Summary: You don’t take the breakup with Jack Abbot well. You find yourself walking aimlessly around the city, until you stumble upon a bar that you always used to go to with him. You end up drinking too much and making phone calls that you definitely shouldn’t be making.
Note: The reader in my story is named Reid!
Word count: 4590
Your apartment was empty.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you had grown to the noises and chaos of the Pitt. In the Pitt there was always someone yelling, someone complaining, someone screaming. There were always sounds of monitors blaring, orders being yelled, people calling for help.
But your apartment was empty.
The emptiness pressed in, making the silence almost painful.
After everything you’d been through over the last few days you knew that you should have felt relieved to be home.
But you didn’t.
You just felt empty.
You checked your phone.
7:47 AM
No notifications.
You were so tired the numbers on the screen blurred together, but you knew you had to shower first. You had to erase this day from your body.
But you didn’t move away from the window for a long while.
Like you were waiting for something.
Or someone to come back.
But no one came.
And you were alone.
———
The water spraying from your old shower head was hot enough to burn. But you didn’t care. You stepped underneath anyway, letting the water assault your body.
The steam quickly filled the bathroom, and you closed your eyes.
But as you did, you remembered another shower room, another time, with Jack keeping you company. You remembered how he had gotten down on his knees. How he had-
Abbot, you reminded yourself.
Your stomach clenched.
He wasn’t Jack to you anymore.
He wasn’t your Jack anymore.
He wasn’t there to tease you, or wink at you, or dance with you.
He wasn’t there to calm your nerves or call you sweetheart.
You finished with your shower as quickly as you could after that.
———-
Your stomach grumbled painfully when you emerged from your shower.
God, when was the last time you’d eaten?
You remembered the protein bars that Jack would slip you mid shift. They seemed to always taste better when they came from him.
You opened your cupboard absentmindedly, eyes scanning over the meagre ingredients. Your eyes skipped over the box of protein bars. You purposefully ignored the pringles.
You settled on a quick sandwich.
The food tasted like ash in your mouth.
Halfway through chewing, you pulled your phone out.
9:01 AM
Mel 8:42 AM: Oh my god I wish you were here today!! I’ve got to work on a fractured tibia and fibula!! And I saw a compound fracture of the femur!! Different guys. It was awesome.
Trinity 8:53 AM: I will never understand the stupidity of men. You should see the state of these brothers after they decided to wrestle. The prize was the last chocolate bar in their fridge. And get this: it was expired.
Trinity 8:54 AM: in 2017
Huffing a small laugh at the juxtaposition of the two messages, you quickly replied back to your friends.
Still no messages from Jack though. Abbot.
You mentally berated yourself for the slip.
There was no messages from Jack and there wasn’t going to be any more from him.
You finished your sandwich in silence.
————
You tried to sleep.
You really did.
You pulled your curtains closed, tucked your blanket to your chin and closed your eyes.
But no matter how long you laid there, you couldn’t get the image of sad green eyes out of your mind.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation in the truck.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the way Robby’s dark eyes had widened when he’d caught you.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s hands.
Or his mouth.
You just couldn’t stop thinking.
You tossed and turned until you were motion sick.
By two in the afternoon, you’d completely given up on the idea of sleep and decided to get outside and go for a walk.
Maybe that would quiet your mind.
Exercise was meant to be good for you, right?
Certainly better for you than laying in bed thinking about men you could never have.
You quickly changed and made your way outside. The air was warm, seeing as it was just after the middle of the day, but you enjoyed the feeling of the sun on your face.
You walked around your block, passing people walking dogs. You had almost congratulated yourself for not thinking about him for five minutes, when a dark truck headed your way, driving down the street next to you.
You turned to watch the truck, unable to help yourself. You stumbled to the side of the road in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of the driver.
Your heart lurched as you noticed that the model was the same, the color identical. But then the truck came close enough for you to notice the driver and your heart dropped.
It wasn’t him.
It was a young woman, and she honked at you when you got too close to the road, almost stepping right in front of the truck.
You jumped back reflexively, your heart in your throat as the truck drove right over where you’d been standing.
What the hell had you been thinking?
Getting that close to the road?
It was like you’d had a death wish or something.
If Jack had been here to see this, he would have killed you himself.
Some small part of you revelled in that. The idea that he would lose it if you got hurt.
But then another thought hit you.
Would he even care?
Would he care if you were hurt?
If you were…worse?
He clearly didn’t care about you if he could so easily dump you like he did.
But then you remembered the devastated look on his face when he’d seen your tears. The way he’d tried to reach for you. The way he’d leaned into your touch. The crack in his voice when he’d told you it would never happen between the two of you.
You decided to walk as far away from the road as you could, lest you get any stupid ideas.
—————
You didn’t know how long you walked for. What you did know was how many notifications you had accumulated on your walk. Exactly zero.
By the time your feet started to really hurt, the sun was beginning to set, casting the city in a golden glow.
You’d walked a lot farther than you’d intended. One block had turned into two. Two had then become eight, and you were now somewhere you didn’t really recognise.
You wondered what Jack was doing right now. Was he walking aimlessly around the city too? Was he checking his phone as much as you were? Had he eaten? Slept? You hated how much you cared.
Then you wondered what Robby was doing. Was he smug over the fact that he had ruined one of the best things in your life? Was he happy that he had made you consider walking into traffic?
You hoped he was. Maybe it would make your pain more bearable. Because right now? Right now, you hurt. It was like your insides had been taken out, twisted up, and put back into the wrong spot. You simultaneously wanted to scream and cry. But you could do neither of those things, so you walked. And walked. And walked.
———
You finally stopped walking when your thirst became unbearable. Night had fallen, the sky dark and moonless. The glowing neon sign ahead caught your interest. The glowing pink lettering stood out starkly against the dark sky, and you felt like a moth to a flame as you made your way towards the bar's entrance.
Sonny’s Tavern the sign read.
A barrage of memories assaulted you. The Pitt crew all making their way down to the bar after a long shift. Jack’s front pressed to your back as he’d played pool with you. Betting on darts with Whitaker, Mel and Trinity. Dancing with Jack. The way he’d looked at you, holding you close to him as you’d swayed. How warm his hand had felt pressed on your back. How he’d made you smile harder than you had in years.
The way Robby had watched the two of you, like he’d already suspected something going on.
But for some reason, it wasn’t the thought of Robby or Whitaker that made you step into the bar. No, it was the pain in your chest that throbbed every time you thought of the way Jack had smiled when you’d danced. The way he’d looked at you. You wondered if you’d ever see it again.
This was a bad idea. You knew it was. You knew it was, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself.
You had never been much of a drinker.
But you were just so lonely.
And you hurt.
————
The tavern was pretty tame when you entered, all things considered. People danced and laughed, chatted and played games, but you took no notice of them as you made your way to the most far away bar stool at the end of the counter.
You placed your hands on the counter, this feeling completely foreign to you.
You weren’t the type to drink. You’d never really drank much in college or med school, always too worried about studying. And you were always too much of a good girl to even think about drinking in highschool.
So as you sat at that bar stool in that familiar tavern, you felt lost.
Luckily, the bartender wandered over to you, noting your curious look.
He was holding a glass, polishing it with a hand. He looked only a few years older than you, with dark hair and an easy smile.
“What can I get you, gorgeous?” He asked politely.
“I…don’t really know.” You answered, hesitating, eyeing the shelves behind him.
“Rough day?”
“You could say that.” You laughed.
“What do you normally drink?”
“I don’t.” You said simply.
“So what brings you to this bar?” He asked with a raised brow.
You looked down at the bar counter. “I… my thoughts are too loud.”
He just nodded knowingly before reaching for a glass.
“I usually go with whiskey when my head is too loud. You a whiskey girl?” He sounded earnest.
You’d only had whiskey once or twice, and your memory of it was hazy.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” You shrugged.
He quickly prepared the drink and set it in front of you. The ice in the glass clinked quietly.
You took a tentative sip, wincing at the burn.
The bartender laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
You eyed him, then downed the entire glass until there was nothing left but ice.
“Keep em coming.” Was all you said in response.
He prepared another. “I’ll make this one neat.”
“You’re a fast learner.” You praised, the liquid already warming your insides.
He placed the next glass in front of you.
“Just got dumped?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I know that look. The look of someone who’s just had their heart ripped out.”
You laughed humourlessly. “You’re good.”
“It’s almost like it’s my job,” he grinned.
You took a sip of your second drink. You already felt lightheaded, your stomach and throat warm.
“I-I lost something…something good. And I kind of lost it before it ever really became something beautiful, you know?”
The bartender was quiet for a moment.
“I find losing the potential of what could have been hurts more than anything else.” He admitted quietly.
Your eyes burned.
He didn’t ask any more questions.
He just handed you another drink.
You thanked him with a nod, downing your second drink.
You turned in your chair when he served another customer.
You watched the couple at the end of the bar. Your stomach churned when you watched the man reach out to hold the woman’s hand.
You watched another couple at the pool table. You watched the way the guy cheesily leaned over the girl to help her with her grip.
Your throat closed up when you watched a couple on the dance floor, the way the woman’s eyes positively glittered when her date spun her.
Your throat closed up.
People laughed, people shouted, people smiled.
You were surrounded by people, and yet you had never felt so alone.
———
The fourth drink didn’t burn. It went down smoothly as you felt your body relax. For the first time in hours, your head was beginning to quiet. Your thoughts had slowed down, like they were wading through mud.
As you sipped your drink, you noticed that you could hear the music. You could hear the laughter and jokes too, but they didn’t bother you as much as they had earlier.
A group of girls on the other end of the bar were telling a story, and when all the girls laughed, you noticed that you’d missed the joke.
You must be further gone than you’d thought.
You didn’t care.
You were just glad to hear anything other than your raging thoughts.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Your head was slow to catch up to the source of the voice.
A sandy haired man around your age smiled sweetly at you.
His hair was tousled prettily and his jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high. He was handsome. But he wasn’t your type.
You stared at him a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable.
“Me?” You pointed at your chest.
“Of course you.”
You giggled.
“I see you’ve already had a few.” He said, eyeing your empty glasses.
You squinted at him, then laughed.
Not because you thought that what he’d said was funny.
It was either you laughed, or you cried.
“I’ve got-got more than enough men to-to worry about.” You got out between giggles.
He smiled a roguish grin. “Oh really? How many?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” You shot back.
“Oh yeah? Try me.” He said.
“Okay, but you asked for it.” You warned.
You laughed, forcing your hand to hold up three fingers.
His eyes widened.
You counted them off on your fingers.
“One, I just see as just a friend.”
Whitaker.
“One of them thinks I’m a whore.”
Robby.
“And one of them thinks I’m stupid and naive. Oh, and he also thinks I’m after him because he has a big flashy job. And did I tell you that he thinks he manipulated me into bed?”
Jack.
Abbot.
Whatever.
You laughed without any humor.
The man’s smile dropped.
He said nothing for a moment, then he spoke.
“Oh.”
You snorted, poking at the ice from your first drink with a straw.
“Yeah, oh.”
“So… it was nice meeting you and everything, but I’m just gonna-“ he jabbed a finger behind him.
You snorted again.
“I’m just gonna let you enjoy your drink.”
“Another fast learner!” You cheered.
He quickly backed away from you like you were a bomb about to explode.
Maybe you were.
You downed the last of your drink.
You didn’t care.
He sure didn’t.
—————
Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. The urge to check it for the millionth time won out, and you unlocked it, squinting as the numbers of your passcode danced.
The words blurred as you registered no notifications. Not a single call or text. Not even a damn spam email.
You let out another sad laugh.
He wasn’t thinking about you.
He didn’t miss you.
He didn’t care about you.
Maybe he never had.
Maybe you needed to call him and ask him if he ever did. You just wanted to know. You told yourself that you would be okay with the answer either way. You just needed to know.
You needed to know if you meant as much to him as he meant to you.
But then you had a better idea.
An idea that might hurt more, but might be more satisfying.
You needed to tell him how you felt.
Before you could think about it, you were opening your contacts.
Your thumb scrolled past your contacts. Dana, Dennis, all the way past Jack to who you really wanted to talk to right now.
Robby.
To your drunk brain, this made a lot of sense.
You hit call.
It rang one. Twice. Three times before he picked up.
“This is Doctor Robinavich.” Cold, neutral words.
You said nothing.
“Hello?”
You swallowed.
“Anyone there? Who is this?”
Guess that answers the question of if he had your number saved.
“Robby.” You breathed.
A moment of silence on the other end.
“Reid? Why are you calling me? Is everything okay?”
“I hate you.” Your words were quiet.
The other end was quiet.
“What?” He finally asked.
“I hate you,” you repeated.
“Where are you right now?”
“You ruined everything.” You spat.
“Reid-“
“You ruined- you ruined everything.”
“What’s going on?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“You made him doubt me. You made him doubt himself.” You snarled into the phone remembering how Jack had thought he- thought he had taken advantage of you. He was so convinced he was the bad guy.
“Who?”
“You know exactly who, Robinavich.”
You heard his breathing stutter.
“Reid-“
“You- you took him away from me.”
“I don’t- come on, be reasonable here. What was I supposed to do?” He sounded almost sad.
“I- I don’t know- not that.”
“You left me no choice.” He said.
The girls down the end of the bar laughed loudly, snapping your gaze to them.
“You know that he wouldn’t even look at me?” You spoke into the phone, anger igniting in your gut.
“Reid-“
“You made him think-“ your breathing hitched. “You made him think that he- he took advantage of me. That he manipulated me. That none of it was real.”
You fought back a sob.
Silence answered you from the other end.
“Have you been drinking?” He asked finally.
“What do you care?”
“Don’t do this. Just answer the question.”
“No,” you lied.
“How many?” He heard your lie.
You looked at the empty glasses, your fifth in your hand.
“Counting the one in my hand?” You asked.
“Sure.”
“Five.”
“Shit,” he swore. “Where are you?”
“Your moms house.” You snorted, thinking you were hilarious.
He swore again. “Where are you?”
“A bar.”
“I gathered. Which bar?”
“I don't know.”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like… it hurts. There’s couples dancing. And there’s some girls nearby that keep laughing. And there’s a guy playing pool just like- just like Jack and I did.” Your throat closed up.
“Is it- is it Sonny’s?” He asked hesitantly.
“Is that the one that we danced at?” You didn’t need to clarify who ‘we’ referred to. It was you and Jack.
“Yeah.” He said quietly.
You dropped your phone to the bar counter when you took another drink. You only remembered that Robby was still on the line when you heard your name, the voice tiny and high pitched coming from the device.
You picked the phone back up.
“Hello?” You asked.
Hello. That was a funny word. Hell-o. You giggled.
Robby didn’t think you were very funny.
“Reid, listen to me. Are you alone?”
“Huh?”
“Focus. Are you alone?”
You looked around the room. There were people everywhere. Of course you weren’t alone. People were dancing and drinking and flirting and playing.
“Robby, you silly billy. There’s people everywhere! It’s a bar.”
“I know you’re in a bar. But who are you with?”
“Who am I with?”
“Yes.”
“No one. You made sure of that.” You said with a giggle, even though nothing was funny.
He swore again.
You didn’t understand why. This was what he had wanted.
“Okay. Stay where you are.” He instructed.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Why?” You felt like a kid, always asking why.
“Because I’m on my way.”
What?
The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.
“No.” You snapped.
“No?”
“I don’t want you to come.”
“Reid, just listen to me-“
“You’ll just lecture me. Maybe you’ll even ruin me like you ruined him.”
He was silent for another moment.
“I’m not going to lecture you.”
“Well, whatever. I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“I don’t care. You’re drunk. Abbot wouldn’t want you alone like this.”
“Who cares what he would want? He’s gone.”
“Don’t talk like that, Reid. He would want you to be safe. You know that.”
You didn’t speak for a while. When the bartender looked at you with a raised brow, you spoke to him.
“Another one please. Make it a double. Thoughts are getting loud again.” You admitted.
“You got it.” The bartender got to work.
“Reid, stop this right now. Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re gonna give yourself fucking alcohol poisoning.”
You laughed. “Maybe then you could treat me.”
Robby didn’t answer that. Instead you heard background noises coming from his end. You heard the jingling of keys and the slamming of what sounded like a door.
“Reid, if you care about Abbot at all, I need you to stay right where you are. Don’t leave, and don’t drink that drink.”
You eyed the drink the bartender dropped in front of you.
“Im on my way.” He told you.
“I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“Don’t care. And I’m calling backup.”
“Backup?”
“Im picking up Abbot on the way. Maybe he’ll know what to do with your drunk ass.”
Wait what?
The words sobered you.
He was going to what?
“Abbot?”
You tried to speak but the call was already disconnected.
The last sound you’d heard was a car starting.
—————
You stared at the phone in your hand.
You couldn’t make sense of what had just happened.
You furrowed your brows as your head swam. Why would he call Jack? You didn’t need him. He didn’t need backup.
You didn’t touch your new drink. You wanted Jack. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to hear his voice. You wanted him to call you sweetheart again. You wanted to ask what went so wrong.
You scrolled through your contacts again.
Maybe you should just call and ask him.
Your thumb pressed the call button before you could stop yourself. You were just going to tell him not to come. To tell him you didn’t need him. Even if you didn’t believe it.
The phone didn’t even ring once.
“Sweetheart, are you- are you okay? Where are you?” His voice sounded so concerned, so warm.
“There it is.” You sighed.
You could die happy now.
“Robby just text me. He’s on his way to pick me up. What’s going on?” He sounded so panicked, you wanted to just hold him and reassure him.
“I’m at Sonny’s. And I’m a little, teensy, tiny bit drunk.” You giggled.
“Why are you drinking by yourself?”
You hesitated. “Because. Because I hurt. You hurt me, Jack. It hurts. Everything hurts.” You wrapped your arms around yourself.
A beat of silence passed.
“Oh, baby.”
“I just needed- I just needed to stop thinking. Just for two seconds.” You admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car engine on the other end.
“I get it. My head hasn’t stopped spinning since this morning.” He admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car door slamming coming from his end.
“Is that her?” You heard what sounded like Robby speaking from his phone.
But that couldn’t be right. It was Jack’s phone.
“Yeah.” Jack answered.
“Tell her to stay put.” Robby ordered.
“Is that Robby?” You asked.
“Yeah, it is. He’s really worried about you, you know.”
Then a thought hit you.
“How can you even stand to be in the same car with him after what he did?” You asked quietly.
He paused. “Because he didn’t do anything wrong. I did.” He answered, and your heart broke apart further.
How could he still think that? After everything?
“You’re wrong.” You snapped.
“You always did love to argue with me.”
“I hate him.” You spat.
“You don’t.”
“I do. I hate him.”
“I know you think you do.”
“I do.” You insisted.
“If you say so.”
You were both quiet for a moment, and you heard the sound of him breathing on the other end.
You looked at your untouched drink, running a hand through your hair. Your thoughts were slow to form and even slower to make sense of, and you'd almost forgotten he was still on the line.
“Why are you calling me?” You asked him after a moment.
“You called me, sweetheart.” He said calmly.
Oh. Right. Maybe you had had one too many.
“Oh. I forgot about that.”
You heard his quiet chuckle on the other end. Even through the phone, the sound made butterflies erupt in your belly.
You heard the tell tale sound of a car's indicator ticking on the other end.
“How does she sound?” Robby asked. He sounded far away.
Jack's voice was crystal clear. Like he didn’t even bother to cover the microphone.
“Drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” You argued.
“Oh, baby, you’re plastered.” His deep voice did things to your insides.
“Hey! I’m…pleasantly buzzed.”
“How many drinks have you had?” You could practically hear his eyebrow raise from here.
“One.” You lied.
“You have not had one.” He laughed.
“Okay. You caught me. Two.”
“Sweetheart.” He drew the word out, and you felt dizzy.
“Maybe four.” You answered, a smile on your face.
“Four what? Vodka cranberries? Spiked lemonades?” He guessed.
“Nope. Whiskeys!” You said with a broad grin.
He laughed again, and the sound washed over you.
“I miss your laugh.” You admitted.
He stopped laughing.
“You were laughing…yesterday. Before…you know.” You added.
He still remained silent.
Then you heard someone clear their throat.
“We’re five minutes out, Reid. Just hang on.” Jack said, the warmth gone from his voice. Reid. No baby. No sweetheart. Reid.
“Hey Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“Can you…not tell Robby that I called you?”
His voice was quieter when he spoke next. “I hate to break it to you, but I think he already knows.”
“Dammit.” You grumbled. “He’s such a busy body.”
“He really is.” Jack agreed.
You plopped your chin to rest on your palm.
“Can you tell him to not lecture me?” You asked after another moment.
“He won’t.” Jack vowed.
“He’s mad at me.” You grumbled.
“He’s not mad at you.” Jack reassured you. “Hes just worried about you.”
“He wasn’t worried about either of us when he yelled at you,” you argued.
“He didn’t yell at me.” Jack said automatically.
“Yeah? Then why are you not speaking to me?” You asked.
“I’m speaking to you right now.”
“No, you’re not. Not like- not like how we used to.” You said sadly.
“I know.” He said quietly.
You heard the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel.
“We’re in the parking lot.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What parking lot?” You asked, your brain slow and muddied.
“The parking lot for the bar that you’re in, swee- silly.” You noticed the way he stumbled over his words towards the end. Like maybe Robby was watching him disapprovingly and he had to quickly correct himself.
“I’ll see you in a minute, Reid. Just stay put.” Jack ordered.
“Okay.” You sighed. There it was again. Your name. Your chest physically ached. How could he make the sound of your name feel like a punch to the gut?
You gripped your untouched drink. The action made your head swim. You forced your hand to lift the glass to your mouth.
You emptied the contents into your mouth. The burn from the drink hurt a whole lot less than the aching in your chest.
———————
I have already got a part three planned! Drop a comment if you would like to be tagged in the part three!! <3
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
Summary: Your cat and his intents on escaping brings you to finally meet your neighbor next door, who quickly becomes his favorite human. You and Jack bond over your cat and the cookies you keep giving him as an apology. [9k]
Content: No use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, idk what else.
A/N: I had this idea because my cat is an absolute menace (he's the cat from the photo and his actual name is Gregorio)
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it! NOT PROOF READ AT ALL!!!
Masterlist ✦ Jack Abbot Masterlist ✦ Read on A03
“Meatball! Where are you, my little baby?" You called for your cat as soon as you got home.
He had the audacity to rebel against your wishes to be an indoor cat, always finding the way to scape.
"Spoiled cat” you murmured while you kept turning your place upside down to find him.
Your cat is a beautifully colored Siamese cat, adopted and spoiled. He's your whole world and you love him deeply but he gets in your nerves too easily.
First time cat mom and your fur baby kept refusing to listen and stay in the safeness and comfort of your home.
You looked everywhere he liked to hide on before panicking. You don't have a clue how he escaped, you made sure to close every door and window before going to work.
While checking windows and doors you realized you had left the door to your balcony with only the screen door closed. Same one that now had a big hole made by the little paws of your demon cat.
“Shit" you murmured while you stepped into the balcony, looking for any trace of your cat.
You caught sight of his tail as he entered your neighbor's apartment. You were going to strangle that cat.
Unfortunately, you knew nothing of your next door neighbor except that he was a doctor and apparently worked nights. Or that's what another neighbor had told you.
Oh, right. He works nights so he probably will be sleeping…. shit.
With a resigned sigh, you knew you had to wake up your neighbor to get your cat. That was if the little shit hadn't woken him up already, he had the habit to wanting cuddles when everyone was sleeping and he wasn't known for his patience.
Before leaving your house you grabbed your keys and a handful of buttercream cookies you had baked last night, hoping they were enough apology to your neighbor.
Once in front of the door of your neighbor's apartment you took a few breaths— you were not good at talking with people you didn't knew beforehand— before ringing the bell and waiting patiently for him to open the door.
A few minutes went by before hearing the door open and being greeted with the sight of your very handsome very shirtless neighbor. His hair was in all directions and his face showed he was asleep before you interrupted him.
Oh, and he was carrying your very big very fat cat like he was a baby. And the fucker was purring.
“Hello, may I help you?" He asked seeing your dumbfounded expression, yet his voice was somewhat kind.
You blinked a few times before forcing yourself to look away from him "Uh, yes. Dr. Abbot, right?” you pointed towards your door "I think that's my cat”
He hummed, observing your flustered expression while leaning against the threshold, still carrying your cat. "Call me Jack” He offered, his voice friendly “And yes, I had the suspicion that it was from one of my neighbors"
You raised your eyes to met his, a frown set on your forehead "Meatball looks like he's too comfortable”
I would he too if I was carried in those arms
Your neighbor smiled at you with humor. "Meatball, huh? I have been calling him Greg”
"Greg? Huh, I guess he does resemble a Greg” You murmured softly before glancing down at the cookies you were holding "Oh, these are for you”
He blinked at you, then followed your like of sight. "Oh, you didn't have to.”
You waved him off "I wanted to, it's kind of an apology for finding my cat"
“I think that Meatball was the one who found me” Jack replied with amusement “Come on in so I can put him down" He offered.
You nodded, entering and closing the door after you. Once he put your cat down, you handed him the cookies.
"These look delicious" the corner of Jack's mouth started to water at the sight of the cookies.
Staring down, you observed how your cat was meowing and practically asking for Jack to pick him up once again.
"He didn't wake you, did he?” You asked mortified when you remembered how spoiled by you he was and seeing that he had taken a liking to your neighbor…
Your neighbor merely shrugged with a small smile “He wanted cuddles, apparently"
A groan left your lips "I'm sorry, he's a bit spoiled and likes his cuddles”
A smile curled in his lips “No worries, he's a cute little fella"
“You could say that" you murmured under your breath.
A laugh cut through the silence in the room, soft and breathy "And Meatball owner's name?”
Eyes snapping up to him, you muttered your name shyly.
“Jack Abbott" He introduced himself “About time we know each other, we're next door neighbors"
“I agree" you smiled at him “Though I must admit I'm not the most friendly person, contrary to that little shit" you pointed at your cat who was trying to get Jack's attention.
Your very handsome neighbor only laughed at your description of Meatball. He could tell it all was rough love, hearing the tenderness in your voice.
“You work nights, right?" You asked him, earning a nod from him “That's why we haven't met, I usually get to my place after work and crash until next day”
“Makes sense" He hummed softly, staring at you with interest. "But now we know each other, thanks to Meatball”
You chuckled softly, he was right. “Well, apparently he likes you because he is ignoring me right now and asking for you to pick him up"
He leaned down with a smile, scratching between Meatball's ears earning a satisfied purr. “He's cute and… big”
“You can say it, he's fat" You shrugged softly “I don't have a clue why, I have him on a strict regime"
Jack looked at you with a teasing smile "Are you fat shaming your cat?”
Squirting at him, you repressed a laugh “I'm saying a fact. He's big and fat and mean"
“He's adorable" Jack defended your cat.
“That too" you agreed with a smile. You were glad that your neighbor was nice and wasn't mad at you for not controlling your cat.
The two of you stared at each other for a few moments, a smile on both of your faces, before breaking out of the haze.
“Shit, I'm keeping you while you probably should be sleeping or getting ready for your shift" You blurted out, realizing you might be imposing.
He waved you off "I have a few hours until I have to be on my way to my shift. Sit, let's eat these delicious looking cookies you brought”
You chuckled softly “I don't want to impose, I should leave—"
He raised a hand, stopping your excuses “If you have nothing to do, stay and have a cookie."
Jack was giving you an out, yet you didn't want to go, he intrigued you.
With a sigh, you relented “Alright, alright"
That's how you ended up staying most of your afternoon in his place, talking and eating your cookies. It was cut short because he had to work, but before you left he made you promise to bake him more cookies.
You accepted, of course. Also, you had the feeling that Meatball was going to find his way to his apartment again.
The next time you saw him was in your day off, it was early in the morning, way too early for someone like you who didn't like mornings.
You were deep cleaning and throwing a bunch of stuff you didn't need into trash bags. And you had a lot of it.
Once you had everything you needed to get to the containers, you made an escape plan. Yes, escape plan because your cat would bolt out the door as soon as you opened it. Unfortunately, you were not quick enough and the little shit beat you to it, sprinting out the door.
