you for granted. If he ever got the chance, he’d be there ten minutes early, pay for everything, and choose things he knew you liked. He’d get you flowers, a bouquet of lilies, anemones, tulips, and baby’s breath, and make sure you knew how beautiful you looked.
“Look, man,” said Derek when Spencer had been silent for too long, “you’ve been sitting at that desk, pining after this girl for like four years now. You have a chance to make it a reality, so just take it!”
He patted Spencer on the back and joined the rest in the briefing room. As Spencer blindly followed, and sat down, ready to start another gruesome case, he couldn’t totally drag his mind away from you. Yes, there was a chance you’d say no (a big one, in his opinion), but perhaps this was the perfect time. There was an opportunity to play it off, as a friendly gesture, should you say no…
Spencer was still feeling a bit hesitant as they loaded onto the jet. He took his normal seat across from you, while Emily was directly to your left, as usual. Spencer expected Derek to take the seat across from Emily, but to everyone’s confusion, he stopped short and grabbed the brunette by the arm.
“Prentiss, I need to talk to you,” he said firmly.
She gave him a confused stare.
“We’ll go over the case in a second, I just got my coffee,” she said, cradling her steaming cappuccino carefully.
“I seriously need to talk to you, like right now,” he said more urgently, grabbing her cup from the top and pulling her from her seat.
You stared after them as Derek dragged Emily to the back of the plane where JJ, Rossi, and Hotch were talking, Emily’s protests evident. You looked at Spencer.
“What the hell was that all about?” you asked, flipping open the case file.
“Um…” Spencer stalled, meeting Morgan's eyes across the aisle. The incorrigible man sent him a wink, and a thumbs up, and Spencer sighed. “I don’t know.”
You shrugged, pulling a water bottle from your bag and taking a sip. Spencer would have longed for some water, his throat suddenly felt very dry. He cleared his throat, steeling himself for what he was about to do, and all the ways it could possibly go wrong.
“Ya know, I’ve never had a valentine,” he blurted out, cheeks immediately pinkening. You glanced up at him.
“No? Well, I’d be a little shocked if you had, Spence,” you mumbled, taking another sip.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you spent most of your school years and career surrounded by people much, much older than you,” you reasoned. “If twelve year old Spencer had a sixteen year old valentine in high school, I’d be seriously concerned.”
He breathed out a relieved, but nervous laugh.
“I see your point – b-but that’s not the case anymore, is it?” he said awkwardly, trying desperately to avoid looking at Derek, and now Emily, egging him on. “I mean, you’re only one year older than me.”
“Mm, yeah, I guess that’s true,” you said distractedly, looking back at your casefile. Spencer wiped his hands on his slacks — it was time to bite the bullet.
“So – so, if you want –,” he stammered again, “I mean, we could spend – we could be each other’s valentines? I mean like, we could hang out, or whatever you wanted to do — there’s a drive in theater near work, and they’re playing Roman Holiday — or we could get take out, or —”
He stopped at the sound of your giggles, light and relaxed, eyes sparkling. You were laughing at him, and he didn’t know why. He could feel sweat gathering at his brow, and his cheeks were hotter than ever.
“I’d love to spend Valentine's day with you, Spence,” you said with a kind smile, and he lit up, butterflies erupting at the pit of his stomach. “It’ll be fun! Can you believe I’ve never been to a drive-in theater?”
Spencer actually did know that. You’d mentioned it before, something he may or may not have taken note of.
“Me neither,” he said, relaxing immensely at your lack of rejection. “I’ve also never seen Roman Holiday, which I figured you’d want to fix.”
Before you could jump into a tirade, Hotch led the rest of the team over and they began going over the case. Spencer couldn’t keep the smile off of his face, even as the crime scene photos were laid out before them, and this time he didn’t falter when he met Derek’s proud grin.
“And thanks, by the way, for asking, Spence,” you said quietly once the plane had touched down in Arizona, while the rest of the team filed off. “It means a lot, and I’m really excited.”
With that rare verbal expression of gratitude, you left him dizzy in his seat.
♡ ♡ ♡
You managed to finish the case in three days, touching down in Virginia midday on February twelfth. Arizona had been a balmy break from harsh weather, but you had never much minded the brisk cold on the east coast. The team regrouped in the office, finishing up some paperwork, but Hotch didn’t keep them that long. Garcia was the first out, followed closely by JJ, who wanted to spend the holiday with Will before they got called away on another assignment.
Spencer watched them go happily, unencumbered by any embarrassment, jealousy or dread – for he had his very own holiday plans this time around.
He had been uncharacteristically giddy the past few days, mentally planning his evening with you. You had already offered to drive, which was probably best, and he had bought the tickets and secured snacks. The latter was a bit nerve-racking, as your favorite snacks always depended on the mood you happened to be in, so he went the safe route and got all of them. That, paired with some fuzzy blankets, and he had his dream date. The date he had fantasized about, not daring to voice until now.
While Spencer happily packed some books away in his bag, you came flouncing in from the kitchen.
“Good news,” you said, plopping down across from Spencer. “You are no longer tied down this Saturday.”
Spencer furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s this guy from college, Dean, who I went on a couple dates with back in the day,” you said contentedly, sweeping things haphazardly into your own bag. “One of those things, never the right time, yada, yada, yada, but he’s in town for a couple weeks on business, and he called me up! So boom, valentine’s problems solved: I have a date, and you must no longer feel obligated to entertain me. You can watch Dr. Who in peace, crack open a couple of books, get Thai, guilt free!”
You flung out your arms happily, looking at Spencer like you expected him to sigh in relief, or cheer at his fortune. His heart sank to the bottom of his stomach, friendly butterflies squashed.
“What?” he said quietly.
Your expression faltered, as confused with him as he was with you. Morgan and Emily looked on with pained expressions.
“I really do appreciate the offer,” you said genuinely, “and I’ll totally watch Roman Holiday with you sometime! But, ya know, I don’t need the favor anymore, I got a date. My sorrows will be Dean’s problem now, you don’t have to look after me. I don’t wanna ruin your night.”
Spencer swallowed, feeling a prickling sensation behind his eyes. All his joy from a second ago melted away in an instant, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous. He wished desperately that Emily and Morgan weren’t there to witness this devastating blow.
“You —” he cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t have ruined my night,” he murmured. “I like spending time with you.”
Your lips turned downward, and you stepped closer to him.
“That’s not what I meant at all!” you said quickly. “I love spending time with you, Spence, I just don’t want you to feel obligated to waste your Valentine’s with me because I felt bad. And it’s all fine, because you don’t have to worry anymore, right?”
“Right,” he said quickly, shrugging his coat on and slinging his bag over his shoulder with lightning speed.
He couldn’t stand any more of his coworker's pitying stares. It was all stupid, he thought, in hindsight; you’d see it as a friend helping a friend. He’d never explicitly said the word ‘date’, after all. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Spence,” you said, bewildered, and placed a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he bit out, the word sounding much colder than he intended in his attempts to mask any hurt.
No one, let alone profilers, would be convinced by that curt answer, but he was out of the door before anything could be said.
“Spencer!” you called after him, confused and worried.
You turned to find Derek and Emily looking at you with such reproach, you’d have thought you had just killed a puppy. You let out a frustrated breath, shrugging your shoulders hopelessly.
“What the hell did I do?” you asked. “I didn’t think he’d care that much. We hang out all the time! He knew I was looking for a date!”
“You’re an idiot,” sighed Emily, shaking her head in disappointment. “A stone cold idiot.”
You gawped.
“What? Why?”
“Because that was the date!” said Derek heatedly, standing and approaching you. “It’s valentine’s day. Spencer asked you to see a romantic movie, at a drive in theater, on Valentine’s day. Are you seriously this dense?”
“I —” you stammered, uncannily like Spencer. “I didn’t — you think he thought that was a date?”
Emily buried her face in her hands, while Derek looked like he was restraining himself from banging his head against the wall, but it was neither of them who spoke up.
“Yes! By god, woman, yes!”
You all spun around to see Rossi, coming down the stairs. He grabbed your shoulders and shook you, looking exasperated. You were too surprised to protest.
“That poor kid is practically in love with you! How does such a good profiler not realise this?”
“Okay!” you said, pulling out of Rossi’s grip at last, and rubbing your temples. “I’m sorry! But outside of the horrifying world of violent crimes, I’m not good at people! Despite my many failed attempts, I’ve only ever been in one serious relationship, and I’ll never, ever, assume someone likes me romantically unless they come up to me and scream it in my face!”
“Oy vey,” Rossie sighed tiredly. “Well, now that I’ve done it for him, will you please get this over with?”
You wanted to scream.
“Get what over with?”
“Oh my god, girl!” Emily cried. “You love him too!”
You froze. You? Love Spencer Reid? Well, he was charming, no denying it — you had always had a soft spot for rambling nerds. And adorable, but again, undeniable! With his gangly tall frame, his angular nose, his soft hair, his even softer, big brown eyes — but, come to think of it, tall and skinny were not conventionally attractive traits.
Most people’s dream men didn’t look like pale Victorian ghosts. And most of your friends were rather annoyed with his incessant infodumping, walking away and giving you tired looks that you did not reciprocate. Perhaps it was not normal to be drawn to a person like that, to feel elated by their very presence, or to think of them in everything you see. How many times have you thought Spencer would love this song! when listening to the radio, or picked up some Milanos when you were grocery shopping, just because you knew of his obsession, or decided on a book to buy based on what Spencer might think?