“Meatball!" You groaned and followed him, trying to catch him but he was fast for such an oversized cat.
He was fast and slippery, quickly tiring you out before sprinting on the opposite direction. Rounding a corner on the hall and towards the flights of stairs, and then you saw Meatball jump into someone's arms. Jack's.
"Oh. Hey, Meatball” Jack was quick to adjust the cat in his arms, watching as you breathlessly stopped in front of him. “Jail break?"
You stood in front of him, trying to regulate your breathing "Yeah”
“I have the feeling that Meatball doesn't like being in your apartment" He pointed out teasingly.
You sighed heavily “Too bad, he's an interior cat"
Jack merely hummed, amusement lacing his face.
Looking at him— really looking— you realized he was wearing scrubs, shifting the weight from one leg to another. "Coming home from work?”
“Yes, shift rang long" He was now distracted petting your cat.
You responded with a hum, staring to walk towards your apartments and away from the stairs and possible freedom of your cat.
Stopping by your door, Jack could see that you had something going on. “Cleaning day?" He asked you, his eyebrows raised.
"Deep cleaning day” You corrected him "That's how this Tasmanian devil escaped, he ran out the door when I was trying to get these to the container” you pointed towards the big trash bags.
He blinked at you, still holding your cat who was very happy to be held by him "Seems like you take cleaning very seriously”
“Something like that" You murmured, now realizing what a mess you had made with your idea of deep cleaning. "Anyway, let me take this one off your hands so you can go rest”
Meatball hissed angrily when you tried to take him from Jack.
With a frown, you pointed at your cat with your index finger "Meatball, don't hiss”
He responded by slapping your finger with his paw before melting onto Jack, who was grinning while trying to suppress a laugh.
“Do you want a cat?" You asked your neighbor with a dead ass expression "It's free, I'll throw in 20 dollars if you accept”
Jack was now full on laughing, shaking his head "Nah, he's all yours”
"50 dollars, then”
“Tempting" Jack answered with a smile “Still no"
You huffed, glaring at your cat "Seems like the fucker adopted you”
Jack frowned at your words “Adopted me?”
“Yes” you answered with a firm nod "It happens, they pick their favorite human”
“Wouldn't that be you?" Jack tilted his head in confusion.
"No, I am only the human that feeds him and keeps him alive” You rolled your eyes at your cat "You're his favorite human now.”
“I guess that is… good?” He asked softly, not fully understanding what you meant.
You gave him an amused glance "You're not much of a cat person, are you?”
He shook his head bashfully “Not really, no. I've always been more a dog person"
With a chuckle, you nodded "You have that vibe about you, yeah. Doesn't matter now cause you officially been adopted by my cat"
Jack gave you a doubtful glance "Didn't he adopt you too?”
“Nope, I adopted him, he adopted you" You shrugged “Weirdly enough"
That's how you started making friends with your next door neighbor, through your cat.
Meatball seemed to love Jack, always scratching the door when he would hear him arrive or pass by your door while you tried to explain to him that it was way too early for him to he planning mischief.
Though your cat did not care for any of your chiding, looking for a way to get to Jack. It was official, Meatball had adopted Jack.
The doorbell rang a little too early for your taste on day. Opening one eye, you glanced at your clock, seeing it was a little past 7:30 in the morning. Yes, you had to be starting to get ready for work in about 20 minutes if you wanted to leave on time but those were minutes you liked to get of sleep.
With a groan you threw your blankets off you, grabbing a robe and putting it on before moving to answer the door.
There, you found Jack with Meatball lounging comfortably in his arms. You didn't even know when had Meatball escaped from the comfort of your home but seemed like the little demon wanted to always be with Jack.
You sighed heavily “Hi, Jack"
He smiled at your disheveled appearance "Hi. Meatball was sleeping on my couch and I thought you might want him back”
You opened the door for him to step in. “Offer still stands, get the cat and 50 dollars"
He chuckled, putting Meatball down "I think it is a hard pass still. He would grow lonely”
You smiled at him, going into the kitchen to serve Meatball his breakfast. “I don't know how you work nights" You commented.
Jack shrugged, following you to keep the conversation through the kitchen threshold "My therapist says I find comfort in the darkness”
Huh, that sounded about right.
"Overrated”
You scoffed softly "There is nothing in the world I love most than sleeping. I think I was a mite in a past life"
“And what about sleep?"
That got him to chuckle “Very unlikely but I know what you mean"
You saw Jack grab a cookie from the plate on your kitchen counter. After the first bite, he let out a sound of agreement. "These are delicious. New recipe?”
It was endearing how much Jack loved your baked goods and how he always complimented you. It was not helping you to avoid having a crush with your neighbor.
You hummed with a smile “They have a tiny bit of lavender"
He pointed at you "Delicious. I'm going to get big only by eating what you bake”
With a chuckle, you grabbed the plate, putting a few on a container "You are not. You exercise and do yoga and a lot of shit, you’re safe”
He took the container once you handed it to him “Maybe, but still."
"If you don't want it…" you started, reaching for the container.
Playfully, he pushed your hand away “No, no. I want cookies"
“That's what I thought" you smiled at him before glancing at your clock. "Oh, shit. It's late, I have to get ready for work”
He smiled at you, grabbing the container so he could leave "I'll see you around. Have a good day at work”
“Thank you for bringing Meatball" You returned his smile “I owe you"
Jack showed you the cookies “Payment enough. I'll let myself out, you do what you have to"
“Bye, Jack. Thank you so much" You said, already making your way to your room to get ready.
A few weeks passed by before you saw Jack again, yet this time it was you seeking for him.
You knocked on his door, a big plate full with a variety of sweets in your hands while you waited for him to open the door.
Once he opened the door, he smiled when he saw you. "Well, hello”
You gave him a sheepish smile "Hi, Jack"
He rested his weight on the doorframe, staring at you with suspicion “I'm guessing those sweets are to convince me of something"
"I always give you baked goods!” You defended yourself before sighing "But this time I do need something”
With a chuckle, Jack invited you in. Once the two of you were comfortably sitting, he asked “Shoot. What do you need, Sweetheart?"
Sweetheart? He's calling me sweetheart? Oh, I'm going to swoon. Dramatically.
You blinked at him "Sweetheart?”
He nodded “Sweetheart"
You shook your head, letting it go for the moment "Alright, so I need a big favor to ask you”
“Didn't know we were on the stage of asking big favors" Jack smirk showed when he said that.
“Didn't know we were on the sweetheart stage” You threw back.
“Touché. What's the big favor?"
At that, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself "I need to know if you could be my cat-sitter for a couple of days?”
He raised his eyebrows at that "Cat-sitter?”
“Yes, I need to get out of the city for a few days and as much as I'd like to take him with me, I can't" You explained, your tone desperate.
"Everything okay?” came Jack's question.
Wait, he looked… worried? He's not helping my dumb heart.
You sighed heavily “Yeah, it's just kind of a family thing and I don't have a place adapted for Meatball at my parent's house, besides he always get too nervous when traveling"
“Your parents live far?”
“Three hours by car" you answered “and I'm driving all the way there. Meatball definitely won't last that long in his carrier. I usually leave him with a friend but she has a newborn now and you're my last budget friendly option"
It was obvious you almost blurted out that information, seemingly talking fast when you were nervous or anxious.
He was staring at you with a tinkle in his eyes "You really know how to talk a lot without breathing, don't you?"
You left out a groan “Jack! Focus, please"
Jack raised his hands in innocence “Alright, alright. I think I can manage with Meatball"
"Really?” You asked him, relieved "Oh, I will he in debt with you forever”
"When are you leaving?”
"In three days” You answered softly "I will write down everything you need to know and I'll bring you everything you need” Giving a look around his place, you dared to ask "Would you mind if he stays in your apartment? It's just that he gets clingy"
He nodded "Yeah, no problem. Besides, I think it'll be better that way”
"You're my savior” Relief laced your words.
Jack pointed at you "You owe me a lot of baked goods”
"Of course” the sigh that left your lips was one of pure relief and you could tell Jack was finding it amusing “Thank you so, so much"
Your stress was quickly replaced with relief, you could not let your baby be alone and Jack seemed like the logic options since Meatball loved him a lot. You were doubtful of asking him to cats sit, but he was your last resort and you didn't have the money to spend on a hotel for pets, they were too expensive and you were a tiny bit distrustful about how complete strangers would treat Meatball. So that was a no.
…
"… and you call me if something seems slightly off with him, so I can call the vet and—”
Jack put his hands on your shoulders, leveling his gaze to yours “I have it under control, Sweetheart."
You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves “Sorry, I tend to get anxious"
Rubbing your shoulders, he shot you a smile "I assure you, Meatball is in great hands”
Looking at said cat, he was comfortably laying on Jack's couch, without a care in the world.
Jack Abbot is very aware of the fact that you are overly protective of Meatball, he can see it in the constant worry etched into your face anytime he doesn't eat his full plate of food or meows the wrong way. Jack has spent enough time around you and your cat to know when something is off in your eyes regarding Meatball.
"You're right, I'm being a lot right now”
He chuckled softly "You're just worried, it's normal. He's your baby” Jack pointed towards Meatball, who was sleeping belly up, a very good signal that he was comfortable with Jack around.
Looking down at your clock, you let out a sigh “I think it's time for me to go"
"Everything will be fine” He said slowly, reassuring you once again. He was being too patient with you. "Text me when you get there, okay?”
"Of course” you nodded, making your way to say goodbye to Meatball.
Feeling you near, Meatball opened his eyes, looking at you with curiosity before letting out a little meow, asking for you to pet him.
You peppered kisses on his little head "I love you so much, little shit. Be good for Jack” with wack kiss to your cat you murmured your words, asking him to behave.
Once you were a bit satisfied you stood upright, moving towards the door, opening it but not quite leaving yet.
"Last thing, he likes his food served far from his water—”
“… and at certain hour, I know” Jack was confirming everything you had told him, patiently.
“— he has to have a little play time or he gets angsty—"
"…Yes, 20 minutes everyday is the minimum”
“— he will wake you up for cuddles almost always, he's clingy like that—" you kept on rambling.
"… but if I'm tired I should keep his mouse toy close so he could focus on it instead, yes”
"— he can have two treats each day, if he behaves—”
“…not more than two, I am aware”
“—also, he doesn't like to eat alone so you must—"
"…put his bowl next to where I eat and eat with him. I know"
You squinted at him, realizing he had indeed listened to you. “Okay, you have everything under control. I'll leave"
He smiled at you, getting closer to bid you goodbye “Drive safe, we will see you in a week"
With a reluctant sigh, and without really thinking about it, you moved to kiss his cheek "You're the best, see you”
Jack saw how you left after that, standing frozen in place while his heart was beating so fast because of a little kiss on the cheek. God, you were going to be the end of him.
The days passed and there was not a single day when you wouldn't be texting him or calling him to know if Meatball was okay.
…
Neither of you would admit it, but the calls and texts were the best part of both of your days.
It was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the crush you had on your neighbor yet you couldn't bring yourself to be forward with your feelings. Besides, what if Jack didn't feel the same? You only knew each other recently and most of your conversations happened because of your cat or the sweet treats you gave him.
Jack Abbot was not fairing better than you, he could not stop thinking about the owner of the cat he was sitting. You had come into his life full of chaos and comfort and now he could not dare to think about a life without your cat, sweet treats and you in it.
Shit, thinking about it, maybe you do look like a schoolgirl with a crush.
On the last day before going back to Pittsburgh, you called Jack two hours before he was to start his shift, knowing his schedule almost by memory.
The phone rang two times before Jack picked up. “Hello, Sweetheart”
Shit. Fuck. You could not let his voice affect you the way it does.
“Hi, Jack" You answered into the phone while packing your bags. “How's my baby?"
You could hear movement on the other side along with the chuckle that left his lips “He's okay, asking very loudly for treats”
A laugh left your lips at that. Even in the distance, you knew your cat and how spoiled he was “Yep, that's my baby. Means he's okay, though"
Jack hummed and you could hear the smile in his lips "I must admit, Meatball is a tiny bit spoiled”
“Try very spoiled" You rolled your eyes “I thought he was going to take harder the fact that I was not around but I think he's doing pretty good" A pause “I don't know if I should feel relieved or offended"
“If it's any consolation, he was trying to scape earlier"
“Sadly, it's not. Meatball keep refusing to a life of luxury, full meals and a warm bed." You didn't know what else to do for that cat to understand he had it nice and he doesn't appreciate it.
"He wants to experiment, be a bad boy and find love” Jack's voice was full of amusement. He loved those little chats were both you and him left your minds fly free, grateful that you understood his humor.
"Don't we all” You murmured, trying to remember if you were forgotten to pack anything.
"What? Find love?” Jack asked you while laying on his bed, your cat by his side.
"Yeah” You answered, your mind still preoccupied "I mean, I love love but I can't seem to find it”
His heart ached at the thought of you not finding the love you deserved “You’ll find it, I'm sure of it"
“How can you be so sure?" You asked him, now flopping into your bed. “I've been single almost my entire life"
"Good things comes to those who wait”
“Then I'm getting the fucking best of what love has to offer" Humor was lacing your words.
Yes, you were a little skeptical of the ways life worked.
“Be patient, I'm sure it's in the way" He tried to comfort you, hearing your voice change a bit.
A groan left your lips, sounding more tired and sleepy than awake. The bed was too comfortable and a nap sounded good.
You could hear the chuckle that left his lips through the cellphone “Sleepy, are we?" he teased you.
He could hear the ruffling of the bed as you turned into your side in the bed “Yeah, a little."
“You should probably have a good night sleep, you're coming back tomorrow, right?"
You hummed and nodded, even when he couldn't see you. “Are you on your way to work already?" your question was interrupted by a yawn. You were indeed tired.
A chuckle left his lips at your yawn, he could only imagine how adorable you looked all sleepy, yet you were still asking about him. He checked his clock before answering you “Probably should head out any minute now. I'm cuddling with Meatball at the moment”
You could not help but let out an ‘aww’ at the mental image of it "That sounds comfy”
“Meatball is such a good cuddler"
Your smile turned into a frown once you thought about how much hair Meatball shed "Wait, your scrubs are black”
“And?"
"You will be full of Meatball's hair!” your tone was one of worry, you usually did not care for cat hair but Jack's a doctor, you're pretty sure that's a health violation.
"Oh” he said in realization of what you meant "I have one of those sticky rollers thingy”
You chuckled softly at that "You mean a lint roller?”
“Yes, that thingy"
Without helping it, you rolled your eyes with fondness "I don't know how you're able to memorize all that doctor language but not the name of a lint roller"
"Doctor language is easy stuff”
“I beg to differ, I’ve never been able to correctly pronounce the name of complicated medicine"
“That’s cause you're not a doctor, Sweetheart” Jack's voice was laced with teasing.
A yawn left your lips, sleepiness taking over you almost completely now. “Yeah, you're right"
“Go to sleep, Sweetheart" His voice was firm “I shall see you tomorrow"
You hummed in response, your eyes already closed "Bye-bye, Jack”
The drive back to Pittsburgh was uneventful and peaceful, giving you a lot of time to think and reflex about the dumb crush you were developing for your very handsome neighbor.
It took you a total of one hour driving alone with your thoughts to get to the conclusion that you were, indeed, fucked. Of course you were, you had a bigger and softer heart that you would like, always falling hard for people that didn't feel that way about you.
Oh, you stupid lover girl.
The rest of the drive, your thoughts were swarming with plans of how to fall out of love with him.
Love? Who said love? Stupid heart.
Yes, maybe love was a strong word but, as said before, you were kind of a lover girl, so the months you had known him got you dreaming of being with him.
As said before; Fucked.
It was around noon when you arrived to your apartment complex, unloading your bags and things you brought from your parent's place. You were almost sure that Jack would be sleep, given the hour, so you decided not to bother him until later, only shooting him a text.
You
Hey! I'm home, let me know when you're awake so I can pick up Meatball.
:)
While you waited for Jack's reply, you took on the task to dust off and prepare a little snack, wanting to be as productive as you could be before going back to work the next day. Good luck your mom sent you home with a week's worth of meals.
It was a couple of hours before your doorbell rang, signaling someone was there and it probably was Jack.
From your place on the couch, you asked “Who is it?"
"It's me” came Jack's voice from the other side of the door.
“Come on in, it's open" You shouted, not caring for moving from your very comfortable place on the couch.
It was a few seconds before you heard the door opening, and there he was; Jack Abbot holding your chubby cat in his arm. Meatball was quick to jump from his arms and run to you, snuggling against your chest making you chuckle.
"Hi, baby” you kissed his little head "Looks like someone missed me”
Jack moved to sit across from you after closing the door, staring at the image in front of him with a soft expression. "Yes, we missed you” He confessed.
You tilted your head, looking at him with an inevitable smile “We?"
You were basking on both the purring coming from the cat in your chest and the warmth you felt when Jack uttered those words.
"We” Jack confirmed with a nod of his head "It wasn't the same without you around”
“I was only gone for a week"
"It was more than enough to miss you” Jack said almost instantly, his words sounding too honest for your liking.
Your only answer to his words were a smile, you did not know what to reply to it.
Shaking your head, you tried to stir the topic away from things that would make your heart act irrationally.
"How this little fur ball behaved?” You asked Jack.
“He was delightful, though he didn't like one mug I had"
You groaned loudly, of course Meatball had to break havoc on another house “He did not"
"He did” Jack confirmed "Let's say he looked quite pleased when it landed on the floor and broke to a million pieces”
You nodded solemnly "I know what you mean” with a sigh, you reached for your cellphone "I'll transfer you the money”
Jack immediately held one hand up "You will not”
“I need to atone for any mischief Meatball did, that includes paying you for what he broke"
He shook his head "I don't want your money, it was an ugly mug anyway"
You gave him a deadpan look, not liking the idea of not paying for something your cat broke intentionally “I must insist to pay for the mug"
"I don't want your money”
“Jack" you said in all seriousness.
"Sweetheart” He matched your tone.
“I'm paying for the mug" You were not willing to let it go.
“I will accept cookies as a payment, that's it"
You pursed your lips, not liking how he didn't want to let you pay for your cats misdeeds. "Money”
“Nope. Cookies"
You shot a glare in his direction. "I give you cookies because I want to, I don't like to see it as a bargaining chip or I would lose any interest however to bake them. There has to be payed with money"
He pursed his lips, his eyes showing that he was thinking about what to do next. “I will not accept your money. It was just a dumb mug"
"I don't care, I pay my dues” the stubborn monster in you was taking reign.
Silence involved your loving room for a few moments before his face lightened with an idea.
“Alright, I'll tell you what" he was trying to make his smile seem innocent but he was failing “I know how you can pay me back"
You squinted at him, carefully nodding "I'm listening…”
“You can let me buy you dinner" He all but blurted out.
Shit. He wants to take you on a date? You go, girl.
A frown etched itself into your face despite of your heart screaming for you to agree “Wouldn't I have to buy you dinner?"
"I know what I said. I will buy you dinner” His voice was absolute, leaving no room for negotiation.
“I haven't said yes"
"You haven't said no” His smile was growing bigger by the minute.
“You work nights, you can't buy me dinner"
“Breakfast, then" He was quick to solve any problems you were throwing his way. “or lunch"
Holding his gaze for a few seconds, you finally let out a sigh, making Jack's face to light up even more.
“Alright, you win. I will let you buy me lunch" your resigned tone could not be far from the real party that was going inside your head.
Jack was now full on smiling, making his way to you, stretching his pinky your way.
You looked at him up and down, a fake disgusted face on “What?"
"We have to seal it” He pointed out "It's the only way”
With a roll of your eyes, you sealed the deal pinky swearing.
He let out a satisfied sound before leaning down, his eyes finding yours “Stop looking pissed, I shall see you tomorrow for our date. I'll text you"
Before leaving he made sure of saying his good-byes to Meatballs, who poured happily from the attention.
Jack stooped by the door, shooting you a different smile from the ones before. This one was lacking any kind of teasing, leaving in its way a soft smile, full of expectation and… longing. “Bye, Sweetheart."
You matched his smile, no doubt looking foolish "Bye, Jack. See you tomorrow”
"I can't wait”
And with that, he left you alone with your cat.
Alone. Now it was the time for you to panic and crash out.
Sadly enough for both of you, you could not make it to the lunch. The chaos around you in your work was a bit too much, impending you to grab lunch with him.
You took a few minutes away from the chaos to call him, this was two hours before you were supposed to met.
It rang a few times before you heard the call connect.
"Hey, Sweetheart”
" Don't hate me” was the first words you uttered when you head his voice “I won't be able to get away for lunch"
You heard the disappointed sigh that left his lips and it made you feel worse with yourself.
" That's okay, we will reschedule” His voice was kind, trying to mask the disappointment. He was a little too excited about the date.
“I will make it up to you, I promise" You quickly reassured him, picking on your nails nervously.
" I know you will, Sweetheart. Don't worry”
You didn't answer, merely staying silent while your mind was screaming at you for this. It was mortifying, you really did want to go out with him.
His voice snapped you out of your head, taking you back to reality.
“Hey, you still with me?"
“I- yeah. I'm here" your voice was small, apologetic even. " I'm real sorry, Jack”
"I understand, okay. Don't feel guilty.” His voice was warm, caring. “I have a night off on Friday, maybe we could go to dinner after all?"
A chuckle left your lips “Yeah, okay. I'd like that"
"I'd like that too, Sweetheart. I'll see you later, okay?”
"Okay, Jack”
You said your respective goodbyes before hanging up, yet you still couldn't stop feeling guilty. You were expecting to grab lunch with him too much, but stupid work things that didn't allowed you were your first enemy now.
You spent all day at work thinking about Jack. Yes, stupidly enough. You didn't understand how destiny didn't allow you the simple favor of letting you go on a date with Jack. It was unfair.
…
Your luck was getting worse and worse with each passing moment. You had gotten home way later that you were used to because you had to solve some problems back at work.
It was a given that your mood was pretty bad by the time it was dark. You had wanted to see Jack before he went to work, but again, that was not possible thanks to your own job.
All you had now was the shining opportunity of a shower, food delivery and couch rooting next to your fat cat.
You were naive to believe it would be that easy. Yes, you took a long shower, dressed in your comfortable pj's and moved to the couch to put on your show while you waited for the food you had ordered to arrive.
Everything was going good, even Meatball was cooperative by sharing the couch with you, asking for cuddles.
Pity your luck had not gotten better since the start of the day.
When the food arrived, you got up from the couch, going to get your purse to pay for it. Little did you noticed that Meatball was already planning his escape as soon as you would open the door.
Once with your purse, you made your way to open the door, engaging in small talk with the delivery guy while he handed you the food.
It was an instant that you got distracted. It was enough.
Meatball ran out of the door with all his energy. The delivery guy— God bless his soul— tried to catch him only to end up bitten by your demon cat.
“Shit! Sorry, he's vaccinated!" You all but shouted while sprinting behind your very fast cat.
Meatball was on a mission, live a life of freedom away from your cozy home.
It wasn't the first time he tried to run away, though this time he was set on doing it right. He kept dodging you, making his way towards the stairs, you could not let that happen, if he got there, it would be a pain to catch him.
So you put your all into trying to catch the fucking cat, running after him with only socks in your feet. Bad idea. Very bad. And you knew it the moment your cat took a turn right instead of going straight in direction of the stairs, making you try to break sharply. It didn't work, your socked feet sent you flying forward, the floor too slippery thanks to the fabric on your feet.
You don't really know what happened after that, only feeling a sharp pain in your arm, that was twisted in a strange position that was not definitely normal, and a stinginess in the side of your face.
You were laying on the floor, disoriented while looking around. You fell down a few steps of the stairs, now laying on the stairs landing.
Well, shit.
It was a while until the ambulance arrived— that was called by the delivery guy— and the paramedics quickly put you on a gurney, letting you know that you had dislocated your shoulder and had a minor laceration to your face.
You were about to ask if anyone had seen your cat, you could not leave him alone, when the little shit jumped into the gurney, settling his little body on your chest.
“Ma'am, he can't ride with us—" A paramedic tried to tell you.
"I'm not going anywhere without him” You said firmly, not leaving any room for negotiation.
Apparently, your paramedics were a little too tired that didn't even refute, merely nodding before they kept going.
“Wait" You suddenly said, startling everyone around. “Could someone go to my apartment" you pointed out to the wide open door when they were wheeling you down the hall “And grab his harness? It's hanging from behind the door”
With a long, tired sigh, one of the paramedics quickly went to get it so they could get you to the hospital and hopefully, clock out.
The ride to the hospital was quite uneventful, it took three minutes before Meatball worked his charm— he was a little too friendly for a cat sometimes— and had the paramedics wrapped around his little paw.
The pain wasn't all that bad, yet. You knew it was matter of time before the pain would start killing you, probably thanks to the adrenaline of the whole ordeal.
Deep down, you knew you almost asked the universe for it. Why? Simple. You were bitching about your day and how unlucky you were, blah blah. Last time you were acting like that you sprained your ankle. Once again the universe was reminding you that it always can get worse.
You felt the ambulance come to a stop, most surely arriving at the emergency room where you would be drugged up and fixed. Good, it was starting to hurt.
You were wheeled down the ambulance and into the other side of the sliding doors.
Ugh, hospital lights are always too bright.
As soon as you were spotted, two doctors made their way to you, addressing the paramedics.
“What do we have here?" Asked a tall doctor, a little gruff looking but he seemed nice.
The paramedics were quick to present you, telling your age and a lot of things you were not listening that intently "— old female, BP 139/88, HR 112, RR 19. She took a fall down a couple of steps, shoulder dislocation and face laceration. Patient is responsive”
“And what about the cat?" The question came from the next doctor, who looked a little too carefree while holding a concernedly big cup of iced coffee.
One of your paramedics turned to look at him with a deadpan expression "She wouldn't let us bring her here without Meatball”
Not far away from there, a doctor that you knew well, was reviewing some labs from a patient, not moving to tend to the new arrival since it was Shen's patient, lifted his head in curiosity when he heard the name Meatball.
Jack Abbot scanned the ED until his eyes fell on your laying form on the gurney, Meatball laying comfortably in your side, wearing his harness.
As soon as he spotted you, he was moving, calling your name. "What are you doing here?”
Meatball was quick to demand attention from his favorite human with a meow. Jack patted his little head mindlessly.
"Meatball. Jailbreak. Stairs. Fall. Hurt” You explained simply.
Jack sighed, staring at you with concern but ultimately shaking it off while turning to the other two doctors. "Shen, I got her" He addressed the caffeine holding one “Crus, you're with me" He said to the tall, stern looking doctor.
"North 15 is open!” A redheaded woman called from behind a very big desk, offering you a friendly smile.
You were wheeled to what you suspect is North 15, quickly being moved into a hospital bed before the paramedics said a brief goodbye and left you in the hands of capable doctors and nurses.
Both Jack and Dr. Crus started working on you, checking vitals and making sure that nothing else was broken.
“How's the pain?" Jack asked you, checking you pupils.
"Getting stronger by the minute” You murmured, focusing on petting Meatball with your good hand.
“Push 1 m.g. of Ketamine for the pain" He addressed a nurse who quickly nodded on injected a liquid into an I.V.— same one that you didn't even feel when they pooked it into your arm.
"You're giving me the good drugs?” You asked him with a smile.
“Only the best" Jack winked at you, continuously working on the preliminary exams.
You allowed them to keep assessing your injuries by staying silent, Meatball laying by your side while he followed every one of Jack's movements. Freaking cat was obsessed with him.
They were talking between them in terms you didn't understand. Doctor gibberish. But ultimately Jack turned to look at you. "I'll order and x-ray to discard any broken bone but I don't think it's more than the dislocated shoulder. Head seems fine and you're responsive” He smiled at you with relief "But we'll have to take care of that cut on your cheek”
You couldn't see the cut but you knew it wasn't pretty. “How many stitches?"
"Probably three but hopefully it won't leave a scar” He reassured you softly.
“Good, I cannot look too bad, I have a date on Friday" You teased him slightly, already feeling the effect of the meds.
He hummed, crossing his arms on his chest, his biceps popping out. "Is that so? Must be quite the guy”
"Well, my cat likes him, so…” You shrugged, pointing towards your very comfortable looking cat.
“A good judge of character" Jack nodded in approval “I still don't know how you managed to get them to bring Meatball along"
You shrugged softly, your head resting tiredly on the gurney "I refused treatment and asked them if they could get his harness from my apartment”
Jack shook his head, a chuckle leaving his chest “You are something else"
A knock on the glass door interrupted you, Jack was being called away, he turned to look at you hesitantly.
“Go" You said with a smile “I'll be alright"
He nodded at you, smiling softly before walking out of the room, facing his fellow attending Dr. Shen.
“Your patient in Central 14 is asking for you" Shen slurped his coffee was too loud for Jack's patience.
“Alright, thanks" Jack started to walk away, Shen following him. “Do you need something?"
“Who's the cat lady?" Shen asked, being his nosy self.
"She's my friend and neighbor”
Shen's eyebrows rose, staring at Jack “Oh, she's that friend, isn't she?"
“What are you talking about now?" Jack keep walking, wanting for Shen to go away and stop asking questions.
“Lately you check your cellphone and smile when you're reading texts of someone. I'm betting she is the one texting you and making your face light up every time"
“Shut up, Shen"
Shen raised his hands in innocence, deciding that short conversation was enough to confirm his suspicions, before going to tend to his own patients.
Of course Shen was right, Jack has had a crush on you almost since he met you, always smiling when you were around or when he received a text, though he was not going to let Shen know how right he was.
Once Jack was free and your x-rays were delivered, he made his way back to your room, finding you snoozing off. The cut on your cheek had been already stitched up and Meatball was being a complete angel, not moving from your side.
Jack moved to sit by the side of the bed, when you heard movement you opened your eyes, looking at him.
“Hey, Sweetheart" He said softly.
"Hi” was your response, followed by a yawn.
“Tired, are we?"
A groan left your lips “You have no idea"
“Good news, we can fix you up by popping your shoulder back in place" He informed you “No broken bones"
“That sounds painful, though"
His expression softened even more, if that was possible "We'll give you something for the pain. You will only feel a mild discomfort”
You only hummed, already feeling too tired to speak.
“Who did your stitches?" He asked you, tilting your head to observe the work.
"Dr. Crus” you replied "I didn't feel a thing"
He nodded satisfied with the work of the stitches “Good, that's good"
"So you'll pop back my shoulder and I can leave?” You asked hopefully, really wanting to go home and sleep.
“I don't think so" He replied instantly, watching your displeased frown “I know your family doesn't live close by and you can't go around all by yourself like this, the shoulder will take a few weeks to heal"
You pursed your lips, you were used to be independent and Jack knew it “Then what does that mean? That I have to ask my parents to come watch me as if I'm a child?"
He shook his head "I could help you, take care of you” Jack proposed softly “That is, if you want. But for the rest of the night I was thinking you spend it here and I'll drive you home after my shift"
"I don't want to spend the rest of the night in the hospital” You grimaced.
"Well, you can't go home by yourself. I'm your best option right now”
You let out a huff, acting a bit like a child but you were not happy with the whole way your day was going.
He tapped your forehead playfully, wanting to see that frown turn into a smile. You shot him a glare, not entirely pissed with him but partly.
“You'll get wrinkles" He teased you softly.
“Good"
"Sweetheart” Jack leveled his gaze to find yours, his face warm and kind "I know it's not ideal but it'll only be a few hours that you will spend sleeping”
"I will try to make my escape” You murmured with a frown.
Jack raised his eyebrows skeptically “With the meds that we're going to give you to fix the dislocation? I don't think so. You'll be drowsy"
“Keyword; try”
Despite himself, he chuckled softly “Look, my shift ends in…” he checked the clock on his wrist "Six hours. I'll buy you anything you want for breakfast if you make it that long without trying to escape"
"What about Meatball? His zoomies will kick in any moment now” You pointed at your cat.
“We'll manage" He shrugged softly.
You huffed once again “You're not letting me win this one, are you?"
He shook his head, trying to suppress a smirk, knowing you were about to give in.
“Alright, I'll wait"
"Attagirl”
…
It was a while before they were able to fix your shoulder, and Jack was right, you didn't feel a thing. Soon enough, you were sleeping comfortably with the lights off and clear instructions you were not to be bothered.
Every one of his colleagues were shooting him suggestive looks, amused with the fact that Jack seemed overly protective of you. He paid them no mind.
Jack keep working through his shift, stopping now and then to check on you and Meatball— who was laying protectively on your chest.
When it was nearing the time for hand offs, he asked Shen if he could cover, wanting to get you out of the hospital and into your apartment as soon as possible, knowing you would not be happy if you woke up and his shift had extended longer, as it was usual.
Once he set up everything to go, he woke you up, since he had already taken care of everything for discharge, he guided a sleepy you across the ED—while holding also holding Meatball— to get you seated in his truck comfortably.
You were sleepy and still drowsy thanks to the meds but you seemed in good spirits, enabling in conversation with him while holding Meatball in your lap.
Jack let you choose the food, and you decided you wanted to eat in your own comfortable home, so he decided to pick the food before getting there.
Once settled in your couch, he took it upon himself go feed Meatball before preparing you a plate of food, kind of hovering while you ate.
“I can feed myself, Jack. You don't need to hover” You murmured, taking a bite of your food.
“How's the shoulder? Any pain?"
"I'm good, stop acting like a doctor” You chided him, not being used to be fuzzed over.
“I am a doctor"
You simply rolled your eyes while letting the silence setting in.
"Jack?”
“Yes, Sweetheart?"
"Thank you for taking care of me” You said, looking firmly into his eyes.
Jack's expression melted, becoming one of pure warmth. “You have nothing to thank me for"
"I do, you're taking care of me and my cat”
He shook his head “I am doing it with pleasure, Sweetheart. You need me, I'm here. Simple as that"
You beamed at him, he was not helping your feelings towards him. "I guess we'll have to reschedule that date, huh?”
“You kidding? No more rescheduling" He shook his head “I'll cook you something special and we'll dine here”
“That's not how a first date is supposed to happen" You pointed out.
With a sigh, he moved to sit next to you, on your good side. “Don't you know?" he grabbed your chin, guiding your face towards his “I do not care about the date, I care about you"
Your breathing stuttered, seeing how close he was. “But—"
"No buts, Sweetheart” He tsk, leaning in slightly, his eyes lost in yours before glancing briefly at your lips “We will have that date, and hopefully you'll allow me to kids you"
You gulped softly "Why not kiss me now?” the words left your mouth in a whisper.
He moved to kiss your forehead tenderly "I am a gentleman. I'll wait for our date, make it special”
Jack was looking at you with bright eyes, caressing your cheek, being utterly careful of the cheek with the cut.
That got a laugh out of you, feeling your cheeks warming up. "I can't wait"
“Me neither" He whispered, looking at you with utter awe. “I want cookies once you're healed, though"
"As many as you want, Jack”
do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
Alternatively, you can read on Wattpad or Ao3!
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]
PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]
PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]
PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]
PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]
PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓★ — TBA
─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆
TBA
─── ⋆ MISC ⋆
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Summary: Coming in to the Pitt on your day off to help a lending hand with baby Jane Doe you realize just how much you enjoy the sight of your boyfriend holding a baby.
Word count: 921
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ First time writing for the pitt but you've all caught me in a very loving Jalen Thomas Brooks era of my life and we NEED more Mateo and Tucker fics.
“Hey, aren’t you off today?” Robby asks when you walk through the doors of the pitt, he’s right, you left yesterday bragging about having two whole days off and your plans of spending the entire time in bed.
“Couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye” You wink, Robby leaving is not something you’re thrilled about, but he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions plus he’s the most stubborn person you know and even with everyone trying to convince him this trip is a bad idea he’s still set on getting on his bike after his shift is done “Plus Dana called, said you need someone to watch over a baby”
“Yeah, baby Jane Doe, got abandoned in the bathroom this morning, she’s doing okay I think, we’re trying to find her a placement but until then she’s stuck in the peds room” He explains.
“Well, I’ve got her until then, or until my next shift at least” You smile at him.
“Great, remember to sleep when she does” He reminds “And-“
“Dr.Robby we’ve got a 16 year old with a gunshot wound to the chest” Javadi rushes in with a patient in a gurney.
“Trauma 2, right behind you” He lets out “I’ll come see you later” And he was off.
“Hey honey” Dana greets you “Thanks for coming in, we’re all hands on deck today, especially with the screens down”
“No problem, I’m glad to get my fix of baby cuddles” You tell her.
“I’m sure a certain someone will be glad you’re quenching your baby fever” She teases, your relationship with Mateo is not supposed to be a secret, but you’re both very private about your outside lives. The only reason Dana knows about it is because last month after a particularly rough shift that had a lot of the day crew covering hours way into the night shift and losing a patient sent you into a panic attack he was the one you’d asked for when she found you curled up in a storage closet. After you’d calmed down you’d come clean to Dana about it and she’d promised to keep the information to herself.
“We have no time for a baby” You shrug “Not right now”
“I hear ya” She says directing you to the peds room “My babies are all grown up and I still think I need more hours in the day”
“Oh my God she’s tiny!” You say standing in front of the bassinet she’s laying in “Hi sweet girl”
“She’s due for a bottle in an hour and someone will probably come for a check up at some point later today” Dana explains as you pick her up “I’ll leave you to it”
You don’t say anything back because you’re already enchanted by the little girl in your arms.
You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep or how long it’s been, you just remember changing and feeding her and next thing you know you’re being waken up by your boyfriend.
“Hey baby” His voice is soft and quiet as to not disturb the baby or your sleepy state.
“Hey” You rub your eyes with one hand “What time is it? Are you on shift already?”
“I’m like 25 minutes early” He shrugs “You look comfy”
“I am” You reply, you’re laid on the recliner next to the beds while baby Jane Doe rests on your chest, and you have a donated quilt over you both “I love baby cuddles”
“Don’t go getting any ideas now” He teases.
“Don’t let me catch you holding her then” You shrug smiling.
“Oh Mateo, you’re early” Princess walks into the room “You wanna check on her?”
“Not clocked in yet” He tells her “I should probably go do that. I’ll see you later? Come find me before you leave”
“Yeah” You say and he leans down to kiss your forehead before leaving.
“Jesus” Princess sighs shaking his head “If you don’t come back to your next shift pregnant I’ll be surprised”
“Princess!” You exclaim with wide eyes making her laugh.
A few hours later you find yourself outside of the hospital picking up some food you ordered, two sub sandwiches (one for you and one for Mateo) and a whole tray of cookies for the rest of the staff. When you walk back though, you find your boyfriend in the peds room with baby Jane Doe in his arms as Ellis does a check up on her.
“She seems to be doing perfectly fine, just needs her next feed probably”
“So remind me again, how much maternity leave do we get?” You ask from the door.
“Not nearly enough” Ellis replies “I’ve gotta go check on another patient, good luck” She pats Mateo’s arm and walks out.
“Don’t look at me like that” He smiles at you, the baby still in his arms.
“I warned you” You raise your eyebrows at him “Shit you look hot with a baby in your arms”
“Hey! No swearing in front of the tiny ears” He scolds you “Also, I was just doing my job and helping Ellis with the check up”
“So why are you still holding her then?” You ask, he looks down at her with the softest look ever and you decide then being here with him holding a baby is way too dangerous “You ready for a break? I got you a sub?”
“Hell yeah” He sighs out putting the baby down in her bed.
Summary: While working in the ER you meet a woman with dementia who ends up becoming family after playing matchmaker between Mateo and you.
Word count: 4.6k
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ This is more reader and Elowen found family with a sideplot of reader x Mateo (I'm sorry) but it is the first time in a long time I sit down and write over 4k words at once we're so back! Also, this does get sad towards the end so beware
Elowen Muller was already a known patient in the ER when you started working there. She came in at least once a month no matter how much her family tried to keep her out of there, sometimes it was because of a medical complication, sometimes her dementia made her get into accidents and sometimes it was nothing at all but she would insist she felt like she was dying.
She had, for some reason, taken a liking to you on your first week working there and even through the episodes where she couldn't remember her name the fondness to you peaked through.
"Hey, psst" She called on your third day working at the pitt "Sneak me a soda and I'll give you one of these" She showed you one of those candies old people always had yet you never saw in the stores "Come on, I'll give you three"
"I'll see what I can do" You nodded.
Later when you'd gotten confirmation that because of her sugar levels she was not allowed to have a soda you brought her a box of sugar free juice and she'd given you the dirtiest look she could muster she mumbled something about young people not respecting their elders and you'd walked off containing your laughter as she still sipped on her juice greedily.
Then Mateo came into the picture, you had already been working there for a year, Elowen was still coming in regularly and the first time she saw him she'd let out a whistle and whispered shouted to you "That one's mine" Mateo had just laughed and continued his work.
The first time she decided she was going to get you and Mateo together, there were several revelations during her episodes, was on one of her visits because of dehydration. She was in observation while hooked up on an IV and completely stable, her family had just stepped out 10 minutes before to get lunch when the alarms started blaring, she was coding.
You rushed in alongside Robby, Princess and Mateo to find her sitting on her bed looking completely fine. When Robby approached her to check up on her vitals she put her hand up and stopped him "You are not touching me"
"I'm sorry Mrs. Muller, we need to make sure you're okay, this machine here told us you had lost your pulse" Robby explained "If you're not comfortable with me looking you over then maybe one of our female staff can check you up?"
But then you took a step closer and for the first time in a while she gave you an annoyed look "No, you can't touch me either"
"Mrs. Muller" You tried "We need to-"
"Why are you always here? Don't you have a man or something?" You saw Robby's eyebrows shoot up in amusement before slipping out of the room deciding you three had it under control as Mrs. Muller didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.
"No I don't, too busy making sure my patients don't die on me actually so would you please let us do out jobs?" You asked, she shook her head.
"None of you are touvhing me, only him" She pointed at Mateo and Princess and you tried not to laugh when you realized what was happening "You can come here and check me everywhere handsome"
"All yours Nurse Diaz" You gave him a teasing smile, he looked taken aback.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Mrs. Muller asked once mateo started checking her vitals.
"No ma'am"
"Oh there's no way no one has snatched you up!" She grabbed a hold of his bicep, Mateo kept working as if that was a normal thing, or maybe he just wanted to get it over with "I would but my husband would get real jealous, nowadays I only get to see and not touch"
"Well then careful he doesn't catch you right now" Princess told her, she waved her off.
"Look, you do't have a girlfriend, she doesn't have a man and god knows she needs a little sugar you should give her some" You raised your eyebrows at her words, Mateo choke on nothing and Princess bursted out laughing "Yes, yes, you two would be perfect"
You left the room after confirming she was okay and making her promise she wouldn't pull on any wires anymore and Princess rushed away no doubt to tell everyone in the nurses station about your interaction with Mrs.Muller.
"So" Mateo spoke first "About that sugar"
You laughed "She's something alright. That was the first time she didn't let me check on her by the way"
"She got a new favorite" He smirked smugly.
"You tell me if you still like that idea tonight after she's made you come in five different times because she was bored or wanted a soda she can't have"
That night when it was time to go home after your shift Mateo found you by your locker "Hey"
"Hey" You were so tired all you wanted was to go home, take a shower and have dinner in bed while watching New Girl.
"I uh…" He fidgeted with the straps of his backpack "Do you wanna go have dinner with me?"
You turned with a raised eyebrow "You really asking me out right now?"
He chuckled "Doesn't have to be anything fancy, some burgers and fries in the car? I can drop you off home afterwards" He knew you walked home every night, you lived only a few streets away from the hospital and found out pretty quickly that taking your car actually made the commute longer than walking because of the traffic.
"You know what? Sure, but only if we go to that place on Main with the cheesy bacon heart attack inducing burgers"
He chuckled but nodded "Completed with potato wedges and all"
Neither of you called it a date, but down the line when you were asked about your first date you always referred to that night.
You two grew closer over the next months, sometimes you'd meet him in the morning with a coffee at the beginning of your shift, other times you'd go out for dinner after and whenever you had a free day and swore all you wanted was to stay at home and enjoy the peace and quiet of living alone you still found yourself texting him to come over.
Mrs.Muller still tried to set you up whenever she was around, one time when she'd said something that made you laugh full on she'd said "You have good teeth, you'd be worth a lot if you were a horse"
Her daughter had gasped "Mom!" And apologized extensively but Mrs. Muller hadn't relented.
"See that?" She'd asked Mateo "Good teeth genetics, for your future kids"
Safe to say while you and Mateo laughed at the absurdity of the situation her poor daughter looked like she'd rather be anywhere but there.
Eventually, one day, years after, when you and Mateo were already together, Mrs. Muller came in for a complication with a past pneumonia. You hadn't been on shift when she came in and she hadn't been lucid at all that night, but when she woke up in the morning to you checking her vitals it had been as if her dementia was simply an exaggeration.
"Dear, how's Mateo? You two find a place yet?" You'd told her two months ago on her last visit about your plans for moving in together, Mateo didn't have a shift that day.
"We haven't" You replied "Actually, we decided to move into my place since it is closer to the hospital. At least until we find a house in our price range we like or save enough money for something better"
"You see, back when my Ernie and I bought our house there was barely anyone in the neighborhood so it was all real cheap" She proceeded to tell you all about the early stages of her marriage while you updated out her chart, thankful that it was a slow enough day that you could stay without Robby chewing you out for it like he so often did with Samira.
Later when you excused yourself, her daughter Rosie followed you out of the room with teary eyes "That was the most lucid she's been the whole week, you should know when we leave here she talks about you and Mateo constantly for at least a week, and sometimes she has these moments of clarity where she shares all these wonders about the two of you" Your expression softened, you'd come to really enjoy Mrs.Muller's company even though you always hoped she wouldn't end up here again soon "Thank you, for all the care, you truly are one of the best doctors I've ever met"
"You don't have to thank me" You hugged her "She really makes my job a lot easier even when she's being stubborn"
That afternoon, an hour before your shift ended, Elowen Muller coded. You'd been scared and had pulled all the stops to bring her back and just when you thought she was gone she'd responded, opened her eyes and with a raspy voice daid "Sorry everyone, I dozed off" You don't think you've ever felt the way you did that night and when you got home after your shift you cried to Mateo about how scary it had been.
After that scare you had approached Rosie and asked if you could visit her mom when she got out of the hospital and that's how you found yourself doing regular visits to her house, Elowen Muller became somewhat of your grandma as they adopted you into the family. When Mateo proposed and you kept it quiet from the hospital staff, because you rarely shared anything about your relationship with them and you weren't planning on saying anything until you sent out the save the dates, Mrs.Muller outed you.
It was during the med students first shift, Mateo had been tending to her alongside Cassie and Javadi and Mrs.Muller had been particularly quiet until the end when she asked Mateo to get closer and then whispered loudly to him "That one's making eyes at you, be careful" and pointed at Javadi who looked mortified.
Then before they left she'd called out "Tell your fiancee to come say hi before I leave!"
"She's really rooting for you guys huh?" Cassie smiled warmly at Mateo, she was probably the one person in the hospital who had seen the most about your relationship since you two often babysat for her.
"From day one" Mateo replied with a big smile.
"Sorry, he has a fiancee?" Javadi asked once he was gone.
"Girlfriend" Cassie replied giving her your name "But I wouldn't be surprised if they get engaged soon"
That same day, a little later, you popped into her room when you had some free time to say hello, Javadi was in there again, this time with Princess.
"I heard you were in here, couldn't let you leave without saying hi"
"Oh sweets! Come in, come in here and show me that ring again" Your eyes widened a little, there was no way she was outing you in front of Princess, surely the entire floor would know about it before shift was over now "Have you seen it yet? It's not as pretty as the one my Ernie got me, but it is gorgeous" She asked princess who shook her head "Well go on, show them"
You chuckled nervously "I don't wear it while working"
"You need to wear it on a chain, or pin it on your scrubs! I saw that in Greys"
"So, I guess congratulations are in order?" Princess said when you walked out of the room, you smiled and nodded sheepishly "You better let us know the date with plenty of time so we can find someone to fill in!" She pointed at you and walked away surely to let everyone know.
"Congrats" Javadi smiled awkwardly.
"Thank you" You replied.
Mateo found you approximately 5 minutes later "Mrs.Muller let it out huh?" You winced, he laughed "Hey the chain idea wasn't that bad, maybe I need to get you one of those next"
After you and Mateo got married Mrs.Muller's health had started declining and she had more bad days than good, still, even when she didn't fully remember you, that fondness she had for you hadn't disappeared and you saw it in the way she'd fight every doctor when they tried to check on her during a particular bad day except for you, or when she would only trust you to put her IV in.
One day when you arrived for your shift in the morning you found Mrs.Muller in a white coat walking bed to bed asking patients all sorts of questions while holding a notepad and a pen.
"Should we stop her?" You asked Dana who already looked busy even though the shift had just started.
She waved you off "She's just conducting a survey" And showed you a paper that was left in the counter of the nurses station earlier "About everyone's favorite soda and least favorite spot in town I think"
Her writings were barely words, mostly scribbles, but you could make out the words Sprite and Dr.Pepper every few lines alongside some misspelled street names. A couple minutes later you overlapped with a patient you needed to check on and Mrs.Muller's questionnaire towards them, the older woman nodding and scribbling into her notepad as you spoke to your patient who assured you they were fine with Mrs.Muller being there, thankfully. When you were done and moved to your next patient she followed, that repeated for about three patients more until she declared she was bored and stopped Mateo to take her to her room because she'd forgotten her way.
On her next visit to the hospital after a particularly nasty fall on a bad day she'd been snappy with everyone included you. And as you asked her daughter the regular questions you had to ask every time a new patient came in she jumped into the conversation "I'm pregnant" She announced.
She was 85 years old and very much not pregnant, but you still let her continue and asked in an amused tone "Yeah? Who's the father?"
She stared at you with a straight face and let out "Your husband" At the same time as Mateo was walking by making him poke his head in.
"Oh hi Mrs.Muller, how are you doing today?"
"Pregnant with your baby apparently" You huffed a chuckle watching Mateo look completely lost.
"At least the child will have good hair" Mrs.Muller grumbled before getting distracted with the beeping of the machine next to her.
"I'm so sorry" Rosie apologized, you waved her off with a smile.
When you found out you were pregnant was around the same time as Mrs.Muller had been put in an elderly care facility, Rosie not being able to car for her mom full time anymore as her dementia got worse and her siblings all living out of state, so your visits to her were fewer and most of her care was handled by the facility in their state of the art clinic so she no longer came into the ER as often.
When you were in your first two trimesters you visited her at the facility as much as you could, but as you reached your third trimester anything other than work seemed like too much of a hassle, so with a heavy heart Mateo and you had decided it was best if your trips to see Mrs.Muller stopped for the time being.
You were eight months pregnant on one of the last times you saw Mrs.Muller in the ER, your body was achy, your feet swollen and your mood completely soured from the overstimulation of carrying a baby at 8 months pregnant while working on a busy emergency department, but that day Mrs.Muller's visit had brightened your day with her not even realizing it.
You weren't in charge of her case, but you still stopped by to check on her even though it was one of those bad days where she didn't remember you at all. You'd been standing to the side sipping out of a smoothie reading her chart when she spoke "You should suck in your gut darling, you look fat"
Everyone in the room turned to you with horrified looks, recently you cried for less. In fact, just earlier today you'd cried because Whitaker had asked you to clarify what one of your notes said on a patient chart because your writing wasn't too neat and yesterday you'd teared up when Langdon complimented Mel on her stitches but didn't say anything about yours.
But instead of crying like everyone else had expected, you bursted out laughing, full laugh that had you clutching your belly and wiping good tears away "I needed that Elowen, I really did" Mrs.Muller had no idea what you meant or how you knew her first name but she ignored you as you walked out of the room wiping tears away.
"Hey, hey, what happened?" Mateo worryingly rushed to your side when he noticed the tears.
"Nothing" You gasped for air, laughing that much while 8 months pregnant? Not for the weak, but again, nothing really was these days "Good tears I swear, oh my god"
"Baby talk to me" Mateo still looked worried "What's going on?"
"She…" You pointed at the room and bursted out laughing again "Oh my god"
"Okay, breathe please"
You laughed some more and then finally took a deep breath and stopped enough to be able to form a full sentence "She told me I looked fat"
"Oh no" Mateo frowned.
"She's laughing about being called fat?" Santos asked confused from where she was standing charting behind you "She cried last week when I told her the part in her hair was not straight"
"You said that in a really mean tone"
"As opposed to that mean little old lady called you fat in a good tone?" She questioned.
"She's just confused" You waved her off.
By the time your baby girl made it to the world Mrs.Muller was in hospice care, Mateo and you contemplated it, your plan was to not take your baby out farther than your backyard until she was at least three months old, but based on what you'd heard from Rosie around the time your baby was a month old, Mrs.Muller might've not make it until then, so you decided you'd visit.
Rosie greeted you at the entrance, it was only her there that day with her mom, she didn't push to hold the baby or touch or anything, just watched with the same fondness you saw in her mom and congratulated you both. Mrs. Muller was having a good day she told you, that morning when she woke up she'd been told about your visit with your little one and she'd been excitedly waiting for you to arrive.
When she saw you walk through the door, Mateo holding the carrier and you tired but glowing in front she beamed "Oh my darlings" She clasped her hands "Look at you!"
"Hi Mrs.Muller" You smiled with teary eyes, your hormones were still all over the place and seeing her look so fragile in that bed killed you.
"Come here" She motioned, you did "You look amazing, how are you doing?"
"Tired" You admitted "But we wanted to come introduce someone to you"
Mateo took a step closer and lifted the carrier up for you to pull the baby out "Hi Mrs.Muller"
"Hi my love" She smiled at him then saw the tiny baby in your arms "Oh my goodness"
"Would you like to hold her?" She nodded and you adjusted her in her arms safely keeping a hand close so you could help in case of an emergency.
"Look at you" Mrs.Muller cooed "You're so beautiful, you look just like your daddy"
Mateo smiled proudly, it was true, that weird statistic about girls always looking like their dad for some weird reason had been true in your case "Would you like to know her name?" He asked.
Mrs.Muller nodded and you two looked at each other before you softly said "Her name is Elowen Diaz"
Mrs.Muller looks up at you both with teary eyes and you nod "She wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you" Mateo told her "I had been eyeing the pretty doctor for days thinking I had no chance with her until you started playing matchmaker and I decided to risk it"
"You've been for every stage of our relationship it only seemed right for our girl to be named after you" You added.
"Oh take her before I drop her" You could see her arms shaking from emotion and Mateo, the protective dad he had become even before she was out in the world, didn't think twice before picking her up and nestling her in his arms, one technically because they were so big and she was so small but the other one was there too for extra security "You two are going to be the most wonderful parents to that little girl, she's so luck to have you"
"And we're lucky to have you" You said, she motioned for you to get closer so she could hug you.
When you were in her arms she whispered "I'm so proud of you two"
She passed away a week later, it happened in her sleep and she hadn't been in any pain. For the funeral you got Cassie to babysit as a repayment for all the times you and Mateo did for her and went to celebrate the life of a wonderful woman and say goodbye.
You heard stories from a lot of different people, Elowen Muller had been an exceptional woman who had impacted the life of everyone she'd connected with. When she was younger she'd been a special ed teacher, after she retired from teaching she decided to pursue her childhood dream of working in a zoo, except she didn't just go and volunteer at one, she found an underfunded rescue center and started campaigning for them, she volunteered all her free time to animal conservation and spent the rest of it alongside her family.
She had 3 kids, 2 daughters and a son, and 7 grandkids, all grown up with their own lives yet they still found time to visit her as much as possible. When the service ended you met up with Rosie and her siblings who had also adopted you into their family after hearing so much of you from their mother.
"Thank you for coming" Rosie smiled "I'm sure she's real happy you made it today"
"We wouldn't have missed it" Mateo replied for the both of you since he knew you were too emotional to speak, your whole body weight was resting on him as he held you by his side "We're going to miss her"
"Yeah" Rosie pulled an envelop out of her purse "She left this for you"
Back home, after saying goodbye to Cassie and making sure that Elowen was safely asleep in her bassinet, you took the baby monitor and sat outside with the envelope in your hands.