You sank down onto your chair, weak kneed. Even when Spencer annoyed you, you loved him. He was in your head the second you woke up to the second you laid down; he silently influenced your decisions; he was your motivation, your inspiration, your joy; he had become a most permanent fixture in your life — all without you realizing it.
“Oh my god,” you breathed.
“There she is,” said Rossi, patting her on the back.
“Oh my god,” you repeated blankly.
You really were a fucking idiot. A dumb fucking stone cold idiot.
“What are you all doing here?” asked the voice of Aaron Hotchner, descending from his office. “And what’s wrong with her?”
“She finally realized she’s in love with Reid,” said Emily.
“About time,” Hotch muttered, grabbing a stack of files off her desk and retreating back up the stairs. “I might as well grab the rest of her paperwork; she won’t be getting anything done tonight.”
You shot up suddenly, nerves on fire.
“Where’s Spencer?” you asked breathlessly, turning on the spot, searching for that familiar head of fluffy brown hair.
“He left, like a while ago,” said Emily. “Like, before you had your epiphany.”
“Right,” you said, smoothing down your sweater anxiously. “Right. And he – okay, yeah. He thinks — oh god, he thinks — ah shit, I gotta go!”
You grabbed your coat and bag, throwing them on clumsily. You bolted for the elevator, then paused, turned on your heel and came skidding right back.
“Wait, what do I do?” you said urgently. “My last boyfriend asked me out over the phone! And I never liked him this much! And he really planned the first date, and everything, I didn’t really have to think! Oh god. What if he just hates me? Oh man, I dated my last boyfriend for two years and I never once felt this panicked! How do I make him not so mad? Guys seriously, what the fuck do I do?!”
“You know Spencer better than anyone,” said Emily, clearly and calmly, placing her hands on your shoulders. “And he could never stay mad at you that long, anyway. Just do what feels natural.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you hissed, as Emily slowly walked you backwards towards the elevators. “I need specific directions for this to work! Rossi, you managed to get, like, six women to marry you! What should I do?”
“Follow your heart!” he said with a smile. “Emily’s right, you know Spencer better than any one of us, so use that information.”
“I don’t —”
“Do something with books, or incredibly complex puzzles, or chess!” Derek chimed in. “Trust in the universe!”
With a final push, Emily shoved you into the elevator and pushed your button.
“Believe in the unknown!” she said.
“Think outside the box!” Derek shouted.
“I hate you all!” you yelled.
♡ ♡ ♡
Spencer made his solemn way home that day, eyes downtrodden, and stopped by a gas station to pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to wallow in. Stupid, pathetic, and lonely didn’t even begin to describe his feelings, as he keyed into his apartment. His apartment he rented, alone, by himself, forever, probably.
It was too good to be true, he told himself as he grabbed a spoon and collapsed onto his couch. He flicked on the TV, not even bothering to channel surf as he popped a Lactaid and dug into his cookie dough, something he was sure to regret later.
Just a couple hours later, the ice cream carton sat empty on his coffee table, his work pants discarded, as he sat with his head hanging over the back of his couch, staring at his fish. You had been with him the day he picked them out — he had been complaining about how impossible it was to keep a pet with their work schedule, and you had suggested some fish. You picked out two shiny beta, a blue one and a spotted one, and named them Laurie and Michael, from the Halloween franchise.
He had gone into a rant about how most beta fish sold in pet stores were actually males, due to their colorful appearance. You had said “Spence, they’re fish. They don’t understand the concept of gender. Her name is Laurie, alright?”
Spencer was just accepting he’d lead a loveless, childless, fishful life, when he heard a knock at the door. He glanced at it over his chin, sighed noncommittally, and brought his eyes back to the fish, unwilling to face a landlord, or worse, Derek’s pity. The knock came again, as he expected, but this time accompanied by a voice that sent him straight up.
“Spence, it’s me. I know you’re in there, please open the door!”
He shot to his feet, glancing around at his nightmare of a living room, and his pantsless legs. He scrambled to his room, hip banging painfully against the doorframe, and pulled on some pajama pants — or would that appear pitiful? He didn’t want you to know how much he’d been moping. Should he put his work pants back on? Or no, he wanted to appear casual and relaxed.
“Spencer!”
He needed to make up his mind. He slid his slacks up his legs and scrambled back to the living room, gathering trash at random and depositing it into the kitchen trash can. With a final sweep of the room, he opened his door, cheeks flushed and fly down, and wholly unprepared for the sight before him.
You stood at his door, shivering slightly, looking just as flustered as he did. Your eyes were wide and nervous, hair a bit flyaway, and holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Hi,” you squeaked.