"I don't know if I'm ready for this" You admitted.
"You don't have to open it right now" Mateo kissed the top of your head.
You took a deep breath "No, I think we should" In the letter you could see a neat handwriting, probably Rosie's
My Dears,
If you're reading this letter, that means I'm gone.
And now that I've gotten the dramatic movie line out of the way let's do this.
I want to start by thanking you for taking care not only of me, but my family as well. All those hospital visits where you had to tend to me, you were also helping my family, those extra blankets and pillows never went unnoticed. Neither did the words of encouragement and all the support you had for my children and I through all the hard times.
I know I wasn't all there all the time, as much as I would've liked it, my sickness made it impossible. However, the times I was there, I got to see your beautiful love flourish. I'm glad you took the risk and decided to try it out, it takes one look at you both to realize how perfect you are for each other.
It was the highlight of my last years to see you two fall in love, from those 'secret' looks you threw each other's way (yes, I saw them, I think everybody did, you're not good at hiding) to seeing you hold hands for a second in the hallway while passing through on your way to another patient all the way to your wedding and (hopefully I'll still be there to see it) the birth of your baby.
To the best nurse ever, never lose that beautiful gentleness you have for others, it is one of your biggest strenghts, but don't let anyone use it as a weakness. Take care of our girl and the little one on the way as well like it is your full time job. (I'm sure you already do but it doesn't hurt to remind you)
To my favorite doctor, never lose sight of who you are, keep working hard but don't let your ambition consume you, take the time to stop and look around. Let our nurse take care of you and never stop loving him with as much passion as you do now, savor every moment with your little one, they grow up too fast.
I'm so proud of the people you've grown to be, you will be the best parents ever. Never lose sight of what is the most important thing in your life, each other, your family. I know you don't owe me anything, but I would really love it if you mentioned me once or twice to your girl, let her know a crazy old woman was the one who pushed her parents to get together maybe.
Don't miss me too much, know I'm having the time of my life with my Ernie and telling him all about what he missed with our family, including you three. It became a tradition after my first grandchild that every one of them got a knitted blanket, I obviously couldn't make one for your baby but I enlisted the help of Rosie with it and by the time you read this she should have it ready along with a few other things I would like you to have, call her, she'll have it all for you.(Rosie here: yes I will, call me)
It is a pity that we didn't have more time together, but I appreciate the universe for putting you in my way, until we see each other again.
With love,
Elowen Muller.
Both of you cried while holding each other for a while, until Elowen woke up and cried to be fed. After you got the blanket and box of things Mrs.Muller had left for you (a bunch of toys and trinkets she'd collected for her grandbabies over the years and kept in her home) Elowen slept in that blanket every single night. When she was old enough to ask how Mateo and you met you told her all about Elowen Muller, the 6 year old rated version of it, the wonderful woman she'd been named after. Although you didn't see the Muller family that much anymore, Rosie had been to every birthday party and you kept up through social media still.
Summary: The wedding is ending, but the night is not. After the slow dance, the patio confession, and a first kiss years in the making, leaving the reception with John feels both natural and impossible. The hotel room is still waiting. The two queen beds. The quiet after the music. The question of what this becomes once the wedding lights are gone. But then you see his lock screen. And suddenly, the truth is right there in his hands.
Warnings: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, wedding date/plus-one situation, emotional confession aftermath, first night together, kissing, soft intimacy, non-explicit sensuality, hotel room tension, vulnerability, body/appearance insecurity in a soft post-shower moment, lock screen reveal, lots of feelings, sleeping in the same bed, no smut, no use of Y/N.
Author's Note:
And here we are: the final part of The Wedding Date. This fic started with one RSVP box and somehow turned into three parts of John Shen being devastatingly careful, emotionally repressed, and quietly romantic in formalwear. This chapter is the soft landing: leaving the reception, the hotel room, the lock screen reveal, and the moment where “just tonight” becomes something more. Thank you so much for loving this version of John with me. He is so special to write: all quiet care, dry humor, restraint, and feelings he absolutely thinks he is hiding better than he is. I hope this ending feels like the exhale after all that waiting.
Xoxo, Del
| Part 1 | Part 2 |
By the time the song ended, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
John led you back to table seven with his hand still in yours, and this time, you did not drop it the second you reached your chair. You sat down beside him, flushed from dancing, your hair a little less perfect than it had been an hour ago, your feet aching pleasantly in your flats.
John sat beside you, his tie looser now, his jacket unbuttoned, his expression still composed in the way John’s usually was.
Except it was not quite the same.
Not anymore.
There was color high on his cheekbones. A softness around his mouth. A warmth in his eyes he did not look away fast enough to hide.
You stared at him. You knew you were staring. You could not seem to stop.
John noticed, of course.
His gaze moved to your face. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His mouth barely curved, but he did not push.
You looked down at the table before your face could give you away.
Your water glass sat near your plate. Your napkin was crumpled beside it. The bread roll you had spite-eaten earlier was gone. Somewhere across the room, Kasey was dancing with one of Natalie’s friends, still barefoot, still chaotic, still occasionally looking over like she had been assigned to monitor your emotional development.
The reception moved around you in bright, happy noise.
Music. Laughter. Champagne. Shoes abandoned under tables. Someone cheering near the bar. Natalie spinning past in a flash of white, her husband’s hand steady at her waist.
It was beautiful. It was too much.
Not in a bad way.
Just too full.
Too many witnesses. Too many eyes. Too many people who had seen John’s hand in yours and smiled like they had been waiting for the world to catch up.
John’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.
Your breath caught. A tiny thing. Ridiculous, considering what his mouth had been doing to yours on the patio less than an hour ago. Still, your whole body noticed.
John’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Too much?”
You turned your head and looked at him. The question was softer than the usual one. Closer to the truth.
You shook your head. “No.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
You smiled faintly. “I’m happy.”
John’s expression changed. Barely. But enough.
Your smile softened before you could stop it. “That’s the problem.”
His knee stayed warm against yours beneath the table. “Being happy is the problem?”
“No,” you said.
You looked back toward the room, at the music and the lights and all the people who had seen too much and somehow not enough.
“It’s just a lot of happy,” you said.
Then you looked at him. Your voice went quieter. “And I kind of want it somewhere quieter.”
John’s gaze held yours. The noise of the reception seemed to blur around the edges.
You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his sleeve. “I’m ready to go.”
John went still. Not tense. Not uncomfortable. Just very, very aware.
His eyes stayed on yours. “To the hotel?”
Your stomach dipped at the careful way he asked it. Not assuming. Still John, even now.
You nodded. “That is where our things are.”
His ears went faintly pink.
You bit back a smile. “John.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m not assuming.”
“I know,” you said.
His gaze held yours, warm and steady and still a little pink at the edges.
You let your voice soften. “I just want to be somewhere quieter.”
His expression changed. A small thing. A careful thing.
But you saw the understanding settle there.
John nodded once. “Okay.”
Then he stood, practical immediately because of course he did, and reached beneath the table.
You blinked. “What are you doing?”
John straightened with your heels dangling from two fingers by their thin straps. “Preventing you from abandoning your shoes.”
You stared at him. “You knew where they were?”
“You took them off during the group photo situation,” John said. “Then Kasey kicked them under the table.”
You looked toward the dance floor. “Of course she did.”
John picked up your clutch from the chair, too, and held it out to you. “This is yours.”
You took it from him. “You are alarmingly useful.”
“So I’ve heard,” John said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not let my family go to your head.”
His mouth barely curved. “Too late.”
You laughed softly, and John’s eyes dropped to your smile for half a second.
This time, he did not look away like he had been caught. This time, he looked because he could.
Your chest went warm all over again.
Then he shifted your heels into one hand and offered you the other.
Your heart did the same stupid thing it had done all night. Only now, you knew what to do with it.
You put your hand in his.
John’s fingers closed around yours, warm and certain, and together you made your way through the reception.
You did not escape cleanly.
Of course you didn’t.
Natalie saw you first and broke away from her husband long enough to throw both arms around you.
“You’re leaving?” Natalie asked near your ear.
You hugged her back carefully, trying not to crush the side of her dress. “I’m exhausted.”
Natalie pulled back just enough to look at your face.
Then her eyes flicked to John, who stood beside you holding your heels with perfect composure.
Natalie’s smile turned knowing and impossibly soft. “Sure.”
You gave her a warning look. “I am.”
“I believe you,” Natalie said.
“You absolutely do not,” you said.
Natalie laughed and hugged you again. “Thank you for being here.”
Your expression softened. “Of course.”
When Natalie pulled away, she looked at John. “Thank you for coming.”
John nodded. “Thank you for having me.”
Natalie’s eyes dropped briefly to your joined hands. Her smile widened.
You sighed. “Natalie.”
She lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“That phrase has lost all meaning tonight,” you said.
Natalie laughed and let her husband pull her back toward the dance floor.
You made it four more steps before your mother appeared.
Naturally.
Her eyes were already shiny, which was unfair.
“Oh, Mom,” you said softly.
Your mother touched your cheek. “I’m not doing anything.”
You frowned at her. “You’re looking emotional.”
“I’m allowed,” she said.
John’s hand squeezed yours once, small and quiet.
You swallowed.
Your mother looked at him, then at you, and smiled as if she were trying not to say everything else.
“Drive safe,” she said.
“We will,” you said.
John nodded. “I’ll be careful.”
Your mother looked at him for one thoughtful second.
Then she touched his arm. “I know.”
The simple trust in her voice made something in your chest pull tight.
John’s expression softened. Barely. But enough.
Aunt Lisa found you near the doors because apparently she had a sixth sense for exits.
“You’re sneaking out?” Aunt Lisa asked.
You lifted your chin. “Leaving at a reasonable time.”
Aunt Lisa looked at the flats on your feet, then at the heels in John’s hand. “Mm-hmm.”
John’s mouth twitched beside you.
You pointed at him without looking. “Do not.”
His mouth settled into something almost innocent. Almost.
Aunt Lisa smiled and stepped forward to hug you. “Text your mom when you get back to the hotel.”
You hugged her back. “I will.”
Aunt Lisa released you, then turned to John.
Before either of you could prepare, she hugged him too.
You watched it happen with helpless fascination.
John went still for half a second.
Then, with the grave adaptability of a man who had survived worse emergencies, he hugged her back.
You pressed your lips together so hard your face hurt.
When Aunt Lisa pulled away, she patted his arm. “You take care of her.”
Your face warmed instantly. “Aunt Lisa.”
John’s gaze moved briefly to you. Then back to your aunt.
“I will,” John said.
The answer was simple. Steady. Too sincere for you to make a joke out of.
Aunt Lisa seemed to know it too, because her expression softened before she stepped back.
Kasey appeared beside her, suspiciously fast. “Leaving without a final maid-of-honor debrief?”
You looked at her. “Yes.”
Kasey gasped. “Rude.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Goodnight, Kasey.”
Her grin softened. For one rare second, she did not make a joke.
“Goodnight,” Kasey said.
Then she leaned in and hugged you tightly. “I’m happy for you,” she whispered.
Your throat tightened. You squeezed her back. “Thank you.”
Kasey pulled away before it could get too sincere and looked at John. “Do not mess this up.”
John’s hand tightened around yours. “I won’t.”
Her expression softened. Then she pointed at him, as if to recover some dignity. “Good.”
You looked between them, throat suddenly tight. “Okay, that was almost normal.”
Kasey wiped under one eye. “Don’t tell anyone.”
John glanced at you. “Secret’s safe.”
Kasey stepped back, still smiling. “Go. Before I start crying again.”
You waved once more as John opened the door.
The night air slipped in cool and clean.
Then you stepped outside with his hand in yours, your heels in his other hand, and your family’s laughter spilling warmly behind you.
The two of you started across the parking lot, John carrying your heels by their thin straps in one hand, your fingers linked with his other. The pavement was cool beneath your flats, and the night air moved gently over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.
John noticed. His gaze dropped briefly to your shoulders. “Cold?”
You shook your head. “Not really.”
He gave you a look.
You sighed. “A little.”
John stopped walking. Before you could ask what he was doing, he shifted your heels into the same hand as his keys and shrugged out of his suit jacket.
Your eyes widened. “John.”
He ignored your tone with impressive dedication.
“Absolutely not,” you said.
John stepped closer. “You’re cold.”
“I’m mildly chilly,” you corrected.
“That’s cold,” John said.
You sighed. “That is not an emergency.”
His mouth barely moved. “You’re walking through a parking lot in a sleeveless dress.”
“And flats,” you said. “Very practical.”
“Not relevant,” John said.
You started to argue again, but John had already moved behind you.
The jacket settled over your shoulders a second later, warm from him and heavier than you expected. It smelled like him too, clean and subtle and devastatingly unfair.
Your objection died immediately.
John’s hands lingered at the edges of the jacket for one careful second, adjusting it so it covered your bare arms without pulling at your dress.
You looked down at the sleeves hanging past your wrists. Then you looked back at him. He was standing close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes.
“You know my family is still inside that building,” you said.
John’s gaze stayed on your face. “Yes.”
“They might see this,” you continued.
“Yes,” John said again.
Your chest warmed for reasons unrelated to the jacket.
“And you’re still doing it?” you asked.
His hands fell away from the jacket, but he did not step back right away.
“Yes,” John said.
The answer was the same as earlier. The same as the breakfast bag. The same as the open car door. The same as the bread roll, the water glass, and the hand at your waist. Every quiet, practical act of care he had been giving you all day.
Only now, it landed differently. Softer. Warmer.
You smiled down at the pavement because looking at him felt dangerous.
John’s fingers found yours again.
When you reached the car, he unlocked it, then opened your door before you could reach for the handle.
You stopped beside him.
He looked at you over the top edge of the door. “What?”
You glanced at the open passenger seat, then back at him.
The hotel was only a few minutes away. The same hotel where your things were. The same hotel where you had one room. Two queen beds.
A fact that had felt funny earlier.
Manageable.
Now, suddenly, it felt like something sitting in the open space between you.
John’s gaze held yours. He understood a second later.
You saw it happen.
His hand stayed on the car door, but his posture changed slightly. Went still. Careful. Controlled in the way that meant he was trying very hard not to make the moment heavier than you wanted it to be.
“We can stop somewhere,” John said.
You blinked. “What?”
His voice stayed even. “Coffee. Drive for a while. Sit in the lobby. Whatever you want.”
Your chest pinched.
“You think I’m nervous,” you said.
“I think a lot changed very quickly,” John said.
You stared at him. He looked back steadily. No pressure. No assumption. No smugness, even though he had absolutely earned a little smugness.
Just John.
Careful with you.
Again.
You stepped closer, close enough that the open car door hid you from most of the parking lot.
“I’m not nervous about being alone with you,” you said.
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to yours. “No?”
“No,” you said.
The word came out softer than you meant it to. His fingers flexed once against the top of the car door. You looked at his hand, then back at his face.
“I’m nervous because I want to be alone with you,” you said.
The quiet after that felt very different. John’s expression did not change much. John’s expression never changed much. But his eyes did. His breath did. The space between you did.
“Okay,” he said, voice lower now.
You smiled faintly. “You are using that word very intensely.”
His mouth curved. “Limited vocabulary under stress.”
You laughed under your breath. “You’re stressed?”
John gave you a look. A real one. Flat and dry and deeply betrayed by the question.
“Yes,” John said. “I’m stressed.”
Your smile widened.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again, then dragged back to your eyes with visible effort.
“I just kissed you after spending two years wondering what it would be like,” he said. “You’re very pretty, and you’re wearing my jacket.”
Your smile disappeared.
Not because you were upset.
Because your brain simply stopped working.
John looked at you as if he had not meant to say quite that much.
Then his jaw shifted once. “So, yes. Stressed.”
You stared at him. The parking lot tilted a little.
“You can’t just say that,” you whispered.
John’s mouth barely moved. “Apparently I can.”
Your eyes widened. “John.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “It’s true.”
Your chest went warm and unsteady.
You reached for his tie again, not tugging. Just touching the loose knot, the little rose-colored flowers that had started causing problems long before either of you admitted they were problems.
John looked down at your hand. Then at you.
You let your fingers fall away. “Hotel.”
His gaze held yours. Then he nodded once. “Hotel.”
You got into the passenger seat before you could decide to kiss him against the car door.
John closed the door gently.
The hotel appeared too quickly. Or not quickly enough. Maybe both.
John pulled into the lot near the side entrance and parked under the pale wash of a streetlamp.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly beneath the hood. The dashboard lights glowed over John’s hands on the wheel, over your hand still resting near his on the center console, over the sleeves of his jacket hanging past your wrists.
You looked at the hotel doors. Then at him. John followed your gaze. For one second, the careful thing came back into his expression. Not distance. Just restraint.
He turned off the car, then looked at you. “We don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”
Your throat tightened. You knew what he meant. Not just physically.
All of it.
The kiss. The years. The fact that tomorrow morning, you would wake up in the same hotel room with the man who had been your friend when you arrived and something else entirely when you left.
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
His gaze stayed on yours.
“I mean it,” John said.
“I know,” you said again.
His voice stayed quiet. “No pressure. No expectations. Not because of the room. Not because of the wedding. Not because we kissed.”
Your chest went soft in a way that almost hurt. Of course. Of course, he would say that before you even got inside. Of course, he would make sure the room did not become another environmental factor.
“John,” you said.
His eyes held yours.
You smiled, small and helpless. “I know.”
For a second, he just looked at you. Then he nodded once, and the tension loosened enough for you to breathe.
John reached for your heels from the back seat, then got out and came around to open your door.
You waited until he offered his hand.
Then you took it.
The walk from the car to the hotel entrance was short, but it felt longer with his jacket around your shoulders, and his fingers threaded through yours. The lobby lights glowed warm through the glass doors. The automatic doors opened with a quiet rush of air, and then you were inside, away from the cool night and the distant wedding noise.
The hotel lobby was nearly empty.
A man in a sweatshirt stood near the front desk, asking about extra towels. Someone’s suitcase sat abandoned beside a leather chair. The little coffee station near the wall had been reduced to decaf, wooden stirrers, and one sad packet of powdered creamer.
Normal hotel things. Aggressively normal hotel things. Which somehow made everything worse.
John glanced toward the elevator, then back at you. “Room?”
You looked toward the hallway where the vending machines hummed softly beside the ice machine. Your stomach made a small, traitorous sound.
John looked down at you.
You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”
His mouth barely moved. “Snacks.”
You opened one eye. His expression was calm. Too calm.
You sighed. “Fine.”
The vending machine buzzed under fluorescent light, stocked with chips, candy bars, trail mix, pretzels, and several options that looked like they had been placed there during a previous administration. You stood in front of it, still wrapped in his jacket, and tried to decide while John held your heels in one hand and his wallet in the other.
You pointed at the pretzels. “Those.”
John typed in the number. The spiral turned. The pretzels dropped.
You pointed at the peanut M&M’s. “And those.”
John glanced at you.
You lifted your chin. “Balance.”
He typed in the number. “Reasonable.”
The M&M’s dropped. Then he bought two bottles of water without comment.
You took one when he handed it to you. This time, you did not make a joke about it. You just looked at him, standing there under the fluorescent light with your heels in one hand, snacks in the other, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
Your chest went soft.
John’s gaze moved to the jacket. Then back to your face. The air changed.
Again.
His voice came quieter. “Elevator?”
You nodded. “Elevator.”
The elevator ride lasted maybe thirty seconds.
It felt deeply unreasonable.
You stood shoulder to shoulder, John holding the snacks and your heels, you holding the waters, his jacket still wrapped around you like evidence. The mirrored wall reflected the two of you back at yourselves: your hair a little mussed from dancing, your dress peeking beneath the dark shape of his jacket, John with his tie loosened, his expression calm except for the way his eyes kept flicking to you in the reflection.
You caught him once in the mirror. His gaze met yours there. Your stomach dipped. John looked away first this time, but not fast enough for it to feel like denial. More like restraint.
You smiled down at the water bottles.
His mouth curved faintly in the reflection.
The elevator dinged.
You both stepped out like normal people. Barely.
The hallway to your room was quiet, carpeted, and softly lit, lined with identical doors and tiny brass numbers. Your footsteps were muffled. John walked beside you, the snacks crinkling softly in his hand.
When you reached the door, you stopped. John stopped too. For one second, you both looked at the keycard reader. Earlier, the hotel room had been funny.
One room. Two queen beds. A logistical arrangement.
A thing you could joke about because nothing had happened yet.
Now John was holding your heels, you were wearing his jacket, and your mouth still remembered his.
The room did not feel funny anymore.
John shifted the snacks into the same hand as your heels and reached for the keycard. Then he paused.
His eyes moved to yours. “Tell me if you want something different.”
You stared at him.
There was no joke in his voice this time. No easy escape hatch. Just care.
You took a step closer. “I don’t.”
His gaze searched your face.
You softened. “I’m more than okay.”
The tension in his jaw eased. Just a little.
Then he unlocked the door. The light on the reader turned green.
This time, neither of you made a joke about it.
John opened the door and stepped aside to let you in first.
You crossed the threshold into the room, and the door fell shut softly behind him.
The room was exactly as you had left it. Two queen beds. Your bag open near the luggage rack. His bag placed neatly beside the desk. Your makeup scattered across the bathroom counter. The necklace box still sitting near the lamp. The curtains drawn against the dark.
Normal. Ordinary. Impossible.
You stood just inside the doorway, still in his jacket, holding two waters like they were very important. John set your heels carefully near your suitcase, then placed the snacks on the desk. Neither of you spoke.
The silence was not awkward. Not exactly. It was full.
John turned back to you slowly. His eyes moved over your face, then to his jacket around your shoulders, then back to your eyes.
You tightened your fingers around the water bottles. “This is different.”
John nodded once. “Yes.”
The answer was quiet, but there was nothing uncertain in it.
His mouth barely curved, but the humor did not quite cover the warmth in his eyes. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then John said, “Not because I’m unsure.”
“I know,” you said.
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because I’m not.”
Your heart turned over. John took one careful step closer. Not all the way. Never all the way unless you asked.
“I’m very sure,” he said.
The words were quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You looked at him, at the loosened tie, the rolled tension in his shoulders, the careful hands that had carried your shoes and bought your snacks and touched your face like kissing you mattered.
Then you set the waters on the dresser.
John watched you.
You reached for the front edges of his jacket and pulled them a little tighter around yourself.
His gaze dropped to the motion. Then back to your face.
You smiled softly. “I like your jacket.”
John’s eyes warmed. “I noticed.”
“You notice everything,” you replied.
“Not everything,” John said.
You lifted a brow. “No?”
His mouth barely curved. “Apparently, I missed several years of you wanting to kiss me.”
You laughed, surprised and quiet.
John’s expression softened at the sound. Then he looked at you the way he had all night. Like he was done pretending. Like the room could be full of questions, and he would still choose the simplest truth.
You took one step toward him. Then another.
John stayed where he was. Waiting. You stopped close enough to touch the loosened knot of his tie.
So you did.
Your fingers brushed the fabric, the small rose-colored flowers soft beneath your thumb.
John’s breath changed.
You looked up at him. “Can I kiss you again?”
His eyes darkened. “Yes,” John said.
The answer came immediately. No environmental factors. No caveats. No careful distance.
Just yes.
You rose onto your toes, and this time, John met you halfway.
The kiss was different in the hotel room.
Not better.
Not exactly.
The patio had been all revelation, all finally, all years of quiet wanting cracking open under soft lights and wedding music.
This was quieter. Closer. No glass doors. No reception on the other side. No Kasey waiting to interrupt. No family watching from across the room with knowing smiles.
Just the low hum of the air conditioner, the muted glow of the lamp, and John’s mouth moving carefully over yours like he still could not quite believe he was allowed.
You kissed him once.
Then again.
Slower the second time, your hand rising to his tie, fingers curling around the loosened knot.
John’s breath changed against your mouth.
That small, fractured sound went straight through you.
His hands stayed at your sides, careful and hovering, like he was still holding himself back even with your mouth under his and your fingers wrapped in his tie.
You pulled back only enough to breathe.
John’s forehead hovered close to yours, his eyes still closed for one impossible second before they opened.
You looked at him. Really looked at him.
The loosened tie. The careful jaw. The heat in his eyes he was no longer hiding well enough to survive. Then you let his jacket slip from your shoulders.
It fell onto the edge of the bed behind you, heavy and warm and forgotten.
John’s eyes dropped to the movement. Then back to your face.
You tightened your fingers around his tie and drew him closer.
Not rough. Not uncertain. Just enough that his breath caught this time.
“Come here,” you whispered.
His mouth found yours again, and the kiss changed immediately.
Still careful. Still him. But not distant anymore.
Your back met the dresser with a soft thud, and John’s hand came out beside your hip, bracing himself before he could crowd you too much. His other hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once like touching you was a decision he wanted to make correctly.
You made the decision for him.
You reached for his wrist and brought his hand to your waist.
John went still for half a second.
Then his fingers curled against the satin of your dress.
Your breath caught.
His eyes opened against yours.
“You can touch me,” you said.
The words were quiet. Certain. John’s expression changed. Barely. But enough to make your pulse kick hard beneath your skin.
His hand tightened at your waist, not too much, just enough to make it clear he had heard you. Then he pulled you in. Fully this time. No careful inch of space left between you. No polite distance.
No room for misunderstanding.
One hand settled at your hip, warm and firm through the satin. The other came to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before sliding back along your cheek.
You tipped your face into his palm.
John’s eyes darkened.
Then he kissed you again.
Deeper.
Still slow, but no longer tentative.
His mouth moved over yours like he had spent too long imagining this to waste any part of it. Like he wanted to learn the shape of you with the same patience he brought to everything else, except now that patience had heat underneath it.
Your fingers slid from his tie to the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.
John made a low sound against your mouth.
Not controlled enough. Not fully hidden.
Your whole body reacted to it.
You pulled him closer, and this time he let you. His hand at your hip shifted, drawing you into him, while the hand at your jaw slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady beneath your hair.
The room narrowed.
His tie beneath your fingers. His breath against your cheek. The solid line of him against you. The careful pressure of his hand at your hip. The dizzying fact that John, calm and guarded and always so measured, was kissing you as if restraint had become something he used to make this last, rather than to keep himself away.
You broke away on a shaky breath.
John followed only a fraction before stopping himself, his forehead hovering near yours, his hand still at the back of your neck. For a second, neither of you spoke. His breathing was uneven. So was yours. You opened your eyes and found him already looking at you. There was nothing casual in his face now. Nothing easy to joke around.
Just want. And tenderness. And the terrifying, beautiful weight of finally.
Your thumb brushed over the front of his shirt. “You’re still being careful.”
John’s hand flexed once at your hip. “Yes.”
Your throat tightened. Not because he sounded distant. Because he didn’t. Because the word came out low and rough and honest, like careful was the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely.
You lifted your hand to his jaw. “You don’t have to be that careful.”
His eyes held yours.
“Yes,” John said quietly. “I do.”
The answer landed deep. Not as rejection. As devotion. As promise. As John telling you, without dressing it up, that wanting you did not mean he would stop being careful with you.
Your chest ached.
Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.
Once. Softly. A little slower than before.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
John kissed your cheek next, then the edge of your jaw, his hand at the back of your neck keeping you close but never trapped.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
“John,” you breathed.
He paused there, mouth near your jaw, breath warm against your skin.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You did not have an answer. Not a useful one.
So you turned your face back toward his and kissed him again.
John’s hand at your hip pulled you in, and this time, when your bodies met, neither of you stepped back.
The kiss deepened slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic.
Worse than that.
Intentional.
John kissed you like he had all the time in the world, yet he still wanted to be careful with every second. His hand stayed firm at your hip, his other warm at the back of your neck, his thumb brushing once beneath your hair as if he were memorizing the shape of you there.
You curled your fingers tighter in his shirt.
The fabric wrinkled beneath your grip.
His breath caught against your mouth, and for one dizzy second, his control slipped just enough for you to feel the want underneath it.
His hand at your hip pulled you closer. Your back pressed harder against the dresser. A bottle of water shifted somewhere beside you, plastic crackling faintly against the wood.
Neither of you looked at it.
John kissed you again, slower and deeper, his mouth warm and certain over yours. Your hand slid up from his shirt to his jaw, and the faint rasp of his stubble beneath your palm made your stomach dip. He made another quiet sound. This one was lower.
Less hidden.
Your knees went soft.
John felt it. His arm shifted around your waist immediately, steadying you before you could even think to need it.
That was the thing that almost undid you.
Not just the kissing. Not just the want. The way he wanted you and still noticed everything. You broke away on a breath that did not feel like enough.
John did not move far. His forehead hovered near yours, his hand still at the back of your neck, his breathing uneven enough to make something warm and helpless unfurl in your chest.
You opened your eyes. He was already looking at you.
“Hi,” you whispered.
John’s mouth curved faintly, breathless and soft. “Hi.”
For one second, the word felt absurd.
You almost laughed.
Then his thumb moved once against your hip, and the laugh vanished somewhere under your ribs. John’s gaze dropped to your mouth again.
Your fingers tightened against his jaw. “You can kiss me again.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “I know.”
But he did not. Not immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes for half a second, like he had to gather every careful part of himself back into place.
Your chest tightened. “John?”
His eyes opened. The heat was still there. So was the tenderness. So was the restraint. Especially the restraint.
“I want to,” he said.
The words were quiet. Rough around the edges.
“I know,” you said.
His hand flexed once at your waist. “A lot.”
Your breath caught.
John’s eyes stayed on yours, steady despite the color high on his cheekbones. “I want to keep kissing you. I want to keep touching you. I want…”
He stopped there.
Not because he did not know how to finish. Because he did. Because you both did.
The silence filled in the rest.
John’s expression shifted immediately. “I’m not saying no.”
Your fingers softened against his jaw. “I know.”
His gaze searched your face.
You gave him a small smile. “You’re saying not too fast.”
His shoulders eased by the smallest degree. “Yes,” John said.
His thumb brushed the side of your neck, so gentle it almost hurt. “I don’t want to make tonight smaller by rushing it.”
Your heart turned over. You looked at him, at his loosened tie and uneven breath and the careful, devastating honesty on his face.
“You are so annoying,” you whispered.
John blinked. Then his mouth curved. “That was not the response I expected.”
You shook your head, smiling even though your throat felt tight. “You keep saying exactly the right thing, and it’s annoying.”
His expression softened. He leaned in, but only to touch his mouth to your forehead.
One slow kiss. Quiet. Almost reverent.
Your eyes closed.
When he pulled back, his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your shoulder, then down your arm until his fingers found yours. You let him take your hand. For a moment, neither of you moved. The room hummed softly around you. The snacks sat unopened on the desk. His jacket lay on the edge of the bed where you had let it fall. Your heels rested near your suitcase. The two queen beds waited there like a question neither of you had to answer yet.
You looked toward the bathroom door, then back at him.
“I’m going to shower,” you said.
John went still for half a second. Then his ears went faintly pink.
“Okay,” John said.
The word was calm. His face was not quite. You bit back a smile and crossed to your suitcase for your pajamas, clean underwear, and makeup wipes.
“I won’t be long,” you said.
John’s eyes stayed on your face. “Take your time.”
Your chest softened. Then you slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind you.
You showered quickly.
The warm water loosened the ache in your feet and rinsed the reception from your skin, the hairspray from your neck, the faint stickiness of champagne, dance-floor heat, and hours of being watched by people who loved you too loudly.
But John was on the other side of the door.
So you showered quickly.
You took off your makeup with one of the wipes, brushed your wet hair back from your face, and changed into your pajama shorts and the soft T-shirt you had packed without thinking this morning.
This morning, it had just been something to sleep in. Now, standing in the bathroom mirror with bare legs, damp hair, no makeup, and your lips still swollen from kissing him, it felt like something else entirely.
More vulnerable than the dress, somehow.
The dress had been satin and intention. Wedding guest armor. Something pretty enough to hide behind.
This was just you. Soft cotton. Clean skin. A tired face. A heart that had not settled down once since the patio.
You looked at yourself for one second too long, then made a face at your reflection because spiraling in a hotel bathroom after John Shen had kissed you like that felt both inevitable and deeply inconvenient.
Then you opened the door before you could talk yourself out of it.
John looked up.
He had changed while you were in the shower. The suit was gone. The floral tie was folded neatly on the desk. He was in a plain T-shirt and dark sweatpants now, his hair slightly mussed from where he had clearly run a hand through it too many times.
The sight of him like that did something quiet and catastrophic to your chest.
Then he saw you.
His expression went still. Not blank. Not polite. Still in the way he got when something mattered enough that he did not trust himself to react too quickly.
You stopped just outside the bathroom door, suddenly aware of your damp hair, your bare face, the hem of your shorts, the soft T-shirt hanging off one shoulder more than you had intended.
Your fingers tightened around the makeup wipe package in your hand. “What?”
John’s eyes moved over your face. Not your body. Your face. Slowly enough that your breath caught.
“You are beautiful,” John said.
The words were quiet. Immediate. Like he had not decided to say them. Like they had simply arrived.
Your chest tightened. “John.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “You are.”
You looked down, heat crawling up your neck. “I’m in pajamas.”
“I noticed,” John said.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “My hair is wet.”
“I noticed that too,” John said.
You looked back up at him. His expression had softened, but there was something almost careful in it now. Like he knew exactly where your mind had gone and was trying not to crowd it.
“You don’t have to dress up,” he said.
Your breath caught. John stood from the edge of the bed, slow enough not to startle you, and stayed where he was.
“I mean it,” he said. “You are beautiful.”
Something inside you went painfully tender. You swallowed, still holding the makeup wipes like a shield. “You’re very intense after midnight.”
His mouth barely curved. “Known issue.”
The laugh that left you was softer this time. Less nervous. John’s eyes warmed at the sound. You crossed to your suitcase and dropped the makeup wipes into your toiletry bag mostly so you had something to do with your hands. When you turned back, John was still watching you.
Like the sight of you in pajamas had not made the moment smaller. Like it had made it more real. That somehow made you want to cry.
Instead, you looked at the folded tie on the desk. “You changed.”
John glanced down at himself like he had forgotten. “Yes.”
You nodded once. “Very observant of me.”
His mouth twitched. “Extremely.”
You looked at him again, at the T-shirt, the sweats, the bare feet, the hair that was no longer perfectly controlled.
He looked younger like this. Not young. Just less armored. Less untouchable. More yours, even if you still were not ready to say that word out loud.
“You look different,” you said.
John’s gaze held yours. “Bad different?”
“No,” you said quickly.
His expression softened.
You smiled faintly. “Good different.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then John’s phone lit up on the desk beside his folded tie.
Your eyes dropped automatically. And everything in you went still.
It was only a second. Maybe two. Just the brief glow of the screen in the dim hotel room.
But it was enough.
There, beneath the time and a few notifications he clearly had not checked, was the photo from earlier.
The one Kasey had taken under the garden arch.
You in your mauve dress. John in his dark suit and rose-colored tie. His hand resting carefully at your waist. Your face turned toward him, laughing. His eyes on you. Not the camera. You.
The room went very quiet. John noticed your silence before the screen went dark. His gaze followed yours to the phone. Then he froze.
You looked from the phone to him. “John.”
His jaw shifted once. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely caught. Not because he was embarrassed exactly. Because he had been seen. Really seen.
You stepped closer to the desk, and the phone lit again when you tapped the screen. The photo appeared once more.
Your throat tightened.
“You set it as your lock screen,” you said.
John was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Yes.”
You looked back at him. “When?”
His eyes stayed on yours. A beat passed. Then another.
“Before the reception,” John said.
Your breath caught.
“Before we kissed?” you asked.
“Yes,” John said.
The word was quiet, steady, and devastating.
You looked down at the photo again. At your own smile. At the way he was looking at you.
“You set a picture of us as your lock screen before you knew,” you said.
John stepped closer, but not close enough to touch you.
“I knew how I felt,” he said.
Your chest pulled tight. The screen went dark again, but the image stayed burned behind your eyes. You under the arch. His hand at your waist. His eyes on you like your happiness had undone him.
You swallowed. “What was the plan if I saw it?”
John looked down at the phone. Then back at you. His mouth barely moved. “Avoidance.”
A laugh escaped you, soft and shaky. “That was your plan?”
“I hadn’t finalized it,” John said.
You stared at him. His expression was calm, but his ears had gone faintly pink again.
“I was going to change it before you saw it,” he admitted.
Your heart did something terrible and sweet.
“But you didn’t,” you said.
“No,” John said.
“Why?”
His gaze held yours.
“Because I liked seeing it,” John said.
The answer was so simple that it hurt. You looked away for a second, because the room had gone blurry at the edges and you were absolutely not going to cry over a lock screen in pajama shorts. Except apparently you might.
John’s voice softened. “Hey.”
You shook your head quickly. “I’m fine.”
He did not move closer without permission. He just stood there, quiet and steady and careful, while you tried to make yourself normal again. That made it worse.
You laughed under your breath and wiped at the corner of one eye before anything could fall. “God, you are so unfair.”
John’s brow furrowed faintly. “Unfair?”
“You put us on your phone before you knew if there was an us,” you said.
His expression shifted. Softened.
“There was an us,” John said.
Your breath caught. He took one careful step closer.
“Not like this,” John said. “Not yet. But there was.”
You looked at him. The room felt very still around you. The folded tie on the desk. The snacks unopened beside it. The jacket fallen across the bed. The two queen beds waiting in the quiet. John’s phone dark between you, holding proof that he had wanted this in the only private way he had allowed himself.
You stepped toward him. This time, he met you there. Your hands found his shirt, and his hands came carefully to your waist.
You looked up at him. “You’re a lot more romantic than you think you are.”
John’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m not sure that’s accurate.”
“It is,” you said.
His eyes warmed. Then his expression sobered, just slightly.
“I didn’t set it because I thought tonight would happen,” John said.
Your smile softened. He looked at you like the words mattered, like he needed you to understand this part exactly.
“I set it because I wanted to remember what it felt like when it almost did,” he said.
That did it.
Your eyes burned.
“John,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed once at your waist.
You shook your head before he could ask.
“No,” you said, voice unsteady. “It’s just… a lot of happy.”
His face softened at the echo.
Then you rose up and kissed him.
Not desperate this time. Not breathless, just soft, grateful, and certain.
John’s hand rose to your cheek, and he kissed you back like he understood the difference.
The kiss stayed soft. Slow. Unhurried in a way that made your chest ache. When you pulled back, he stayed close, his thumb resting lightly near your jaw, his eyes moving over your face like he was still getting used to being allowed to look at you this way.
You let out a shaky breath.
John’s mouth curved faintly, soft enough to make your chest ache.
For a second, neither of you moved. Then your eyes drifted to the desk, where the vending machine snacks sat beside his folded tie and the phone that had just quietly destroyed you. The pretzels suddenly looked very important.
You pointed toward them. “I think I need something normal to do.”
John followed your gaze. “Pretzels?”
“Pretzels,” you said.
His expression softened like he understood exactly what you meant. Not hunger. Not really. Just something to hold. Something ordinary in a room that no longer felt ordinary at all.
You climbed onto the bed closest to the desk and sat near the pillows, legs folded beneath you. John brought the snacks and waters over, then paused at the edge of the mattress. You looked up at him. He looked back. Careful again.
You smiled faintly and patted the space beside you. “You can sit with me.”
John’s gaze held yours for one quiet second. Then he sat. Not far away. Not pressed close enough to make a point. Just beside you, his knee brushing yours, his shoulder close enough that you could lean into him if you wanted to.
You did want to. You were just trying to survive the pretzels first. The bag crinkled loudly when you opened it. Too loudly. You laughed under your breath.
John looked at you. “What?”
You smiled down into the bag. “It just feels weird to be doing something so normal.”
His eyes stayed on your face. “It helps.”
You looked back at him. “Does it?”
“A little,” John said.
That made your smile soften.
Because he was giddy too, you realized. Not in any way that would look like giddy on anyone else. But he was sitting beside you in a T-shirt and sweats, tie folded on the desk, hair mussed, mouth softer than usual, looking at you like the pretzel bag was the only thing keeping him from kissing you again.
And that, apparently, was John Shen giddy.
You held the bag toward him. “Pretzel?”
He took one. “Thank you.”
You watched his fingers brush yours against the edge of the bag. A tiny thing. Ridiculous, after everything. Still, your whole body noticed. John noticed you noticing.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The room settled around you. Air conditioner humming. TV dark. Snacks open. Two queen beds. His jacket fallen across the other comforter. Your damp hair cooling against the back of your neck. John beside you, real and warm and close.
You looked down into the pretzel bag. “I want you to know this means more to me than just tonight.”
John went very still. Still in the way he got when something mattered enough that he wanted to hear it correctly. You kept your eyes down because looking at him made the words feel bigger. And they were already big enough.
“I don’t know what this looks like when we go home,” you said. “Or when we’re back at work. Or when you bring me coffee and I’m supposed to act normal about it.”
John did not interrupt. His shoulder stayed warm beside yours. His knee stayed against yours. You swallowed.
“But I want more of this,” you said.
Your fingers tightened around the bag. Then you made yourself look at him.
“I want us,” you said.
The room went quiet in a way that felt almost impossible. The carefulness was still there, but beneath it, something shifted. Something opened. Like he had been holding his breath around those exact words and only now realized he could let it out.
The pretzel bag crinkled softly when you set it aside. John’s hand moved on the comforter between you. Slowly. An offer. You put your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours immediately.
“I want us too,” John said.
No hesitation. No clever deflection. No careful narrowing of the moment into something smaller than it was. Just the truth. Your throat tightened.
John’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. “When we go home.”
Your breath caught.
“When we go back to work,” he said.
You looked at him, barely breathing.
“When I bring you coffee,” John said, his mouth softening at the edge, “and you are very bad at acting normal.”
A laugh escaped you. So relieved it hurt.
John’s expression softened at the sound.
“I want it then too,” he said.
Your chest went painfully warm.
John’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
You looked down at your joined hands, overwhelmed by how simple he made it sound.
Home.
Work.
Coffee.
Still this.
Still us.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The snacks sat forgotten beside you. The TV stayed dark. The room felt less impossible now, not because it was smaller, but because the thing between you finally had somewhere to go. Not a plan. Not a label you had to define before sunrise. Just a direction.
Us.
You leaned sideways until your shoulder rested against his. John exhaled quietly, like he had been waiting for that too. His arm moved slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. You did not. He settled it around your shoulders, warm and steady, and drew you gently against his side.
The comfort of it was immediate.
Almost unfair.
You closed your eyes for a second. His T-shirt was soft beneath your cheek. He smelled faintly like soap and the clean trace of his cologne that had survived the wedding. His hand rested at your upper arm, light but present.
It was not dramatic. It was not the patio kiss. It was not the lock screen. It was just John holding you on top of a hotel comforter while a bag of pretzels sat open beside you.
Somehow, that was the part that nearly undid you.
You whispered, “I’m happy.”
John’s arm tightened around you by the smallest degree. “So am I,” he said.
You believed him. That was the terrifying thing. You believed him completely.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
You just sat there, leaning into him, letting the room become less impossible by degrees.
Eventually, John reached for the remote with his free hand. “Background noise?”
You smiled against his shoulder. “Something we don’t have to pay attention to.”
He turned on the TV, kept the volume low, and stopped on some late-night true crime rerun already halfway through. You had no idea what was going on. You did not care.
John settled back against the pillows, and you went with him, still tucked against his side.
The pretzels crinkled when you reached for one. John silently passed you the bag.
You smiled. “Thank you.”
John’s arm stayed around your shoulders. “You’re welcome.”
The TV flickered across the room, all dramatic reenactments and ominous narration, but the sound blurred quickly into the hum of the air conditioner.
The room was warm and dim and quiet around the edges. The kind of quiet that came after too many people, too much music, too much feeling. Your body had finally realized the wedding was over, and now every part of you felt heavy with it.
You ate half a pretzel, then lowered your hand to your lap.
John glanced down at you. “Done?”
You nodded against his shoulder. “I think so.”
He reached for the bag and folded the top down before setting it on the nightstand beside the water bottles. Then he took the M&M’s from the comforter and set those aside too, neat without making a production of it.
Of course he did.
Even half-reclined in a hotel bed after kissing you breathless, John Shen still cleaned up snack debris.
The thought made you smile.
John looked down at you. “What?”
You shook your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”
His eyes softened, but he let you have it. You let your gaze drift back to the TV. You lasted maybe three minutes.
Maybe less.
Your eyelids got heavier, your cheek sinking more fully against his shoulder. John was warm beside you, solid and steady, and the low sound of the television blurred into the hum of the air conditioner.
His thumb moved once against your upper arm.
Slow. Absent. Gentle.
You closed your eyes.
John’s voice came quietly above you. “You’re falling asleep.”
You murmured, “Maybe.”
His mouth brushed your hair, almost a kiss. “Come on.”
You opened your eyes just enough to see him reaching for the remote. He turned the TV off, and the room slipped into darkness except for the faint glow from the city outside the curtains and the warm light from the lamp on the desk.
The sudden quiet made everything feel closer.
John.
The bed.
Your hand resting against his shirt.
The fact that you did not want to move away.
He shifted carefully beneath you. “You should get under the covers.”
You nodded, too tired to argue, and climbed off the top of the comforter long enough to pull the sheets back.
John stood too, giving you room, then turned toward the desk to switch off the last lamp. The room went darker. Softer.
When he turned back, you were already under the covers, lying on your side and watching him through the dimness.
There were still two queen beds.
Still an untouched one a few feet away.
John looked at it. Then he looked at you. He did not ask. He just waited.
Your heart squeezed.
“You can stay,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “Here?”
You nodded, fingers curling lightly into the sheet. “With me.”
Something shifted in his face. A small thing. Tender enough that it made your throat tighten. John came to the bed slowly, giving you all the time in the world to change your mind.
You did not.
You lifted the covers slightly, and he slid in beside you with careful, quiet movements.
At first, he left space between you.
Enough to be respectful. Enough to be ridiculous.
You looked at him across the gap. “John.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Yeah?”
“You can come closer,” you said.
He moved immediately. Not fast. Not presumptuous. Just certain, like he had been waiting for permission and did not need to be asked twice. His arm came around your waist, careful and warm, and you shifted into him until your cheek rested against his chest. His T-shirt was soft beneath your face. His heartbeat moved steadily under your ear.
A little fast. Yours was too. You smiled into the dark.
John’s hand settled at your back. “Comfortable?”
You nodded against him. “Very.”
His fingers spread slightly against your shirt, holding you with that same quiet care he brought to everything.
Not too tight.
Not asking for anything else.
Just there.
You let your eyes close.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The hotel settled around you in small sounds. Air moving through the vent. A distant door closing down the hall. Sheets shifting when John breathed. His thumb moving once, then again, against your back.
You should have been thinking about tomorrow.
The drive home. Work. Coffee. How to stand next to him in ordinary lighting now that you knew what his mouth felt like, now that you knew he had kept a picture of you on his phone before he knew you would ever see it.
But you were too tired to solve tomorrow.
And maybe, you did not have to.
“John?” you whispered.
His voice came low, already half-asleep. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, your cheek still pressed to his chest. “It’s still us tomorrow?”
His arm tightened around you. Not much. Just enough that you felt the answer before he gave it.
“Yes,” John said.
Your breath left you slowly. No joke. No room for doubt. Just yes.
You tucked yourself closer, your hand curling lightly into his shirt.
“Good,” you whispered.
John’s mouth touched the top of your head.
After that, there was nothing left to say.
His breathing evened out beneath your ear, and yours followed it. The wedding, the music, the patio, the lock screen, the whole impossible day faded into something soft and distant behind you.
Morning was waiting somewhere ahead.
Not solved. Not simple. But no longer something you had to face alone.
You fell asleep tucked against John’s chest, his arm around your waist, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
And when the night finally went quiet, there was still an us.
Description: After being attacked, ER nurse Y/N barely makes it to the hospital. Injured, terrified, and overwhelmed by the chaos, she struggles to keep herself together as everyone rushes to help. But when the noise and questions become too much, there’s only one person she wants. The moment she cries out for Mateo, he drops everything to be by her side, proving that sometimes the strongest people need someone to lean on too.
Author's Note: Can someone please make more gifs for Mateo :)
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you leaned in close to apply a flawless coat of mascara. Tonight, you were actually taking your time. You let your hair down first, brushing through it before twisting it into a sleek, perfect high bun—secure enough to survive a chaotic twelve-hour shift, but still looking effortlessly good. A swipe of lip gloss and a touch of highlighter on your cheekbones finished the look. You looked bright-eyed, sharp, and ready.
Stepping into your bedroom, you pulled your favorite pair of navy blue scrubs out of the closet. The fabric was soft, perfectly broken-in, and fit you in all the right places.
You slid the pants on, tying the drawstring right at your hips, and pulled the V-neck scrub top over your head. Smoothing the fabric down, you stepped back to look in the full-length mirror.
You couldn't help but smile, taking a second to just feel yourself. There was something undeniably confident about how you looked. The scrubs hugged your frame perfectly, and with your hair out of your face and your makeup subtly catching the light, you looked like an absolute powerhouse. You clipped your badge—Y/N, RN. Emergency Department—to your collar, gave your reflection one last wink, and grabbed your keys. You felt unstoppable, completely unaware of the nightmare waiting for you on the walk to the Pitt.
---
The confidence you felt in the mirror faded into focus the second you pulled into the staff parking lot of the Pitt. It was pitch black outside, the towering hospital lights casting long, eerie shadows across the concrete. You killed the engine, took a deep breath, and gathered your things—grabbing your water bottle, tossing your tote bag over your shoulder, and making sure your badge was clipped tight.
You opened the car door, the chilly night air hitting you instantly. Locking the doors behind you with a quick click of your key fob, you started the familiar walk toward the sliding glass doors of the ambulance bay. The ER entrance was only a hundred yards away, its bright, glowing red sign a beacon of safety.
You didn't even hear the footsteps over the distant hum of city traffic.
Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed over your mouth from behind, cutting off your gasp. A powerful arm wrapped violently around your waist, wrenching you backward off your feet. Your tote bag slipped from your shoulder, your keys clattering loudly against the asphalt as you were dragged into the dark spaces between the parked cars.
"Don't make a sound," a harsh, rough voice hissed in your ear.
Panic exploded in your chest, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs. The unstoppable feeling from just twenty minutes ago vanished entirely, replaced by cold, blinding terror as you began to fight for your life.
The heavy hand over your mouth clamped down harder, cutting off your air as you were violently shoved back against the cold, metal side of a parked van. You tried to wrench your face free, but his grip was iron.
In the dim light of the parking lot, you could see the raw, volatile fury in his eyes. He wasn't reaching for your purse or your keys. Instead, his glare locked onto the glowing hospital ID badge clipped to your scrub top.
"You think you're helping people?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying, unhinged rage. He violently ripped the badge from your collar, tossing it to the ground. "You're all monsters. All of you in that building. You don't cure anyone—you just poison people!"
Panic spiked in your chest as you clawed at his wrists, trying desperately to break his hold, but he used his weight to pin you flat against the vehicle.
"You're just pawns for Big Pharma, pushing their toxins and keeping people sick for a paycheck," he spat, his face inches from yours, completely consumed by his delusion. "Someone needs to put a stop to you."
Before you could scream, he struck you, a heavy blow that sent a blinding flash of pain through your jaw and made your knees buckle. You collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for air and trembling with sheer terror as he delivered one final, vicious kick to your ribs before turning and sprinting off into the darkness, leaving you broken and bleeding just yards away from the ER.
The world was a blur of absolute silence before the ringing in your ears started.
You blinked your eyes open, your cheek pressed against the freezing asphalt of the parking lot. For a terrifying, disorienting few seconds, you couldn’t remember why everything hurt. Then, the memory of the man’s unhinged shouting about Big Pharma and the violent impact of his fist came rushing back.
You had passed out. You didn't know for how long—two minutes? Five?—but the realization lit a sudden, roaring fire of adrenaline in your chest. Flight or fight. You couldn't stay here. He could come back.
Groaning through the blinding pain in your jaw and the sharp ache in your ribs, you forced yourself up onto your hands and knees. Your vision swam, but you spotted your phone and your shattered badge scattered near a tire. With trembling fingers, you scooped them up, clutching them to your chest like a lifeline.
Using the side of the van for balance, you dragged yourself to your feet. Every breath was agony, and your legs felt like lead, but fear pushed you forward. You stumbled out of the dark rows of cars and forced your feet to move toward the glowing red emergency sign.
The automatic sliding doors of the Pitt parted with a soft hiss, and the sudden wall of noise, bright fluorescent lights, and sterile smells hit you like a physical wave. You crossed the threshold, clutching your ribs, blood dripping from your busted lip onto your scrubs.
"Help..." you tried to croak out, but your voice was barely a whisper. You swayed, your knees buckling beneath you.
"Y/N?!"
The frantic roar of your name echoed across the bullpen before you even hit the floor. Mateo had been charting at the desk, but the second his eyes caught your slouched, bloodied frame, he dropped his tablet. It shattered on the floor, but he didn't care.
In a split second, he was crossing the ER, his face shocked with a mix of sheer horror and adrenaline as he caught you right before you collapsed.
---
Your knees completely gave out, but the hard impact of the floor never came. Mateo’s strong arms caught you mid-air, sweeping you up into his chest in a tight, protective bridal style before you could fall.
"I've got you, I've got you," Mateo breathed, his voice cracking with an urgency you’d never heard from him before. His heart was hammering wildly against your shoulder as he held you close, sprinting toward the trauma bays.
"Oh my god, Y/N!" Lena yelled from the central desk, her eyes widening in shock. She instantly abandoned her paperwork, shouting across the room, "Clear Trauma 1! Now!"
Dr. Parker Ellis was already moving. Hearing the commotion, the female attending intercepted Mateo in the hallway, her sharp eyes scanning your bloodied scrubs, your swollen jaw, and the frantic look in your eyes. "What happened? Mateo, get her on the bed carefully."
Mateo gently laid you down on the crisp sheets of the trauma bed, his hands lingering on your shoulders to keep you grounded. He was trying to maintain his professional doctor persona, but his fingers were trembling. "Y/N, look at me. Stay with me. Can you tell me what hurts?"
You tried to speak, but a sob caught in your throat, your hands tightly gripping the front of Mateo's scrub top. The noise of the ER, the bright overhead lights, and the sudden crowd of people around you were starting to trigger a massive panic attack.
"Pupils are sluggish on the left, she's got deep bruising forming on her jaw and her chest," Ellis reported rapidly, snapping on a pair of gloves. Recognizing the sheer severity of the situation and the fact that Mateo was too emotionally compromised to run this alone, Ellis spun around toward the the door. "Abbott, we need you".
The door to Trauma 1 burst open, and Dr. Jack Abbott rushed in, his stethoscope already in hand. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in pure shock as he looked at the bed.
"Oh, god. Y/N?" Abbott breathed, his usual calm composure completely vanishing. He stepped closer, his gaze darting from the blood on your navy scrubs to the heavy bruising swelling along your jaw. He looked up at Mateo and Ellis, his voice tight with disbelief. "What happened? Who did this to her?"
Hearing Abbott's voice only made the terrifying reality of the attack crash down on you all over again. The sterile walls of the trauma bay felt like they were closing in, and the steady, frantic beep-beep-beep of your heart monitor echoed loudly in your ears.
A tear slipped down your cheek, stinging the raw skin of your cut lip. You tightened your grip on Mateo’s scrubs, your voice trembling and barely audible over the noise of the room.
"I was... I was attacked in the parking lot," you choked out, your chest heaving as a sob threatened to break through. You looked up at the doctors surrounding you, your eyes wide with vulnerable terror. "He grabbed me. I'm so scared... please, I'm so scared."
Mateo’s face softened, the fierce protector in him completely overriding the doctor as he looked down at you with deeply worried eyes. Without a second thought, he reached down and squeezed your trembling hand, locking his fingers tightly with yours. The warmth of his touch was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.
"I'm right here, Y/N. You're safe inside now. I promise," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
Ellis stepped up to your side to gently palpate your bruised ribs, causing you to wince. To give the medical team room to work, Mateo started to shift back, his grip naturally loosening on your fingers.