“Hi,” he said back, dumbly.
“Um,” you glanced around his creaky hallway. “Can I come in?”
Cursing himself, Spencer scuttled aside, and you squelched inside — one look at your shoes told him you had met more than one puddle on your journey over here. Indeed, when you toed off your boots and padded to the living room, as you had done countless times before, little moist footprints were left in your wake.
He closed the door, filled to the brim with nervous energy, and completely at a loss for what you might be doing there. You didn’t sit on the couch, but turned abruptly to face him. It was quite a picture, you dripping in his living room, all frazzled, holding a large bouquet of flowers that looked quite out of place with your rumpled outfit.
“Um,” you said again, fidgeting with your hands, uncharacteristically shy. Then you thrust the bouquet at him, eyes darting about, landing anywhere but his face. “These are for you.”
Spencer took the flowers gingerly, utterly flabbergasted, and admired it: there were some anemones, as he had planned for his own, as well as some lilies and dahlias. It was beautifully done. He tried to say so. He tried to say anything, but the words got stuck in his throat.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you said quietly. “I’ve never gotten flowers for anyone before. Is this okay?”
Spencer forced himself to swallow heavily.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” he croaked. “I’ve never received flowers, either. They’re lovely.”
“Right,” you said gruffly, crossing your arms tightly. “I just… wanted to apologize for trying to blow you off earlier.”
His cheeks were plunged into fire again, and he found himself just as unwilling to meet your eyes as you were to meet his.
“It’s not a problem,” he muttered, playing with a lily petal. “You’re allowed to cancel plans on Valentine’s day. ’S’not like it was a date,” he added slightly bitterly.
“What if it was?” you said. His eyes snapped to you, and you shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, it is Valentine’s day, after all. I wouldn’t wanna be left without a Valentine.”
“Yeah, well you have Dean for that,” he said, eyes falling once more.
“No,” you said. “I cancelled on him.”
Spencer wanted to look at your face, get an impression of what you were thinking, but he had never been good at reading you anyway, and he kept his gaze glued to a notch in his coffee table leg.
“How come?” he asked, failing miserably at a nonchalant voice.
“Because — because I sort of realized that you were the only one I wanted to be spending Valentine’s day with,” you said softly.
The words certainly caused a flurry of warm butterflies in his chest, and a big part of him was shouting hurray, that this was all he’d ever wanted to hear from you in the first place. But another part of him reminded him of the pain you had caused earlier. He scoffed and shook his head.
“I don’t want your pity,” he said in his best attempt at a hard voice. “You talked to Morgan, didn’t you?”
Your brow scrunched, half in confusion, half in annoyance.
“Yes, I did,” you said. “He told me you liked me. He told me you meant for it to be a date. He told me that you had liked me for years.”
The embarrassment of this whole ordeal had never completely dissipated, but it flared at that information, along with a burning desire to push Derek’s expensive car off a cliff.
“Yeah, so,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “So you feel bad for the dumb little kid, and his dumb little crush, right? Had to rush over here and mend his wounds, take care of him ‘cause he can’t take care of himself? Well, believe it or not it’s not the first time a girl’s rejected me,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “And I don’t need your pity, I don’t need to pretend to like me back, because that’s just — worse. So just go home.”
He thrust the bouquet back at you, but you didn’t take it. You stared directly at him, with fire and hurt of your own.
“Derek also told me that I liked you too,” you said stubbornly. “I thought surely that that was something I’d be aware of, but he was right. I do like you Spencer, a fucking lot. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it until now. I don’t do relationships very often. I’m not good at navigating these sorts of things. But I do like you, romantically. I think you’re fucking adorable, and I would like to go the the drive in theater with you this Valentine’s day. And if you don’t want to, fine, don’t go, and I’ll walk out this door and try and move on, and not make it awkward, but I want you to know that I like you, Spencer Reid. So will you go to the movies with me or not?”
You had a scary sort of determined look in your eye, and Spencer was sure he’d never had such a lovely proposition presented to him in such an aggressive manner. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. He did want to go to the movies with you, more than anything. He just never assumed you would want to, too.
“Yes,” he said, still looking more shocked than delighted. “I’ll go to the movies with you.”
“Good,” you huffed, moving your hands to your hips, nodding once like a job well done. “I’ll be here at seven on Saturday, okay?”
“Okay,” he said faintly. “I’ll… be here.”
You shuffled back to the door, slipped your shoes on, and made a move to open it but stopped. Turning back around, you leaned up and pressed a sweet kiss to his burning cheek, which only caused it to flush more.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”
His face finally broke out in a long awaited smile as you waved, and shut the door behind you. He brushed a hand over the spot and felt the residue of your strawberry lip gloss.