Panic flared brightly in your chest. "Mateo, don't let go!" you cried out, your voice cracking as fresh tears spilled over your cheeks. "Please, I'm so scared."
"I’m not going anywhere," Mateo said instantly, his voice firm and unwavering. He gripped your hand even tighter, leaning over the bed so you could focus entirely on him. "I'm right here. I've got you."
As you let out a shaky sob, burying your face against the side of his arm, the trauma room became a blur of motion. Abbott was checking your breath sounds, and Ellis was shouting out orders for a head CT and pain medication. Seeing that he needed to stay glued to your side but that the team still required an extra set of hands, Mateo raised his head and barked an order toward the open doorway.
"I need another nurse in here right now! Get someone to start an IV, stat!" he yelled, his voice echoing over the chaos of the ER.
Despite the shouting and the flurry of activity around your bed, Mateo never let go. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, serving as your absolute anchor while the rest of the staff rushed to take care of you.
The door threw open again, and another nurse rushed into the room, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. She didn't hesitate, immediately moving to the opposite side of your bed to prep your arm for the IV.
"I've got the line, Mateo," the nurse said quickly, her voice a calm contrast to the frantic energy in the room. "Y/N, you're going to feel a little pinch, okay? Just look at Mateo."
You squeezed Mateo’s hand even harder, squeezing your eyes shut as the needle went in. Every sob racked your body, making your bruised ribs flare with a sharp, stabbing pain.
"Easy, easy, take deep breaths for me," Mateo squeezed back, using his free hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. His eyes never left yours. "Focus on me, Y/N. Just breathe."
"Breath sounds are diminished on the right," Abbott announced, adjusting his stethoscope with a frown. He looked over at Ellis. "We need that portable X-ray in here before we send her to CT. I want to make sure those ribs didn't puncture anything."
"On it," Ellis replied, already typing rapidly into the room's computer terminal. "And let's get 4mg of morphine on board. She's in too much pain."
The mention of X-rays and medications made your mind race back to the attacker's unhinged words. They just poison people... push toxins... A shiver ran through you, and you pulled Mateo closer by his hand.
"He... he said we're monsters," you whispered through your tears, your voice trembling violently. "He hated health care workers, Mateo. He destroyed my badge... he said we poison people."
Mateo’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. The sheer anger in his eyes was terrifying, but when he looked back down at you, it softened into pure devotion.
"He's wrong, Y/N. He's sick and he's wrong," Mateo said fiercely, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. "You are a healer. You save lives every single day. Look at this room—look at everyone in here. We are family, and we protect our own. I'm not letting anyone hurt you again."
The nurse finished securing the IV line and pushed the pain medication. Within seconds, a warm, heavy sensation began to spread through your veins, taking the sharp, terrifying edge off the pain and the panic. Your eyelids grew heavy, but your fingers remained tightly locked in Mateo's.
"Don't leave," you mumbled, your voice growing faint as the exhaustion of the trauma finally caught up to you.
"Never," Mateo whispered back, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head as the portable X-ray machine rolled through the doors. "I'm right here."
The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor was the first thing that drifted into your consciousness. The harsh, chaotic noise of the trauma bay was gone, replaced by the quiet, dimmed lighting of a private recovery room.
---
As you stirred, the first thing you felt was a warm, grounding pressure around your fingers. You blinked your eyes open, your vision blurry at first, but it quickly focused on the silhouette sitting right beside your bed.
It was Mateo. His head was resting heavily on his free hand, his eyes closed, looking completely exhausted. But the absolute second your fingers twitched in his grip, he shot upright.
Instantly, the fatigue vanished from his face, replaced by laser-focused concern. He stood up, leaning over your bed as his eyes frantically scanned your face.
"Y/N? Hey, hey, look at me," Mateo murmured, his voice thick with sleep but laced with instant relief. Without letting go of your right hand, his left hand immediately went to work checking on you. He gently pressed the back of his cool hand against your forehead, checking your temperature, before his fingers slid down to your wrist to manually check your pulse.
"How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, what’s the pain like right now?" he asked rapidly, his eyes tracking the monitor to check your vitals. "Your X-rays came back—your ribs are badly bruised but not broken, thank god. Your head CT was clear, too. But I need you to talk to me. Are you dizzy? Do you know where you are?"
The fierce, instant protectiveness in his movements made your chest tighten, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was because you realized that just like he promised, he hadn't left your side for a single second.
Looking down at his tired but intensely focused eyes, the sheer warmth of his grip pulled your mind backward, away from the sterile hospital room and all the way back to where it all began.
Nursing school.
The memory hit you with a wave of unexpected comfort. You vividly remembered the absolute chaos of your very first clinical rotation. You had been a nervous wreck, standing in a crowded hallway clutching a clipboard like a shield. Mateo had been standing just a few feet away, looking equally overwhelmed but trying desperately to hide it behind a confident smirk.
When the instructor called both of your names to partner up for a grueling twelve-hour shift, you had shared a look of mutual terror. But the second you started working together, everything changed. You instantly clicked. Your pacing matched his perfectly; you finished his sentences when he forgot a medical term, and he made you laugh right when you felt like crying from stress. By the time that first shift ended, you weren't just partners—you were inseparable.
As the months bled into years, you became each other's absolute anchors. Late-night study sessions fueled by stale coffee, practicing IV placements on plastic arms, celebrating passed exams—Mateo was always there.
But for Mateo, things had shifted somewhere along the line. He couldn't exactly pinpoint the exact moment it happened. Maybe it was watching how fiercely compassionate you were with difficult patients, or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you finally mastered a difficult concept. He couldn't lie to himself anymore: he had fallen hard for you.
Every time you flashed him a bright smile or leaned against his shoulder during a long study night, his heart would hammer against his ribs. He wanted to tell you. He wanted to trace his fingers over your hand just like he was doing right now in the hospital room and tell you exactly how he felt.
But he was terrified. You were his best friend, his partner, the most important person in his life. The fear of confession going wrong, of making things awkward and ruining the beautiful, perfect friendship you shared, was a risk he just couldn't bring himself to take. So, he locked those feelings away deep down, choosing to be your fiercest protector and truest friend—hoping it would be enough.
The present-day monitor gave a soft beep, snapping you out of the memory as Mateo gently squeezed your hand again, his eyes still searching yours for an answer.
Mateo squeezed your hand again, his voice dropping to a softer, gentler tone as he brought himself closer to the edge of your bed. "Y/N... look at me. Are you okay? Really?"
You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat easing just a bit as you looked up into his dark, worried eyes. You gave him a small, reassuring nod, a faint smile pulling at your uninjured side. "Yes. I'm okay, Mateo. Better now."
He let out a long, shaky breath he seemed to have been holding for hours, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch. "Good," he whispered. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
Even with your reassurance, his nurse instincts—and his fiercely protective nature—kicked right back into gear. "I just need to do a quick neuro check, alright? Just to be absolutely sure."
He gently let go of your hand, though he stayed close enough that his scrubs brushed against the bedside rail. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his penlight. "Keep your eyes on my nose," he instructed softly, clicking the light on and moving it in a smooth motion to check your pupillary response. He watched intently, nodding to himself as your pupils reacted perfectly to the light.
Next, he carefully took your hands in his, wrapping his fingers around yours. "Squeeze my hands as hard as you can."
You gripped his hands, pouring as much strength as you could muster into the squeeze. Mateo smiled gently, validating your effort. "Perfect. Strength is completely equal on both sides."
He then moved down to the foot of the bed, gently lifting the blanket just enough to check your pedal pulses, making sure your circulation was completely normal after the trauma. Every single movement was incredibly precise, tender, and careful, ensuring he didn't trigger any pain in your bruised ribs.
Watching him navigate the room, adjusting your IV drip line and checking the monitor stats one more time, it was clear that he wasn't just doing his job. He was taking care of the most important person in his world.
Just as Mateo was finishing up his checks, the heavy door to your recovery room swung open.
Lena walked in first, her usual fierce, commanding presence softened by a look of profound relief when she saw you sitting up. Close behind her were Abbott and Ellis, both still in their scrubs. Walking in step with Abbott's was his wife, the hospital’s head attorney, looking sharp and professional but carrying a deeply concerned expression.
"Look who's awake," Lena said, her voice a warm, grounding comfort as the group gathered around the foot of your bed. "We've been keeping an eye on your charts, but we wanted to see for ourselves."
"Vitals look great, Y/N," Ellis added, crossing her arms with a supportive nod. "Neuro check was solid, and the lab results are exactly where we want them to be. You gave us a massive scare out there" Mateo said.
Abbott stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on the footboard of the bed. "The police are coming in here, Y/N. They’ve already cordoned off the section of the parking lot where it happened and are pulling the security footage as we speak. We're going to catch this guy."
Jack's wife stepped up beside him, giving you a gentle, reassuring smile. "As the hospital attorney—and your friend—I’m personally overseeing this case, Y/N. You don't have to worry about a single thing. The hospital is handling all your medical expenses, your shifts are covered for as long as you need to recover, and I am going to make sure the state presses the absolute maximum charges against him. Your only job right now is to heal."
Mateo didn't step back as the room filled up. Instead, he kept his position right at your side, his hand resting protectively on the mattress just inches from yours, his eyes shifting between the incoming crowd and your face, making sure the sudden influx of people wasn't overwhelming you.
You nodded your head, a soft, genuinely grateful smile touching your lips as Jack’s wife laid out the legal plan. Knowing that the hospital had your back and that she was personally fighting for you lifted an immense weight off your chest.
Right then, a soft knock sounded at the door, and two uniform police officers stepped into the room, notebooks in hand.
"Excuse us," the lead officer said politely, looking around the crowded space. "We need to get a formal statement from the victim about the attacker. We'll need the room cleared for the interview."
Lena, Abbott, his wife, and Ellis all nodded, immediately shuffling toward the exit to give you space. Mateo squeezed your hand one last time, starting to step back to follow them out.
Panic flared in your chest at the thought of being left alone with the details of the attack. Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Mateo’s hand tightly, pulling him back toward the bed. "Mateo, please. Can you stay?" you pleaded, your eyes wide.
The officer shook his head, stepping forward. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but hospital staff and non-family members can't be present during the initial statement. It's standard procedure."
You looked from the officer to Mateo, whose eyes were torn between wanting to respect the rules and desperately wanting to stay by your side.
"He's not just hospital staff," you informed the police officers firmly, your grip tightening around his fingers. You looked the lead officer dead in the eye. "He's my boyfriend."
Mateo’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, his heart skipping a massive beat as he looked down at you, completely caught off guard by the words but instantly playing along. He didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second, squaring his shoulders and stepping closer to your pillow.
The officer paused, looking between the two of you, before clicking his pen and nodding. "Alright. If he's family, he can stay. Let's start from the beginning, miss. What time did you pull into the parking lot?"
---
The adrenaline that had been keeping you upright evaporated, leaving behind a wave of raw, suffocating fear.
A sob tore from your throat, and you buried your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking violently.
Before you could spiral any further, Mateo was moving. He shifted closer, his arms wrapping around you securely as he pulled you against his chest. One of his hands cupped the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder, while his other arm held you tight against him, creating a solid wall between you and the rest of the world.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion as he rocked you slightly. "You're safe. I'm right here."
You clung to his shirt, crying until your chest ached, letting the steady, familiar beat of his heart ground you. Mateo didn't loosen his grip for a second; he just held you through the worst of it, burying his face in your hair, his own breathing heavy with a mixture of anger at what happened to you and pure relief that you were alive.
Slowly, your gasps turned into quiet, exhausted breaths, though you didn't make any move to pull away.
Mateo shifted slightly, just enough to look down at you, his hands framing your face to gently wipe away the tears with his thumbs. His expression was fiercely resolute.
"You're not going back to your apartment," he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You're coming home with me. You're going to stay with me until you're completely healed, and until we know you're safe. I'm not letting you out of my sight."
Looking into his eyes, seeing the fierce, unwavering protectiveness burning in them, the crushing weight of the fear eased just a little. You didn't have the energy to be independent, and right now, his apartment felt like the only safe place left in the world.
"Thank you," you whispered, your voice small and exhausted. "Thank you, Mateo."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering, protective kiss to the top of your head. "Always," he vowed softly.
---
The colorful animation of the Disney movie played softly on the TV, providing a comforting, low hum in Mateo’s living room. A week had passed, and while the mental terror had started to dull into a manageable ache, your body was still stubbornly keeping track of every bruise.
From the kitchen, the savory scent of garlic and butter drifted over as Mateo stood by the stove, humming quietly while assembling lunch.
You decided to try and stretch out your stiff muscles. But the moment you shifted and began to stand up from the deep cushions of the couch, a sharp pull in your side caught you off guard. A loud, involuntary groan escaped your lips, and you immediately doubled over slightly, hands pressing against your ribs.
In the kitchen, the clatter of a spatula hitting the counter echoed instantly.
Before you could even take another breath, Mateo was blurring past the kitchen island. His nurse instincts completely hijacked his body, his professional training mixing with raw, protective panic.
He didn't just walk over; he practically lunged across the space, dropping heavily onto his knees right on the floor in front of you. He reached up, his hands hovering over your shoulders, his dark eyes wide and frantically scanning your face.
"What is it? What hurts?" the questions started firing out of him like rapid-fire diagnostics. "Is it your ribs? Did you pull a stitch? Are you dizzy? Scale of one to ten, what’s the pain right now? Do I need to get the ice pack, or should we go back to the hospital?"
You couldn't help but let out a breathless, weak laugh, reaching down to gently pat his arm to stop the barrage. "Mateo, Mateo—hey, look at me. I'm okay. Really. I'm just still very sore. I stood up too fast."
He froze, his chest heaving as he forced himself to take a breath and actually process your words. The high-alert ER nurse slowly began to step down, leaving just Mateo.
"You're sure?" he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, completely dropping the clinical tone.
As he spoke, his large, warm hands slid down from your shoulders, smoothing over your oversized shirt until they rested firmly on your waist. He didn't let go. Instead, his fingers flexed gently against your hips, his eyes drifting down to inspect your posture, making sure you weren't favoring one side. "No dizziness? You're not just saying that because you hate the hospital?"
"I'm sure," you whispered.
The room suddenly went entirely quiet, save for the cheerful music of the cartoon on the screen.
With his hands still locked onto your waist and him kneeling right between your knees, the space between you had completely evaporated. You looked down, and he looked up. You were so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your collarbone. His thumbs were resting just above your hip bones, his grip possessive and heavy, and from this angle, his gaze was dark, intense, and completely focused on your lips.
The air grew thick with a sudden, undeniable spike of romantic tension. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. The realization of just how intimately tangled up you were hit both of you at the exact same second.
The sudden silence in the room felt louder than any of the dialogue coming from the TV. Mateo’s thumbs stilled against your waist, his hands remaining heavy and warm against your skin. You could see the exact moment the medical focus left his eyes, replaced by something much deeper, darker, and entirely personal.
His gaze flicked from your lips back up to your eyes, his breathing catching in his throat. Up close, you could see the faint amber flecks in his iris, and the fierce, protective energy that usually surrounded him suddenly softened into pure, unadulterated tension.
"Mateo..." your voice was barely a breath, your heart hammering against your ribs—not from pain this time, but from the sheer proximity of him.
"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your waist tightened just a fraction, pulling you a microscopic inch closer to where he knelt.
Your hands, which had been resting gently on his shoulders to steady yourself, suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Your fingers twitched, instinctively gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt. The comfort he had been providing for the past week felt like it was shifting, evolving into something completely different.
Mateo’s eyes scanned your face, searching, waiting for any sign that you wanted him to back off. When you didn't move away, his gaze softened, a look of intense longing washing over his features.
"I've been wanting to do this since the night nursing school," he whispered, his honesty raw and completely stripping away his usual composed demeanor.
Slowly, deliberately, he slid one hand from your waist up to the side of your neck, his thumb cradling your jawline. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the strength you knew he possessed. He tilted your head up just a fraction, his eyes locking onto yours as he began to lean in, closing the final, agonizing distance between you.
The last inch of distance vanished, and Mateo’s lips met yours.
The kiss started with an incredible, heartbreaking gentleness, as if he was still terrified of breaking you. His lips were warm and soft, pressing against yours with a reverence that made your chest ache. But as you let out a soft sigh, tilting your head to deepen the contact, something in Mateo shifted.
The restraint he had been holding onto for the past week completely snapped.
His grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you to him, and the hand at your jaw slid up into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to hold you steady. The kiss became deeper, filled with a fierce, burning intensity—a release of all the pent-up anxiety, the fear of almost losing you, and the unspoken feelings that had been building between you two every single day.
You leaned into him, completely forgetting about the soreness in your muscles as the sheer warmth of him consumed you. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, pulling him as close as physically possible. He tasted like the quiet safety of his apartment, like home.
When he finally parted his lips from yours, he didn't go far. Mateo rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet room. His eyes were closed, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones as a soft, breathless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You have no idea," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough and laced with emotion, "how long I've been waiting for that."
A soft smile broke across your face, the last remnants of the tension leaving your shoulders. For the first time in a week, the heavy, lingering gray cloud of the attack felt completely gone, replaced by the warmth blooming in your chest.
"You could have just told me," you teased softly, your voice a little breathless as your fingers gently toyed with the collar of his shirt. "Instead of waiting for me"
Mateo let out a low, rumbling laugh against your forehead, the sound vibrating right through you. He finally opened his eyes, the dark intensity from moments before melting into a look of pure, unshielded affection.
"Hey, I was trying to be professional," he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle on your hip. "The nurse in me said 'give her space to heal.' The rest of me was losing my mind."
He kissed the tip of your nose, making your smile widen, before he reluctantly began to shift. He didn't completely let go of you, but he stood up from his knees, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist to help you sit back down onto the plush cushions of the couch.
Once you were settled, he hovered over you for a second, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you were actually comfortable and not in pain. Satisfied by the look on your face, he leaned down and pressed one more quick, sweet kiss to your lips.
"Stay right here," he ordered gently, a playful glint in his eye. "I need to go rescue our lunch before I burn the building down."
summary: you and spencer spend long enough pining over each other, the team helps you along. or: 4 times the team tries to get you and spencer to acknowledge your feelings for each other +1 time it works.
word count: 7.1k
content: fluff, usual criminal minds talk (unsub, kidnapping, etc), probably bau-related inaccuracies, mutual pining (idiots!), team shenanigans, one fake date, and one real one <3
a/n: hill lovelies!! i know it's been so long since i've posted something but i hope u guys will enjoy <3 i had so much fun writing for my sweet boy spencer!! my first spencer longfic!!!
ᯓ★
It’s taken you a few trips to perfect your go bag. To figure out what’s really necessary and what isn’t. Today, lugging your duffel on your shoulder, you’re grateful to have left that second pair of shoes behind.
Your bags always feel a bit heavier after a case. You’re already weighed down by the events of the last few days, your body tired, feet heavy.
You’re glad to be the first one to board the plane, sinking into one of the seats and letting your bag drop at your feet. You’re glad that the case is over, glad to be going home, glad to get to sleep in your own bed tonight (though it'll most likely be morning by the time you get back to Quantico).
The rest of the team follows suit, sighing as they get into their own seats. Spencer and Hotch are the last to board, Hotch always waits until every member is inside before taking his turn, and Spencer often gets distracted telling him some statistic about planes or airports or anything really.
Today, for once, Hotch asks Spencer a follow up question and — delightedly surprised — Spencer keeps talking.
You’re sitting by the window in one of the front rows on the jet, facing away from the entrance and most of the team. You don’t see Spencer climb into the plane, but you hear the shuffling.
Spencer usually sits near the back, playing chess against himself or reading a book and then another since he finishes them so fast. Sometimes, he sits with JJ, even rarer he’ll find himself across from Morgan who likes to tease him enough that he’d rather not be there every single flight.
He wants to sit with you, but Spencer has found himself reverting back to his early BAU self where you’re concerned. Shy, fumbling, either rambling or having no clue what to say.
You’re his friend, you’re kind to him and ask about his mom often. You bring him back a coffee whenever you grab one for yourself (if he beats you to it, he does the same), and it’s always as sweet as he likes it to be. He lends you books he thinks you’ll like, and never pesters you for them back even though you know you take forever to return them.
He walks you to your car after work every day, even if he’s finished before you are. You don’t know that bit, but he waits until you’re leaving to pack up his stuff and follow you to the elevator.
All of that, and still, Spencer gets nervous around you. He can’t even bring himself to sit next to you on the jet even though you’re beside each other at the round table each time without fail.
This time, the team’s decided to help him along.
Initially, he goes for his usual seat in the back, and finds Emily sprawling files all over the small table despite the fact that she gets nauseous reading on the plane. Behind Spencer’s back, Hotch takes the seat across from her and shakes his head when she winks at him.
Then, it’s Rossi, who’s fake-arguing with his agent over the phone about his next book. JJ’s sprawled across the small couch near the snack bar, digging into a travel-sized bag of Cheetos.
Finally, there’s Derek, who kicks his feet up onto the seat across from him when Spencer heads toward him. “Sorry, pretty boy,” he says, though he doesn’t look (or sound) sorry at all, “looks like you’ll have to try your luck over there,” he nods towards where you sit across the aisle.
You, too distracted attempting to dig your thin fleece blanket from your bag, don’t notice anything until Spencer clears his throat lightly. You finally tug your blanket from your bag and sit up, looking over at Spencer standing in the aisle, rocking on his feet once.
“Do you mind if I..?” he gestures loosely to the seat next to you.
“Of course not,” you say.
You breathe in as he sits next to you, and he smells like cinnamon and the pages of a book. Warm, comforting. You try not to let it show on your face how pleased you are to have him beside you.
When you joined the team, you’d been the most anxious you’d ever been in your life, and you remember hesitating before walking into the bullpen, wiping your palms on your black pinstriped trousers.
And then, the first face to greet you was Reid’s, and he was so sweet, apologizing for not wanting to shake your hand, spewing a fact about germs and then folding his lips into his mouth like he was stopping himself from saying more. For those few seconds, you weren’t thinking about impressing everyone, weren’t focused on that pit in your stomach at the thought of so much newness.
You liked him immediately, and his looks only made it all worse for you. His hair disheveled, his clothes neat, his hands waving around in front of him, and his voice, so lovely and focused as he sounded off statistics. You’ve been housing a crush on him ever since.
You’d heard Morgan call him pretty boy that day, and you couldn’t help but think of how fitting it was. Derek may have been teasing, but Spencer really is pretty.
And then you got to know him, got to become a part of the team and learned about his little quirks and the way that he still wouldn’t shake hands, but doesn’t mind a hug every now and then. You learned that he was pretty inside and out.
So, as he settles in next to you on the jet, you can’t help but hide a smile. You’re on the plane before him most of the time, and he’s never joined you until now.
“I have to warn you,” you say, “I might not be the best seat buddy. I almost always fall asleep after takeoff.”
Spencer shrugs, pushing his hair behind his ear and he pulls his book into his lap, “That’s alright. I like quiet.”
“What if I snore, Reid?”
“You don’t snore,” he tells you.
“Maybe I do. How would you know?”
Rather than admit that he pays attention to you during flights, that he sometimes catches himself staring at you all peaceful in your seat while he waits for his coffee to brew, that he knows you don’t snore because he’s seen you sleeping and all you do is bunch your blanket in your fists and scrunch your brow from time to time, like you’re dreaming, he says:
“Ambiance for my reading. Like white noise. You know, having an auditory background can actually support cognitive development and emotional health.”
You smile and shake your head at him. You don’t think you’ll ever be used to the way he knows something about everything, just like that. Before you can reply, the pilot alerts you all that you’ll be taking off shortly.
Spencer opens his book in his lap, and you sink into your seat and close your eyes, squeezing them shut until the jet is up in the air steadily.
Soon enough, you’re falling asleep as promised. For a while, your head’s leaning back against your seat; Spencer can’t help but think of how your neck will be sore from the position. Just as he has the thought, the jet jolts a little bit in turbulence, and your head lolls to the side and ends up on his shoulder.
He goes still for a second, afraid you’ll wake up from the movement, but you don’t. You shift the tiniest bit, almost nuzzling into him, and then you relax again. Your breathing remains steady, and Spencer tamps down a smile as the smell of your shampoo surrounds him.
Across the aisle, Morgan raises an eyebrow, shooting Reid a pointed look. Spencer simply goes back to reading his book.
He doesn’t get up to use the bathroom at all, turns pages slower than he usually would, keeps his shoulder and arm still even though he can feel them falling asleep a little. All so that he doesn’t disturb you.
Sleep is such a vulnerable state, and although he knows you nap on nearly every flight, he feels like he’s won something by having you resting on him. Like you’re comfortable, like you trust him.
Just for a second, Reid lets himself rest his head against yours.
It isn’t until you land that you wake up, the plane hitting the pavement jostling you enough that you blink your eyes open. The first thing you register is the feel of something soft beneath your cheek. When that something soft moves a little, you realize it’s Spencer’s sweater.
Still groggy, you lift your head, “Shit. Sorry, Spence. I didn’t mean to sleep on you.”
You’re a bit embarrassed, really. The one time he sits next to you on the jet and you wind up using him as a pillow without his permission.
Meanwhile Spencer doesn’t mind one bit. All he can focus on is the sleepy way you called him Spence just now. Usually, it’s Reid, occasionally, it’s Spencer, but this is the first time you’ve ever called him Spence. He wants to hear you say it again.
“Actually studies show that having weight against you can help to lower your heart rate and lessen anxiety,” he responds.
A smile ghosts across your face, because you know that’s his way of telling you not to be sorry. “So, I should be saying ‘you’re welcome,’ then?”
Yes, he thinks.
-
The team is headed to Portland this time around, and though you still don’t enjoy flying (you still need the help of a gravol-induced nap), you don’t dislike it as much.
Spencer sits with you more often than he doesn’t now. Even with you using him as a pillow half the time. He doesn’t seem to mind, which never fails to surprise you whenever you wake up.
It’s nice, though. Nice enough that you think about what it would be like to nap close to him in other ways.
You picture him on the other side of the bed in your studio apartment, picture yourself on the couch at his place (which you’ve only seen once). You imagine what he’d wear when he isn’t working, or whether he wears his glasses more often at home.
You’re snapped out of another daydream when the airport shuttle pulls over in front of the hotel you’re set to be staying at this time around. You’d landed too late to head to the police station, had left immediately after wrapping up another case, and Hotch determined at least a few hours of sleep would do you all some good.
He’s the one who goes up to the front desk when you walk inside, and comes back with only four room keys instead of seven and an apologetic Penelope on the phone.
“I’m so sorry my lovely crime fighters. They were pretty full for tonight, so you’ll have to double up, my loves.”
None of you can see her, but she’s smiling on her end of the line. She may have not booked enough rooms on purpose.
Immediately, Emily and JJ pair up and take a key from Hotch, heading to the elevators with their elbows looped together and heads bent like they’re laughing about something. Morgan snatches up another for himself saying something about needing space for “all of this.”
Rossi shrugs and pairs himself with Aaron (“for old time’s sake”), which leaves you and Spencer. Hotch hands you the room key with a simple “we’ll see you at the station at 8” before he leaves with Dave.
“Is this okay with you?” you ask Spencer. “I could always go to the desk and double check.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “We’d better go get some sleep while we can.”
And Spencer means it. He doesn’t mind sharing a room, it’s not like he’s never had to on a case before. It’s only that it’s you. He already doesn’t know how to act around you most of the time, and this feels like a whole new layer of intimacy and closeness he doesn’t know what to do with.
He wants it, of course he does. He would have preferred it in different circumstances, maybe where you weren’t pushed together by default, but still.
Spencer lets you lead the way to the elevators and then to the room. You open the door after fumbling with the key a couple of times and muttering about ‘stupid hotel doors.’
You’re glad (at least, you think you are) to see two beds when you step inside. Behind you, Spencer locks the door and slides the chain lock into place. Then, he slips past you and sets his things on the bed closest to the door. It’s safer for you that way, he thinks, if anything were to happen.
You try not to read into it, but you’re reminded of that time you’d been ranting to JJ about your date not taking the side of the sidewalk closest to the road and Spencer overheard.
It’s not the same thing, you tell yourself. It still makes you feel warm.
“Were you gonna have a shower before bed?” you ask, setting your go bag on your bed.
Spencer’s head flicks over to you “I don’t- uh. You go ahead.”
“Thanks.”
You grab your things quickly and head into the ensuite bathroom, shutting the door behind you and leaning your head against it. It isn’t until he hears the lock click shut that Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall forward.
All you’d said was the word ‘shower’ and he could barely manage a sentence.
He unpacks to keep himself busy as the sound of running water fills the room, grabbing his book from his bag and setting it onto the nightstand between beds along with his glasses and a water bottle.
He’s just finished folding his (few) clothes into a drawer of the dresser when the bathroom door opens and you walk out in nothing but a towel.
There are drops of water running down your neck and shoulders, your eyelashes still wet and thick where they frame your eyes. He tries not to, he really does, but Spencer can feel himself staring at you and he can’t seem to make himself stop.
You look beautiful. You always do, but seeing you this way — the way a boyfriend might — is making his heart thump heavier, his fingers twitching by his sides.
You clear your throat, nervous under his gaze that seems so focused and yet so soft. “Sorry. I forgot to grab my pajamas… so.”
It’s then that he realizes he’s blocking your path, and he quickly steps aside, bumping into the dresser clumsily. “Oh! Right, yeah. I’ll just-”
Spencer grabs his own change of clothes and closes himself into the bathroom. The mirror is still fogged up from the steam, but he starts up the shower again, hoping it’ll help clear his head. Snap him back into it.
When he emerges from the bathroom in a pair of plaid pants and a faded t-shirt, he sees you in bed, your own loose shirt on, legs covered by the blankets, and a book in your lap.
“What are you reading?”
“It’s silly,” you say, setting it face-down on the bed, a little embarrassed. “Just a romance. None of that smart stuff you read.”
“All reading is smart,” he tells you. “It’s not silly. It’s good for you.”
“I’m just saying it’s not, like, in Latin or anything.”
He huffs a laugh, settling into his own bed and sliding his glasses onto his face. So he does wear them more outside of work, you observe. He looks so lovely this way, too. His hair still damp and curling behind his ears, his cheeks rosy behind the frames. It feels like a privilege, getting to see him so.. unguarded.
“I’ve read romances, you know,” he says.
“What?”
“Mostly the classics. Jane Austen, the Brontës.”
You’re not sure why it surprises you so much, but it does. You suppose you’ve always thought that Spencer’s idea of reading for enjoyment was beyond romance, more complicated, scientific. But you should’ve known he’s read just about everything by now.
“You, Doctor Spencer Reid, have read Pride and Prejudice?”
“‘You have bewitched me, body and soul,’” is his response.
“Oh my god.” A smile stretches onto your face, slowly mirrored on Spencer’s.
You end up staying awake later than you should talking about which movie adaptation you prefer (“2005. Obviously.”), about other books you’ve both read, and then about their adaptations, too. Over time you both sink deeper and deeper into bed until you’re laying down facing each other.
You’re not even sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that Spencer’s voice is the last thing you hear, all slow and soft with his own tiredness.
When you wake up, you’re still facing each other, laying on the sides of your beds as close to the other as possible. Spencer’s arm hangs loosely over the edge, like he’d been reaching across the gap for you in his sleep.
-
The next case is only a week later, but you don’t have to fly this time around.
It’s only a 15 minute drive from Quantico, and that’s without the sirens and Morgan behind the wheel. That means you get to set up in your usual office, sleep in your bed for a couple of hours when you can. You’re never happy to have a case, because people are getting hurt, but it’s a small victory to not have to go far.
Two abductions have happened at local parks, though no bodies have turned up yet. You’ve all been working as quickly as possible, trying to keep those people alive.
Hotch gathers you all in the conference room the morning of day three on the case, delivering roles as usual. JJ to stay in the office and field calls or answer questions, Emily and Morgan to dig deeper into the victims, retracing their steps, Rossi and Hotch to scout the abduction sites again for anything they’ve missed.
You’ve found a man that has been connected to both victims, but not enough to bring him in, which is why, when he gets to you and Spencer, he says:
“You two will be following our suspect today.”
You look at each other, then back to Hotch.
Reid speaks first. “But the geographical profile isn’t done, and-”
“We don’t have anything new for the geographical profile,” Hotch responds.
“Might be good for you to go outside, pretty boy,” Morgan says. “Could use some sunlight, probably.”
“Actually it’s extremely unlikely that anyone could die from prolonged darkness,” Spencer shoots back. “Plus, we have windows.”
“This is where I need you two,” Aaron looks between you and Spencer, “alright?”
“I’ll drive,” you say as your agreement.
It’s not unusual to do stakeouts, though you don’t do them often. What’s unusual is choosing you and Reid for the job that most often goes to Morgan. You can’t bring yourself to be bothered, not when it means you’ll get to spend more time with Spencer.
Despite his putting up a fight, Spencer doesn’t really mind either. Sure, he feels like he can be more helpful doing something else, but ever since sharing a room in Portland he’s wanted to be with you alone.
There was an ease then, a comfort that didn’t come when the rest of the team was around. You’d spoken to each other before bed each night, falling asleep to the sounds of each other’s voices, and Spencer hadn’t even wanted to pack up when the case was over.
If he could have stayed one more night with you there, caught the jet in the morning instead, he would have. Happily.
Ever since that case, he does feel a little less awkward around you, though, and sometimes he wonders if you feel a little bit closer to him, too.
As promised, you drive. Instead of taking a bureau vehicle, Hotch had asked you to take your own. He’d said you’d be less noticeable that way, and that backup would always be close enough if needed.
You unlock your car in the parking lot, watching Spencer climb into your passenger seat beside you. He shuts the door behind him, buckles his seatbelt, and flicks the air freshener you have hanging over your rear view mirror.
“I can take it down if the smell bothers you,” you say.
“It’s nice,” he tells you. Birthday cake, he notices, and he wonders quickly if that’s why you sometimes smell like vanilla when you walk into the bullpen.
“Okay. Feel free to snoop.”
He smiles gently, because he’d been trying to secretly do just that. Your car is mostly clean, a few gun wrappers in the doors and a half-full water bottle in the backseat, but that’s it. Your glovebox is pretty standard, though he does find a loose figurine in it.
You notice him holding it. “That’s my car buddy. Keeps me company when nobody else is in here.”
“Won’t be needing him today,” Spencer says, putting it back and shutting the compartment.
“No, I won’t.”
The man you’re set to be following is still home when you get there, so you drive around the block and wait by the corner until he leaves.
Luckily, you don’t have to wait very long.
“He’s getting into his car,” Spencer tells you.
“And the fun begins,” you say, turning the corner once the man has pulled out of his driveway.
It turns out not to be fun, actually. It’s all very routine and normal stuff. A grocery trip, dropped back at his house before heading out again. An overpriced drive-thru coffee where he actually pays for the car behind him, which happened to be you and Spencer.
“Either he’s onto us, or he’s actually just doing a nice thing,” you say once you’ve gotten your drinks. “I didn’t think people bought other people’s coffees anymore.”
“I would have bought yours,” is Spencer’s response. Quiet and sweet and almost disappointed, like he’d wanted to spend money on you.
Eventually, your target stops at a park, which has both you and Spencer back on high alert. Both abductions happened at parks. You look at each other and get out of your car to follow him.
You notice that the man is carrying a pair of binoculars and a camera, which raises your suspicions even further. He’s equipped to scope out victims.
Spencer works easily alongside you, falling into step without question, going where he needs to without needing to say a word.
The man walks up and joins a group, some wearing cargo vests and almost all of them wearing matching hats with the same logo on them.
You sigh and dial Hotch’s number.
“What do you have?”
“Hey, this isn’t our guy,” you tell him.
“Why’s that?”
“His big secret is…” you look back at the group, “bird watching. It’s why he’s been spotted at a lot of the parks.”
“You’re sure it’s not just a cover?”
“Hotch, there’s a group of at least twenty people with him. It’s a bird watching club.”
“Actually a lot of people, especially of younger generations, just call it birding now,” Spencer chimes in.
You smile. Always something to say.
“Okay, well, why don’t you two have lunch and meet us back here after?”
You scrunch your eyebrows. “You don’t want us back now?”
“We’re not any closer than we were before, and it might be good for you two to be at the park a little longer,” Hotch tells you. “Just in case.”
“Right, okay,” you say, though you’re still not convinced. “See you later.”
You hang up and turn to Spencer. He squints in the sunlight, hair blowing over his forehead. Your hand itches to reach out and push it back for him. Spencer does it himself just as you have the thought.
You clear your throat, “Hotch says to get lunch and then head back.”
“I saw a stand back there with chili cheese fries,” he says.
Spencer doesn’t know why, for once, Hotch is encouraging a break during a case, but he’s not about to fight him on it. Without a BAU-related task to do at the moment, he gets to simply be there with you. Just you and Spencer in a park, getting food.
If he thinks about it for long enough, he can almost see the both of you like this together in more natural circumstances. Maybe then, he’d be brave enough to hold your hand.
“Daydreaming about those fries, Spence?”
He looks over at you, the sun lighting you from behind, surrounding you like a halo. “No, just… thinking.”
There’s something about the way he says it, about the way his eyes are roaming your face and his voice has gone a little bit lower, scratchier, that makes your heart beat heavier.
Before you can respond, he’s leading the way to the food stand, you not far behind. He places your order and pays before you can object.
You’re stationed at one of the picnic tables in a few minutes, a splinter of wood poking the back of your thigh through your pants, but you don’t move. Not when Spencer’s shin is resting against yours beneath the table.
The platter of chili fries sits in the middle of the table, a fork in each of your hands.
“Don’t you have a statistic in there about the dangers of sharing food?” you ask.
“I do,” he says, “but I don’t particularly.. care about that right now.”
-
You get a longer break before you’re called in for the next case, which is nice. You get to be home earlier, sleep in your sheets and spend the weekend lazily.
There’s a minuscule shift between you and Spencer since the park. An ease that wasn’t there before, a string tied in neat little bows tethering the two of you together.
He’s at his desk before you every morning, and there’s always a coffee waiting for you with a small sticky note attached. Sometimes he’ll leave you a fun fact, sometimes a simple good morning.
The last note you’d gotten before this case was just a doodle of a lopsided smiley face, which you’d stuck to the corner of your computer.
You think about those notes, those coffees as you sit in the NYPD headquarters, twirling a paper cup between your hands. Not nearly as good as when Spencer makes it.
You’re sitting beside him in a conference room where Hotch has gathered the team, your ankle leaning against his.
“We aren’t any closer to finding this unsub,” Hotch says. “We’re gonna have to draw him out.”
“Undercover, huh?” Emily asks, a subtle smirk on her face.
“Yes. We know how he hunts. He looks for couples in bars, waits for them to go outside, usually a couple that’s arguing,” Hotch says, though you all already know this. “He waits for them to split up, then takes the woman. He’s deluded himself into thinking he’s doing these women a favor. Like he’s saving them.”
“Probably because they remind him of his mother, who was abused by his father, and the unsub was too weak at the time to stop it,” Rossi adds.
“He’s been targeting the same three bars on rotation, so we know where he’ll be tonight,” Hotch tells the team.
“And you want a pair of us to go undercover.. as a couple?” you ask. It’s not like you’ve never gone undercover before, but pretending to be dating someone? You’re not the best actress.
“That’s correct.”
“I actually think you and Spencer should do it,” Emily says.
“What?” Reid speaks at the same time as you do.
“You are the unsub’s type,” Emily tells you.
“Ew,” is your response.
“And I think pretty boy over here is your best match, sweetheart,” Derek adds.
“I’m not-”
“I actually think that’s a good idea,” Hotch says.
And so, it’s been decided.
There’s a short silence, and then Spencer speaks. “Are we sure this is the best way to do this?”
“It’s okay, Spence,” you tell him, laying a hand over his forearm that lays on the table, his fingers tapping the wood. His cardigan is soft under your hand, and you give his arm a gentle squeeze.
He turns to you, speaking quietly this time, “What if something- I would rather I was the one being followed. Not you.”
Your eyes soften at his words, at the way he looks down when he says them. You run your thumb back and forth against the fabric of his sweater once, twice. “I’ll be okay. You’ll be there, and everyone else. We’ll get him.”
“I know. I just don’t want him to have time to hurt you.”
Your heart pinches. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so worried, especially not in front of other people. And he isn’t even worried about himself. His concern is you.
“He won’t,” you say.
You turn back to Hotch, and he gives you a nod, “Let’s catch him.”
“And pretty boy becomes lover boy,” Morgan says.
A few hours later you’re dressed in a black mini dress and a pair of knee-high boots, a (nonalcoholic) drink in your hand and Spencer by your side. Your entire side, from shoulder to thigh, is pressed against his where you stand at the bar, warmth sinking into you.
The unsub likes to observe the bar for a while, usually picking a couple and watching them for a couple hours before making his move. That means that you’ve spent a while being Spencer’s girlfriend.
Fake girlfriend, you remind yourself.
Still, if you let yourself forget, just for a second, that you’re on a case, it feels real enough. His hand on your lower back guiding you through the crowd, his chest brushing against your back on the dance floor.
And now, his arm wrapping itself around your waist, fingers toying with the fabric of your dress.
You both have earpieces in, where the team’s been communicating with you (a “nice moves, lover boy” from Derek, or “look at you two” from Emily, and even a “that dress is brilliant, pumpkin” from Penelope).
“I think we have eyes on our guy,” Hotch says now.
You’re almost disappointed when he gives you the signal to head outside. You like being with Spencer like this, and despite the fact that you’re undercover and pretending, you want to stay in it a bit longer.
You obey Hotch’s orders anyway, saying something to Spencer and then slipping out the back door that opens into an alley, Spencer on your heels.
It turns out that pretending to fight with him is the hardest part.
You end up making something up about his eyes wandering, even though you don’t think he looked at anyone else the entire night.
He plays along, defending himself and using words he knows will trigger the unsub. Spencer’s demeanor changes, making himself look more intimidating. He stands up straighter, walks you backwards until you land against the wall, his hands coming up and caging you in.
Your heart races, and not because you’re afraid. Because of how close he is, how you can smell him and feel how warm he is and see that despite his facade of anger his eyes are still unfailingly kind.
Finally, you shove him off of you and storm away. As expected, the unsub emerges out of the shadows, following you down the sidewalk and out of Spencer’s sight.
His stomach sinks. He’d been doing okay when you were beside him, when he knew he could protect you even when he’s well aware that you’re strong, one of the strongest people he knows. You don’t need him to protect you, but he wants to so badly.
Spencer can’t help himself, he speaks into the microphone attached to his cuff, “Guys, what's happening?”
“She’s okay,” Emily says. “He’s definitely following her, but he hasn't tried anything yet.”
“We need to wait for him to make contact,” comes from Hotch.
“What if he-” Spencer stars.
“We have to make this stick, kid,” Morgan tells him.
Spencer knows he’s right. It still doesn’t sit well with him, the thought of a man’s hands on you when he can’t do anything about it.
Your boots click against the pavement, Hotch’s voice in your ears telling you to keep going, that the unsub is getting closer. Just as a warning sounds in your ear, there’s a hand on your wrist.
The grip is tight, pinching your skin enough to leave a mark, but you don’t show it. It’s only seconds until the team and police officers come out of hiding and arrest him, effectively pulling his hands off of you.
Your hand circles the wrist he’d grabbed, rubbing the skin. It isn’t even a minute before Spencer finds you standing by one of the cars on scene, your face lit up by red and blue. He can feel the relief wash over him like a wave. You’re okay, alive. And so, so pretty.
“Hey, Spence,” you say when you see him walk up.
“Are you alright?” he asks, gesturing to where you hold your wrist.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a tight grip. I’ve been through worse.”
He nods. “Let me see.”
You hold out your arm, and he gently grabs your wrist and pushes your sleeve out of the way, his fingertips running over your skin, his eyes scanning it. His hands are warm where they hold you, and his skin on yours makes your stomach swirl.
“I’m okay, really.”
“I know,” he says. His eyes lift to your face, soft. “I just- I don’t want you to ever have to do that again.”
You give him a tiny smile. “It’s part of the job, Spence. Besides, I thought we made a pretty good team.”
“I don’t want to have to worry about you being safe. I want to know you are.”
Oh, you think. And you know, can hear it in the sound of his voice, that it has absolutely nothing to do with your abilities, he just cares.
You shift your hand to tangle your fingers with his, and for once, Spencer doesn’t even think of his aversion to shaking hands.
“I’m safe now,” you tell him.
His thumb traces a circle against your palm.
-
+1
The team tries to get together at least once a month. Sometimes trying different local restaurants, more often taking advantage of Rossi’s mansion and lovely backyard when the weather allows.
You’re all flexible, you have to be when you do what you do, so you’re used to rescheduling or switching things up last minute.
This time around, it’s a little too much switching.
A suspicious amount.
First, it’s JJ, saying that Henry is just being far too clingy tonight for her to be able to skip bedtime. “Will won’t be able to get him to sleep, he can be pretty stubborn,” she’d said.
And you understand, of course you do. You give her a quick hug when she leaves the office, and she tells you to ‘have fun tonight,’ with something shining in her eyes that you can’t quite place.
Then, it’s Morgan, who gives no explanation besides him holding up his phone saying he’s just received an ‘offer he can’t refuse’ and then strolling out with his jacket slung over his shoulder.
Weird, you think. Not entirely out of character for Morgan, but weird.
And ten minutes later, when Emily finishes up her paperwork, checks her phone, gasps dramatically, and says that she has to get back because Sergio was trapped in her curtains, or something, it’s even weirder.
“Curtains?” you ask as she collects her stuff.
“Can’t stay, Serg needs me!” is all she says and then she’s gone.
Another few minutes, and Penelope comes by, looking apologetic.
“Not you too,” you all but whine.
“Sorry, my pretty! Internet emergency. My friend’s boyfriend might be cheating, and I have to help a sister in need!”
“But-”
She smacks a kiss on your cheek and leaves, her heels clicking as she goes.
“Where’s she going?” Spencer asks, walking up to your desk, bag slung over his shoulder.
“Something about catching a cheater,” you say. “And JJ, Morgan, and Emily are all out.”
“What?” he asks, leaning against the edge of your desk. “That’s strange.”
“I know. It’s barely even a team dinner anymore. Just us and the fathers, I guess.”
“Actually, Rossi’s not coming. He said something about being on deadline, needing to finish a chapter.”
“Oh.”
“And Hotch said he’ll meet us there, so…”
“Just us and one father, then.”
Spencer leads you out of the bullpen, and you walk to the elevator, then outside. The restaurant isn’t too far from the office, and with spring settling in, the weather is nice enough to want to walk. So you do.
He walks on the side the closest to the road, one hand wrapped around the strap of his bag, the other swinging between you. Your knuckles brush every few steps, and Spencer seems to be slowing his strides just a little bit to stay right next to you.
It makes you feel warm despite the wind biting at your cheeks.
Just as you walk up to the restaurant, both you and Spencer’s phones buzz.
You pull it out of your back pocket and find a message from Hotch: ‘Jack’s not feeling well. See you tomorrow.’
“So, just us,” you say.
“Just us,” Spencer echoes.
“Do you still want to.. I’d get it if you’d rather reschedule it to be an actual team dinner.”
“I don’t want to reschedule,” he tells you.
Before you can respond or think too hard about the soft way he’d spoken, Spencer is walking up to the door and holding it for you, the bell jingling as he tugs it open.
You blink at him, and then take the hint and walk inside. “I didn’t even know Hotch knew how to make a group chat.”
“What’s a group chat?” Spencer asks.
You sigh out a little laugh. “It’s comforting to know that there are at least some things you don’t know, Dr. Reid.”
“It’s actually pretty much impossible to know everything.”
“To know I’m better than you at something, then.”
“You’re better than me at a lot of things,” he says.
And then the hostess is greeting you, leading you to a small table pressed up against one of the windows, and depositing some menus for you to look over.
Rossi had picked the place this time, a small, family-owned Italian restaurant with classic red and white tablecloths and candles sitting atop each table lighting the place in a soft glow.
It’s funny, you think, that he’d pick a place just to not show up. Even funnier that he’d choose somewhere so… romantic. With a single rose in a vase on every table, dim lighting, mostly small tables.
The thought slips out before you can really stop it, “You know, this almost feels like a date. With just the two of us here.”
Spencer looks up from the menu when you say it, his heart thumping. You look beautiful, he thinks. You do every day, even tired or with a split lip. Beautiful whenever he sees you, but it hits him harder now.
The way the candlelight flickers across your face, your eyes sparkling in it, the strap of your top slipping slowly off your shoulder. He wants to reach out and fix it for you. To let his fingers linger.
He’d thought about being brave with you that day in the park, and maybe he still isn’t as brave as he’d like to be, but he’s brave enough to say, “Would that be such a bad thing? Us on a date, I mean.”
You search his face, almost as if you don’t believe him. Like you’d imagined it, but he’s searching your face, too. Waiting for you to respond. The toe of your shoe skims his shin.
“No, Spence. Not bad at all.”
He smiles, so gently, spreading over his face slowly, flickering like he’d been trying to suppress it and failed.
“Good. That’s— that’s good. I’d like it to be one. A date.”
“Really?”
“I know it’s customary to ask before you’re already sitting at the restaurant, but-”
You find his hand on the table, laying your palm over the back of it, cutting him off. “I’d like that, too.”
He turns his hand around and links his fingers with yours.
And just like that, you’re on a date with Spencer Reid. It feels almost natural, like this is how you’ve always been with each other, with only a small layer of nerves at the newness of it all.
You’ve been so used to keeping your crush on him to yourself that it seems like a dream to be sitting here, but it isn’t. You talk about the food, Spencer easily telling you every dish's origins. You laugh and he asks about what book you’re reading now, and you tell him and he listens.
He points out different Italian musicians playing throughout the night, you eat your food and split a dessert. He traps your ankle between his calves when your leg wanders, and you let him keep it there.
Spencer pays and you slap his wrist lightly for not letting you chip in. Then you’re walking back to the parking lot. Admittedly, you walk a lot slower this time, like you’re both dragging the evening out. This time, when your hands brush, Spencer grabs yours, and puts your joined hands in his jacket pocket.
Back at your car, you lean your back against the driver’s side door, Spencer stands not far from you.
“So we agree that they ditched us on purpose, right?” you ask him, your hand still in his now swinging between your bodies.
“Oh, absolutely.” Spencer smiles. “Though I’m not sure if we should be thanking them or getting them back for it.”
“Mmm, let ‘em sweat. I think this would have happened either way,” you say.
“Me too.” And suddenly Spencer’s face is closer to yours, only a breath away, his free hand coming up to prop himself up against your car, framing you in.
Your eyes flicker between his, and you shift a little bit closer, tugging his tie between the fingers of the hand that isn’t holding his.
“Can I?” he asks, and you simply give his tie a gentle yank and his lips are on yours.
ᯓ★
thank u so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog!! it’s what helps the most, and would mean a bunch <3
Summary: The first time you go out with the team without Spencer, they make it their mission to explain why you should absolutely date him. The problem? You already are. And have been for months.
Words: 4,4k.
Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. secret relationship. mentions of alcohol, injuries, typical cm stuff. neither hotch nor rossi are present because it is a conversation not approved by parents. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Welcome to the first fic of my 2k celebration! I had so much fun writing this and I really hope you enjoy it. I missed writing Spencer so badly, my beloved boy♡
Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.
Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.
Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.
Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.
But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.
Damn.
“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.
You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.
JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.
Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”
Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”
“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”
JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”
You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”
“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”
JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”
Oh.
You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”
Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”
“What? I do not,” you protested.
Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”
“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”
“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”
“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”
JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”
“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.
Except it wasn’t.
Not really.
Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.
You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”
Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.
“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”
Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”
“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”
Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”
Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”
Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”
“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”
You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.
Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”
You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.
By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.
This was a campaign.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”
You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”
What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.
And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.
Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.
“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”
You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.
And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,
“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”
The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.
JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.
“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”
Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”
Your laughter never came.
Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.
You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.
He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.
Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.
“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”
“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”
JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”
Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”
You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”
Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”
“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.
Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”
Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.
JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”
“That is not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”
Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”
“He deserved it.”
“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”
You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”
“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”
Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”
You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”
“Domestic,” Emily said.
The table erupted in laughter.
Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”
JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”
“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”
Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”
You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.
For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.
Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”
Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.
If they only knew that you already were.
That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.
You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.
Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.
And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.
The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.
The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.
Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.
And then you froze.
There was a light on in the living room.
Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.
Spencer was there.
He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.
“Hey,” he said softly.
The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.
“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.
Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”
“I know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”
You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.
“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Something in you melted completely.
You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.
“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.
“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.
Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.
It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.
He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”
You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.
“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”
He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”
You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.
While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”
He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”
Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.
“They were talking about you all night.”
Spencer paused mid-motion.
The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.
“Oh,” he said.
You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”
That did it.
His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.
“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.
You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.
“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”
He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“Were they…logical?” he asked.
You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”
That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”
“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”
He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.
“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.
“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.
Spencer’s brain left the building.
He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.
“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.
You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”
He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.
“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.
“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”
He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.
“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”
You laughed, forehead resting against his.
“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “You have no idea what they already know.”
Description: Spencer agrees to fake being your boyfriend for one wedding. Neither of you expects to be quite so convincing.
___________________________________
Title: A Convincing Argument
Spencer noticed the envelope before you said anything.
It had been sitting beside your keyboard all morning, cream-colored and thick, your name written across the front in looping gold ink. Every few minutes, you glanced at it and then returned to your report with renewed determination, as though ignoring it might make it disappear.
By lunch, the envelope was still unopened.
Spencer lowered the book he had been reading. “Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding that?”
You followed his gaze. “It’s a wedding invitation.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re avoiding it.”
“My cousin is getting married next Saturday.”
“That’s relatively short notice.”
“The invitation isn’t new. I’ve known for months.”
Spencer waited. He had learned that if he remained quiet long enough, you usually filled the silence yourself.
You sighed and reached for the envelope. “My family has a seating plan.”
“Most weddings do.”
“They’ve placed me beside my ex-boyfriend.”
His expression changed immediately. “Why?”
“Because my grandmother thinks we made a mistake.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The answer came fast enough that he seemed satisfied by it.
You opened the envelope and pulled out the folded card inside. A small note had been tucked beneath it in your mother’s handwriting.
Daniel is looking forward to seeing you. Please keep an open mind.
Spencer read it upside down. “That seems inappropriate.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you told them you don’t want to sit with him?”
“Three times. My mother says changing the tables now would be complicated, and my grandmother says adults should be able to have one civilized dinner.”
“Couldn’t you bring someone else?”
You looked at him.
Spencer’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You continued looking at him.
“No,” he said.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re going to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You stopped blinking.”
You frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You do that when you’re deciding how to phrase something you think I won’t like.”
The fact that he knew that about you made your next question considerably harder to ask.
You folded the note and placed it on the desk. “Would you come with me?”
Spencer stared at you.
“As my guest,” you added.
“You mean as your boyfriend.”
“Only for the wedding.”
“That isn’t better.”
“I know.”
He set his book aside. “You want me to lie to your entire family.”
“I want you to sit beside me during dinner so no one can put Daniel there.”
“You could ask Morgan.”
“Morgan would enjoy this too much.”
“That’s true.”
“And my grandmother has met him. She’d know.”
“What about Luke?”
“He has plans.”
Spencer studied your face. “Was I your third choice?”
“You were my first choice.” The answer slipped out before you could soften it.
His posture changed, though only slightly.
You looked down at the invitation. “I asked Luke whether he was free because I thought asking you would make things strange.”
“Why would it?”
“Because you’re you.”
“That doesn’t clarify anything.”
“You don’t like crowds. You don’t like lying. You’ve never met most of my family, and weddings involve prolonged social interaction with strangers.”
“All accurate.”
“And if I brought you, they would believe me.”
“Why?”
You gave him a tired smile. “Because I talk about you.”
For once, Dr. Spencer Reid had no immediate response.
You rushed to continue. “I mention everyone from work. You simply come up more often because we spend a lot of time together.”
“How often?”
“I don’t keep statistics on my own conversations.”
“I could estimate—”
“Please don’t.”
He glanced at the note again. “What would I have to do?”
“Eat dinner. Make polite conversation. Maybe dance once if my grandmother is watching.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I know.”
“I could injure you.”
“You stepped on my foot during JJ’s wedding and I recovered.”
“That was different. I wasn’t pretending to be in love with you.”
Your breath caught at the wording. Spencer seemed to realize what he had said a second too late. His ears turned pink.
“Interested,” he corrected. “Romantically interested.”
“Right.”
He picked up his book but didn’t open it. “I’ll think about it.”
You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. “Of course.”
He gave you his answer twenty minutes later.
“I’ll go.”
You turned in your chair. “What changed your mind?”
“I reviewed the available information.”
“You reviewed it.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Your family is disregarding a clearly stated boundary because they believe their preferred outcome is more important than your discomfort.”
His voice was calm, but there was a trace of irritation beneath it.
“I don’t think you should have to manage that alone.”
Something warm settled behind your ribs.
“Thank you, Spencer.”
He nodded, then pointed at the invitation. “We need rules.”
“Rules?”
“And a consistent explanation of our relationship. Your family may ask questions.”
“You sound alarmingly prepared for this.”
“I’m preparing now.”
You smiled. “Fine. We’ll have dinner tomorrow and work everything out.”
“Dinner?”
“We need a believable first date.”
He considered that. “Then dinner seems methodologically appropriate.”
You laughed. “It isn’t a real date.”
“I know.”
The words sounded less certain than they should have.
•••••••••••••••••••••••
The following evening, Spencer arrived at your apartment with a legal pad.
You opened the door and stared at it . “You made notes?”
“I made categories.”
“Of course you did.”
He followed you inside and placed the pad on your kitchen table. The first page contained three headings: established facts, plausible additions, and prohibited topics.
You pointed to the last one. “What qualifies as a prohibited topic?”
“Anything involving physical intimacy.”
You looked up.
Spencer cleared his throat. “Your relatives don’t need details.”
“I agree.”
“Also, no elaborate proposal stories, medical emergencies, or claims that either of us has met the other’s parents.”
“Were you expecting me to invent a medical emergency?”
“Garcia suggested one.”
“You discussed this with Garcia?”
“She noticed me researching wedding etiquette.”
You covered your face. “Does everyone know?”
“Probably.”
“Wonderful.”
Spencer took the chair across from you. “We should stay close to the truth. We met at work. We’ve known each other for four years. We started spending more time together after the Richmond case.”
You lowered your hands. “Why that case?”
“You drove me home because I had a migraine.”
“I remember.”
“You stayed until the medication started working.”
“You were barely able to stand.”
“Most people would have left once I was inside.”
The room grew quiet.
You reached for the legal pad. “So that’s when you supposedly started liking me?”
Spencer looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s plausible.”
You wrote it down.
The rest of the story came together without much effort. You had started dating four months earlier. Your first official date had been at a used bookstore, followed by coffee when neither of you wanted to go home yet. Spencer had been the one to ask.
“Would you have?” you asked.
He glanced up from the list.
“Asked me?”
“In this hypothetical situation.” He adjusted his cuff. “The probability of rejection would have made me hesitant.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
You waited, but he returned to the legal pad.
••••••••••••••••••••
By the time Saturday arrived, you had repeated the story enough times that it had begun to feel like a memory.
Spencer picked you up at four. You opened the door and briefly forgot how to speak. His suit was dark navy rather than black, fitted closely enough to make you wonder why he wore oversized cardigans so often. His hair was neatly combed, although one piece had already fallen across his forehead.
He looked just as startled when he saw you.
“You look—” He stopped.
You smiled. “I look what?”
He glanced down at the flowers in his hand, as though they might contain an appropriate adjective. “Beautiful.”
The simple sincerity of it left you warmer than any rehearsed compliment could have. “Thank you.”
He offered you the bouquet. Small white flowers surrounded a cluster of pale pink roses.
“You brought flowers?”
“I read that arriving without them could appear inattentive.”
“You’re supposed to give flowers to the host.”
“I bought those too.”
You laughed and took the bouquet from him. “These are for me?”
“Yes.”
“They’re lovely.”
His shoulders relaxed.
The drive took just under an hour. Spencer talked for most of it, moving from the historical origins of wedding rings to the reason some cultures considered Saturday an unlucky day to marry. He only rambled when he was comfortable or anxious. You weren’t sure which applied.
Ten minutes before you arrived, he grew quiet.
“You can still change your mind,” you said.
“I said I would come.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re trapped.”
“I don’t feel trapped.”
His hand rested between you on the center console. After a moment, he turned it palm up.
“We should probably practice.”
You stared at his hand.
“For appearances,” he added.
“Right.”
You placed your hand in his.
Spencer’s fingers closed around yours carefully. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, then stilled.
Neither of you let go when he turned into the venue.
Your mother spotted you before you had crossed the lawn.
Her expression moved quickly from surprise to recognition.
“Spencer.”
He released your hand only long enough to shake hers. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally?”
Your mother looked at you.
Spencer appeared confused. “She talks about you frequently.”
You had the uncomfortable sense that he was enjoying himself.
Your grandmother was less restrained. She hugged Spencer immediately, held him at arm’s length, and inspected him as though checking for defects.
“You’re very thin.”
“Grandma.”
“What? He is.”
Spencer looked down at himself. “My body mass index is within the recommended range.”
She stared at him for two seconds before breaking into a grin.
“Oh, I like this one.”
Daniel arrived during cocktail hour.
You noticed him across the room, but Spencer noticed you noticing him. His hand settled lightly at the small of your back.
The gesture had been discussed. You had agreed it would look natural.
It did look natural.
That was the problem.
Daniel approached with the same easy confidence you remembered, kissed your cheek, and greeted Spencer with an outstretched hand.
“So you’re the famous coworker.”
“Boyfriend,” your grandmother corrected from nearby.
Daniel smiled. “Of course.”
Spencer shook his hand. “And you’re Daniel.”
“I’m surprised she mentioned me.”
“She didn’t.”
The silence that followed was brief but satisfying.
Daniel laughed. “You’re going to fit in well.”
He wandered away toward the bar.
You turned to Spencer. “Was that necessary?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dinner passed more easily than you expected. Spencer answered your uncle’s questions about the FBI, listened patiently while your aunt described every crime documentary she had ever watched, and helped your youngest cousin calculate how many pieces of cake he could take without being noticed.
When the music started, your grandmother appeared beside your chair.
“Dance.”
Spencer looked alarmed.
You stood before he could object. “One song.”
“I remember what happened at JJ’s wedding.”
“So do I. My shoes and feet survived.”
He followed you onto the dance floor with the solemn expression of a man approaching an active crime scene.
You placed one hand on his shoulder. He rested his hand at your waist.
“Stop looking at everyone else,” you said.
“I’m analyzing their footwork.”
“You’re dancing with me.”
His eyes returned to yours. “Right.”
For the first minute, he counted beneath his breath. Then his steps began to match yours, hesitant but steady.
“This is going better than expected,” he said.
“You have a gifted teacher.”
“That’s a biased assessment.”
“Probably.”
He smiled.
The room seemed softer beneath the hanging lights, the music low enough that you could hear him breathe. His hand shifted at your waist, drawing you a fraction closer as another couple passed.
You forgot about Daniel. You forgot about your grandmother watching from her table. You even forgot that this was supposed to be an act.
Spencer’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then the song ended. Applause rose around the room as the band announced the bride and groom’s departure.
Spencer stepped back, though his hand stayed around yours.
You found Daniel near the exit while everyone gathered for the send-off. He glanced at your joined hands.
“So this is real?”
The question was directed at you, but Spencer answered. “Yes.” There was no hesitation.
Daniel nodded and moved away before you could speak.
Spencer remained beside you, looking straight ahead.
“Was that part of the plan?” you asked quietly.
“No.”
Your pulse quickened.
Outside, guests lined the stone path with sparklers. You waited until the newlyweds had run through the crowd before leading Spencer away from the noise, around the side of the building where the music faded into a distant hum.
He released your hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t have answered for you.”
“You said yes.”
“I know.”
“You also said it wasn’t part of the plan.”
His gaze lowered to the pavement. “It wasn’t.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Spencer went still. For several seconds, you heard only the faint crackle of sparklers from the front lawn.
“When you asked me to come,” he said at last, “I thought the difficult part would be convincing everyone else.”
You waited.
“It wasn’t.”
He looked at you then, open and uncertain in a way you rarely saw.
“Pretending you were my girlfriend was easy. Remembering that you weren’t became increasingly difficult.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds like a problem.”
“It could be.”
“Or we could fix it.”
His expression shifted, hope appearing so cautiously that it made your chest ache. “How?”
You stepped closer.
“Ask me the question you avoided answering at dinner.”
Spencer inhaled slowly. “Would you go out with me?”
“A real date?”
“Yes.”
“No legal pads?”
“I can’t promise that.”
You laughed. “Then yes.”
Relief softened his entire face. He lifted one hand to your cheek, giving you enough time to move away. You didn’t. His kiss was gentle and brief, more question than declaration. When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“Was that convincing?” he murmured.
“You may need more practice.”
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
The second kiss lasted longer. By the time you returned to the reception, your grandmother was standing near the door with her arms folded.
She looked at your joined hands, then at your face.
“Well?”
You leaned against Spencer’s shoulder “He asked me out.”
Your grandmother nodded as though this had been the expected outcome all along.
“Good. Now I can stop inviting Daniel to things.”
“You could have stopped months ago.”
“I needed motivation.”
Spencer looked between the two of you. “Was this entire evening a manipulation tactic?”
Your grandmother smiled sweetly. “Welcome to the family, Spencer.”
He turned to you, visibly uncertain whether she was joking.
You squeezed his hand.
“For the record, I had nothing to do with that.”
“I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
You laughed and pulled him back toward the dance floor.
This time, when his hand settled at your waist, there was no audience to convince and no story left to remember.
There was only Spencer smiling down at you as the music began again, and the quiet knowledge that the most believable part of the evening had been the only thing neither of you had planned.
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
link to: epilogue/bonus bit
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Description: After a medical scare lands you in the hospital, Spencer proves exactly why he’s your emergency contact.
___________________________________
Title: The Emergency Contact
The nurse looked between you and Spencer with barely concealed suspicion.
“You’re telling me you’re not married?”
“No,” you said.
Spencer answered at the exact same time. “Correct.”
The nurse glanced down at the form in her hand. “But he’s your emergency contact.”
“Yes.”
“And he knew your date of birth, your allergies, your insurance provider, and the name of your primary care physician.”
Spencer shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside your hospital bed. “I have an excellent memory.”
“He also brought you a change of clothes.”
“He’s considerate.”
“And your preferred brand of shampoo.”
You turned toward him. “You brought shampoo?”
Spencer’s ears turned pink. “Hospitals usually provide toiletries, but approximately thirty percent of patients report being dissatisfied with—”
The nurse held up a hand. “I don’t need the statistics.”
“That’s usually what people say right before the statistics become relevant.”
You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. The nurse stared at both of you for another second, then handed Spencer the discharge papers. “She needs to rest for the next twenty-four hours. No driving, no work, and someone should stay with her tonight in case the dizziness returns.”
“I’ll stay,” Spencer said immediately.
The nurse’s expression became unbearably knowing. “Of course you will.”
Once she left, you looked at him. “You know she thinks we’re together.”
“She made several inaccurate assumptions.”
“You didn’t exactly correct her.”
“I told her we weren’t married.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Spencer frowned as he considered this.
The doctor had assured you it was exhaustion and dehydration, nothing more serious. Still, Spencer had spent the past three hours hovering beside you, asking enough questions that the attending physician had finally threatened to confiscate his medical journals.
He helped you sit up slowly. “Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Only when you start listing symptoms.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
His mouth tightened, but his hand remained around your elbow as he helped you stand.
Your knees wobbled and Spencer’s arm immediately circled your waist.
“I’m fine,” you insisted.
“You nearly fainted again.”
“I stood up too fast.”
“Which is precisely why I asked you to wait.”
There was no point arguing when he used that tone.
He drove you home, carried your bag upstairs, and refused to let you unlock your own apartment door.
“You know,” you said as he guided you toward the couch, “I’m capable of walking.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re treating me like I’m made of glass.”
“Glass is an amorphous solid. You’re considerably more structurally complex.”
You stared at him. “That was almost romantic.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
The pink returned to his ears.
Spencer disappeared into your kitchen. Cabinets opened and closed, followed by the sound of running water.
“You don’t have any food,” he called.
“I have food.”
“You have mustard, half a lemon, and something in a container that I’m unwilling to identify.”
“It’s probably pasta.”
“It’s moving.”
You sat up. “Throw it away.”
“I already did.”
He returned with a glass of water and crouched in front of you until you drank half of it.
“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly.
The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “The doctor said someone should.”
“I could call JJ.”
“JJ has two children.”
“Garcia?”
“Garcia would panic.”
“Morgan?”
“Morgan would invite himself into your kitchen and make comments about your emergency contact form.”
You smiled. “And you won’t?”
“I’m already on it.”
“That’s what I mean.”
Spencer went still.
You turned the glass between your palms. “When did I put you down as my emergency contact?”
“Eight months ago. After the case in Baltimore.”
“You remember?”
“You asked if I minded.”
“I don’t remember telling you my doctor’s name.”
“It was written on the card in your wallet.”
“You went through my wallet?”
“The hospital needed your insurance information.”
“And the shampoo?”
His gaze dropped. “You complained about the hospital shampoo after your appendectomy two years ago.”
Something in your chest softened. “You remembered that?”
“Of course.” He said as though forgetting anything about you would have been impossible.
You placed the glass on the coffee table. “Spencer.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you look so frightened today?”
His expression closed almost immediately. “I wasn’t frightened.”
“You were. When I woke up, you were holding my hand so tightly my fingers hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t a complaint.”
He looked down at where his hands rested against his knees. “I knew the most likely explanation was exhaustion,” he said. “But there were other possibilities, and I couldn’t rule them out without testing.”
“And that scared you.”
He nodded once as you reached for his hand. Spencer let you lace your fingers through his, but he continued staring at them.
“You’re my emergency contact because you’re the person I trust most,” you said.
His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles.
“I thought it was because I always answer my phone.”
“That too.”
He smiled faintly.
You tugged his hand until he looked at you. “And because, apparently, you remember my shampoo.”
“I remember nearly everything.”
“Then remember this.”
You leaned forward and kissed him. For half a second, Spencer didn’t move. Then his free hand came up to cradle your cheek, and he kissed you back with careful, startled sweetness.
When you pulled away, his eyes remained closed for another moment.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he murmured.
“That didn’t require much energy.”
“Your heart rate increased.”
“So did yours.”
He opened his eyes. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m not the patient.”
You smiled. “You’re still staying tonight, right?”
His expression softened. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Spencer settled beside you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder. He pulled the blanket over both of you and reached for the book he had brought from the hospital.
“Are you going to read to me?”
“I thought it might help you sleep.”
“What did you bring?”
He showed you the cover. “A Brief History of Epidemics.”
You lifted your head. “Spencer.”
“What?”
“Find something else.”
He sighed, but you caught the smile he tried to hide as he reached for the remote instead.
By the following morning, you felt completely recovered.
Spencer, however, was still listed as your emergency contact. Now he simply had a more accurate reason to be there.
Description: Seven years ago, you and Spencer made a drunken pact: if you were both still single by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
You forgot about it. Spencer never did.
___________________________________
Title: The Deadline
The agreement had been written on the back of a takeout menu seven years ago, somewhere between the second bottle of wine and Spencer’s attempt to explain why your latest date had failed using probability theory.
“He talked about cryptocurrency for forty-five minutes,” you had said, dropping your forehead onto the kitchen table. “Then he asked whether I’d ever considered fixing my nose.”
Spencer’s expression had gone perfectly still. “What’s wrong with your nose?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why would he—”
“Because he was an ass, Spencer.”
“Oh.” He had looked offended on your behalf, which had made you feel marginally better. “Yes. Statistically, insulting someone during a first date does significantly reduce the likelihood of a second.”
“Thank you, Doctor Romance.”
He had taken the insult with a sip of wine.
His own evening had gone poorly, though it had taken nearly twenty minutes of careful questioning to get him to admit it. The woman had spent most of dinner checking her phone and had eventually told him that talking to him felt like attending a lecture she had forgotten to study for.
You had hated her immediately.
“We’re doomed,” you had decided.
Spencer had frowned. “That seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”
“You’re right. I’m doomed. You’ll meet some brilliant professor who collects first-edition Russian novels, and I’ll be found dead in my apartment after my cat eats half my face.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
“I’ll get one once I’ve accepted my fate.”
That was when you had made the pact. If neither of you was married by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
Spencer had insisted the agreement needed clearly defined terms. You had found a pen while he listed possible complications, including relocation, preexisting engagements, major changes in personal compatibility and, for reasons you still did not understand, tax implications.
You wrote it on the back of the menu.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You had signed beneath it with an exaggerated flourish.
Spencer had studied the words for several seconds before adding his name beside yours in neat, narrow handwriting.
Then you had folded the menu, tucked it into the junk drawer and forgotten about it.
At least, you thought you had.
••••••••••
“Thirty-five,” Garcia announced, dropping a pink bakery box onto the table in the bullpen. “A distinguished age. An elegant age. An age at which a woman knows her worth and will no longer tolerate men who own mattresses without fitted sheets.”
Your birthday was still two weeks away, but Garcia had apparently decided that celebrations were most effective when stretched across several business days.
“I’m not thirty-five yet,” you reminded her.
“Which is why this is a pre-birthday cupcake.”
“There are twelve cupcakes.”
“The passage of time is emotionally demanding.”
Morgan reached into the box before Garcia had finished arranging the napkins.
She slapped his hand away.
“Those are for the birthday girl.”
“The birthday girl isn’t even having a birthday today.” He retorted.
“That sounds like someone who doesn’t deserve frosting.”
You smiled as they argued, reaching for your coffee. Across the bullpen, Spencer had stopped halfway through removing a file from his bag.
His eyes were fixed on the bakery box.
More specifically, on the silver number thirty-five Garcia had stuck into the center cupcake.
You raised your eyebrows at him.
He looked away so quickly that he nearly dropped the file.
It happened again during lunch when JJ asked whether you had any plans for your birthday.
And again when Emily mentioned setting you up with a friend from Interpol.
Spencer became intensely interested in whatever he happened to be holding each time the subject arose. A book. A case file. An empty coffee cup he studied as though the meaning of life might be printed at the bottom.
By the end of the day, you had had enough. You found him in the kitchenette pouring an alarming amount of sugar into his coffee.
“Did I do something?”
His hand paused above the cup. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t.”
“You took the stairs when you saw me waiting for the elevator.”
“Taking the stairs can improve cardiovascular health and reduce the risk of—”
“You work on the sixth floor.”
He set down the sugar packet. For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved toward the doorway, checking whether anyone was nearby. Then he asked, “Do you remember the agreement?”
You stared at him. “What agreement?”
His mouth tightened slightly. The hurt crossed his face so quickly you almost missed it. “Never mind.”
He reached for his coffee, but you caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Spencer.”
“It was years ago. You were upset, and we’d both had wine. It was obviously a joke.”
The memory surfaced slowly.
Takeout containers. Cheap wine. Spencer sitting at your kitchen table with his tie loosened, explaining that he would need access to at least half of the bookshelves if you ever lived together.
Your grip on his wrist loosened.
“Oh my God.”
He gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Exactly.”
“The marriage pact.”
A crash sounded from the hallway.
You both turned.
Morgan stood outside the kitchenette with a broken plastic coffee cup at his feet. “The what?”
Spencer closed his eyes.
Within eight minutes, the entire team knew.
You suspected Morgan had broken several laws of physics to spread the information so quickly.
“A marriage pact?” Emily repeated, leaning against your desk. “With Reid?”
“It was a joke.”
“Was it?” JJ asked, glancing toward Spencer.
He was seated at his desk with a book open in front of him. He had not turned a page in five minutes.
Garcia pressed both hands to her chest. “This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened within these deeply beige walls.”
“It isn’t romantic,” you said. “We were drunk and miserable.”
“Historically,” Rossi said from behind his office door, “that’s how plenty of marriages start.”
Hotch emerged from his office carrying a file.
Every head turned toward him.
He looked from you to Spencer, then at the gathering around your desk.
“We have a case.”
The room scattered.
As Hotch passed, he placed the file in your hands. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.
Your mouth fell open. Morgan laughed so hard he had to brace himself against a desk.
The case should have ended the conversation.
Instead, thirty-five followed you to Iowa.
It appeared when you and Spencer were assigned adjoining hotel rooms. When a local detective mistook you for a couple. When Morgan referred to the vending-machine crackers Spencer brought you as “early spousal support.”
You laughed each time because it was easier than examining why Spencer never did.
He smiled occasionally, but it never reached his eyes.
On the flight home, you found him awake while everyone else slept.
The cabin lights were dimmed. Spencer sat across from you, one knee drawn slightly toward his chest, an unopened book resting in his lap.
“You really remembered?” you whispered.
His fingers tightened around the book. “I have an eidetic memory.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked toward the dark window. The reflection showed the strain around his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
“For seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer took so long that you started to wonder whether he would give one.
“Because I didn’t think it was a joke.”
Something shifted painfully beneath your ribs. “Spencer…”
“I knew you probably didn’t mean it.” His voice stayed low, careful not to wake the others. “At least, not in the same way I did. But you asked, and I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that if we reached thirty-five and you still wanted me, I would be the luckiest person alive.”
You could hear the steady hum of the jet beneath the silence.
He gave a short laugh that sounded embarrassed. “It was irrational. There was no reason to believe our circumstances would remain unchanged for seven years. The likelihood of either of us entering a long-term relationship was—”
“Spencer.”
He stopped.
“You could have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“So you planned to wait until my birthday and what? Show up with the menu?”
His eyes flickered toward his satchel.
You stared at it.
“No.”
His cheeks turned pink.
“Spencer.”
He lowered his gaze.
Slowly, you reached across the aisle and pulled the satchel toward you.
He did not try to stop you.
The folded paper was tucked inside the inner pocket, protected between two clear plastic sheets.
The restaurant had closed years ago. The ink had faded slightly, and there was a stain near your signature from the wine you had spilled.
But the promise remained.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You ran your thumb across his name.
“You kept it.”
“I went back for it the next morning.”
“You stole my takeout menu?”
“You had thrown it in a drawer with expired coupons and batteries.”
“That was my filing system.”
“It was a fire hazard.”
You laughed softly, though your eyes had begun to burn.
Spencer watched you with the cautious expression he wore when approaching something wounded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed it meant anything to you.”
You looked at him over the paper.
“The reason I forgot wasn’t because you meant nothing to me.”
He stayed perfectly still.
“I forgot because somewhere along the way, I stopped imagining a future where you wouldn’t be there.” You folded the menu carefully. “You’re already the person I call when something goes wrong. You’re the first person I want to tell when something goes right. Half your books are in my apartment, and you have your own mug in my kitchen.”
“The blue one.”
“The blue one,” you agreed. “You know how I take my coffee. I know you pretend not to be cold because you hate asking for an extra blanket in hotels.”
“I don’t hate asking.”
“You’re using your coat as a blanket right now.”
He glanced down at the jacket draped across his lap.
“That’s circumstantial.”
You smiled then you placed the menu on the empty seat beside you and held out your hand.
Spencer looked at it. His fingers slipped into yours slowly, as if he was afraid you might change your mind halfway through.
“You don’t have to wait until my birthday,” you said.
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“For an answer.”
The hope on his face was almost unbearable.
You tightened your hand around his. “Yes.”
His lips parted.
“Yes to the pact,” you clarified. “Eventually. I’d prefer a real first date before we start discussing tax implications.”
“You remember that?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“I was right about the tax implications.”
“I’m sure you were.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “So this would be a date with the intention of determining long-term romantic compatibility?”
“It means you’re taking me to dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“We land after midnight.”
“Tomorrow?”
You pretended to consider it. Spencer waited, visibly tense. “Tomorrow,” you agreed.
His smile appeared slowly, softening his entire face.
You had seen Spencer happy before. You had seen him excited, relieved, amused and triumphant.
You had never seen anyone look at you as though a seven-year wait had been worth every second.
He lifted your joined hands and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.
Behind him, Morgan opened one eye. “I better be the best man.”
Spencer nearly dropped your hand.
JJ’s muffled laughter came from two rows back.
Garcia sat upright beneath her eye mask. “I’m planning the wedding.”
“There is no wedding,” you whispered fiercely.
“Yet,” Rossi corrected without opening his eyes.
Hotch remained facing the front of the plane. “Everyone go back to sleep.” A beat of silence passed. Then he added, “And congratulations.”
Spencer looked at you, his face bright red.
You leaned across the aisle and kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow,” you reminded him.
His fingers found yours again beneath the armrest.
tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, someone switched the fluff machine back on, 5 plus 1 fic, hand-holding, coworkers to crushes, reader has an idea, spencer's mostly just being polite about it, UNTIL
warnings: germ talk, spencer mentions hypothetical medical conditions
word count: 6.7K
summary: five times you take spencer's hand and one time he takes yours.
note: suggested by @emmadellaposta-blog in this comment:
May I propose to you a fic where Spencer tells reader he wants to get over some of his Germaphobia so she just randomly throughout the day starts holding his hand and when he asks what she’s doing she replies “exposure therapy” but it just leads to them realizing they have feelings for each other
title is from a glistening pleasure song. the song has ZERO connection to the fic i just love those words in that order.
~*~*~
ONE
"What the hell is that guy's problem?"
You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.
His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."
"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."
Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.
There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.
You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.
"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."
You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)
"Fuck them," you say dismissively.
"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.
"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."
Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.
"Thank you," you say, nodding.
"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.
"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?
"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."
"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."
"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.
"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.
"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.
When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.
"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.
"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.
The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.
He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.
"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.
"Hmm?"
"Are you counting?"
He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."
"One minute, okay?" you tell him.
"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.
Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.
TWO
You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.
You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.
Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.
"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.
"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.
"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."
"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."
"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"
Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.
Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.
"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."
"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."
Touché, Doc.
"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.
If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.
THREE
The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.
Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.
You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.
"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.
You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.
Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.
"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.
"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.
Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.
You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.
His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.
You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.
You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."
His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."
When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.
Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.
"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.
"That's why I woke you up," he replies.
"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.
His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.
You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.
FOUR
The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.
Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.
Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.
You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"
Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.
You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.
"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.
Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.
Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.
His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.
"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."
Penelope snorts. "And did you?"
You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."
She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.
Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.
You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.
He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.
Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.
The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.
"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.
You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."
"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."
You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."
Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."
"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"
"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."
"Then what?"
Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.
"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."
"What?"
You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?
Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."
When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.
When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.
FIVE
One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.
Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.
Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.
Book heaven.
You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.
You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.
You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.
But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."
You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.
"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.
18th century philosophy. Because of course.
And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."
Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.
"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.
"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.
You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.
She's touching his hand.
How unprofessional!
For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.
And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.
Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.
And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.
Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.
No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.
Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.
"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.
He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.
Oh.
Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.
You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.
You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.
She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.
You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.
You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.
Terrifying.
ONE
This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.
He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."
And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.
There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.
But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.
And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.
Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.
You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.
"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.
Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.
"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.
"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.
"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.
'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"
You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"
He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?
Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?
Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.
"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.
Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."
At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."
The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.
"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.
He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.
"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."
Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."
You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"
He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"
"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."
"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.
You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"
Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.
He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.
You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.
"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.
You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."
"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."
Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.
It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.
He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.
But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.
The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.
Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…
When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.
"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.
You turn and stare at him. "What?"
"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.
But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.
"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.
You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."
"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.
Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.
"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.
This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.
He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."
When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.
Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.
Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.
How is he supposed to know what to do?
The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.
Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.
He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."
"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.
He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."
You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.
His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.
Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?
But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.
When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.
He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.
You don't move. At all.
He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.
You still aren't moving.
He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.
He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.
Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.
That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.
And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.
Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.
He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.
You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."
When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.
"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.
"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.
You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."
He blinks.
"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.
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