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everything i didn't say ⋆ steve murphy

(i'm crying what happened to the photo quality) steve murphy x dea agent f!reader summary ⋆ after an op takes a turn for the worst, steve is forced to confront emotions he’s buried under duty and denial. as the line between professional and personal blurs, steve must face the terrifying possibility of losing the one person he never let himself love warnings ⋆ hurt/comfort (happy ending), guns, injury description, hospitals, reader gets shot & seriously hurt, swearing, he's kinda ooc but i live for dramatic boys word count ⋆ 3.6k a/n ⋆ ignore the way i go from present to past tense every sentence, it pisses me off too but i'm too sleepy to fix it. ALSO tagging javi x reader just for some reach but i promise i'll tag my other fics properly <33

If it wasn’t for the severity of the situation, the humidity would have clouded your brain. You leaned into the centre console from the back seat, wondering whether you should voice your concerns to the two men in front.

“You sure about this source?” Steve asked, eyes on the road.

“Yeah, CI’s credible,” Javier replied while shifting in his seat. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, lighting one up as he turns to look outside.

You ease back into your seat, glad that Steve managed to read your thoughts. He catches your eyes in the rearview mirror, nerves clearly etched on your features.

“What’s up with you y/n? Ain't like you to stay this quiet.” He asked and you smirk at him.

“Just be honest and say you miss the sound of my voice, Murphy.” You quip back, pulling a laugh from both men.

The nerves from the car ride returned tenfold as you fidget with the stitching on your holster. Steve stood beside you, scanning the alley ahead with that tight-set jaw he wore like a second badge. Javier leans against the dilapidated wall behind you, cigarette still hanging from his lips as he follows Steve’s gaze.

“It’s almost too quiet.” You wander out loud, not sure if this was nerves or logic talking.

Javier flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. “We sit on our asses, they say we’re fucking letting the trail go cold. We move too fast, we walk into a damn hornet’s nest.” He replies and you nod in agreeance; now was not the time to second guess a cleared tip.

Steve finally looked over at you. Something in his expression wavered, like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. “Alright. Let’s move.”

You notice Trujillo and his guys take their positions at the back entrance of the building; go time is approaching. You’d done this dance a hundred times before: doors kicked in, rooms cleared, names crossed off lists… but the idea that something was off gnawed at the back of your mind.

Intel said the place was light on personnel; a handful of lookouts, a low-level product runner or two. Easy in, easy out.

You push the door open, gun raised, heart thudding in your ears. The room inside is dark, abandoned-looking. Dust hangs thick in the air, lit by slats of sunlight through broken blinds. You signal clear as you turn to the doorway you entered from, no need to go further as you see Trujillo entering the room in front of you to survey.

Then it happens; Trujillo screaming your name through the doorway behind you, a loud gunshot sliced through his scream, then a second, and a third. Your body jerked forward with each gunshot, one to the side of your neck and two in the thighs. Air was being stolen from your lungs as you fell face-first to the floor.

You hear shouting; Steve’s voice, sharp and panicked. Javier barking orders and boots thunder around you. You blink, disoriented, but manage to turn on your back. The pain envelops you, like an unwelcome hug. That, and the feeling of blood pooling underneath you makes you look down.

“Y/N!” Steve dropped to his knees beside you, hands already pressing into the wounds. “Hey, hey, look at me. Stay with me.”

You try to say something, joke, curse, anything, but your brain and voice don’t connect. Everything feels distant, underwater.

You can hear Javier’s strained voice calling for backup, medevac, anything. Steve doesn’t leave your side, his hands soaked in your blood and, unbeknownst to you, his worst fear invading his mind and body.

“Don’t you dare, alright?” he says through clenched teeth. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to check out on me.”

You wanted to tell him you’re trying, you really were.

With every bit of strength you could muster, you reached a hand up to cup his cheek. The tears in his eyes threaten to break through as you drop your arm.

You open your mouth to try and thank him for everything, but fighting it became impossible. The darkness consumed you.

Steve barely registers the scramble around him: Trujillo shouting into his radio. Javier grabbing the back of his vest, trying to pull him away so the medics could do their job, the medics yelling at him in Spanish to move. He didn’t budge.

You were limp in his arms, your face starting to lose some colour but still so warm. His hands trembled as they pressed against the wound. It wasn’t enough.

“Stay with me,” he mutters, blood slicking between his fingers. “You don’t get to leave me like this. You hear me?”

He wasn’t even sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

Javier finally manages to pull Steve away, but Steve couldn’t even register being cursed out. The only thoughts behind those eyes were about you and something he hadn’t realised earlier.

The sterile white light of the hospital felt almost offensive. Too clean. Too calm. Why isn’t everyone in this hospital rushing to save you?

Steve sat slouched in the waiting room chair, elbows on his knees. The dried blood, your blood, a reminder of transpired events. The nurse had asked if he wanted to clean up; he barely acknowledged her.

Javier paced across from him, arms crossed tightly, silent for once. Every so often, both of their eyes would flick to the doors, like sheer willpower could pull a doctor through them with an update. Finally, one does, and Javier takes it upon himself to receive the update in case it was bad; he’s unsure whether Steve would break the doctor’s nose or set fire to the hospital.

“Surgeon came down from Bogotá. Special trauma unit or something.” Javier finally exhaled. “The best of the best.” He added for comfort, but unsure if it was for Steve’s or his own.

Steve didn’t answer... more like he couldn’t. Plaguing his mind was your face as you faded on that warehouse floor. The way your hand reached for him; shaky, blood-slick, trying to offer him comfort when you were the one suffering.

That moment had cracked something open in him.

He’d known you were important. Trusted you with his life. But what hit him then, what was still hitting him now, was that losing you would wreck him in a way he didn’t think he could come back from.

He loved you.

God help him, he really did.

But the thought that he might be too late? He didn’t even want to entertain it.

Of course, Javier knew before Steve knew himself. He slumps down next to Steve with a sigh, head falling into his hands.

Neither of them speaks at first. The silence presses in tight, thick with everything they refuse to say out loud.

“She’ll pull through,” Javier says, voice low, but not quite convincing. “She’s tough.”

Steve doesn’t look at him. His eyes are locked straight ahead, severely bloodshot. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He opens his mouth and takes a breath, as if he’s going to say something, but he stops himself.

Javier watches him for a second longer, then says it; quiet, certain.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you”

It was rhetorical. But something in Steve snaps.

He shot up from the chair suddenly, pacing a tight line in front of the waiting room seats. His breath quickened. One hand ran through his hair, the other clenches and unclenches at his side as he tried to find his words.

“I shouldn’t’ve let her go in first,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “I knew she thought something was off. Hell, even I knew! And I still—”

“Steve—”

“I fuckin' knew, Javi!” His voice cracks, raw and sharp, loud enough that a nurse down the hall flinches and glances over. “I let her walk into that building. I let her walk in like it was any other fuckin' day!”

He turned, ready to slam his fist into the wall, but he freezes. Dragging himself back to where they were sitting, he looks at Javier.

“She bled out in my arms, man,” Steve choked, sinking back down into the chair disgusted in himself. “She looked at me and I couldn’t do a damn thing.”

Javier drops into a crouch in front of Steve and grabs both his shoulders, grounding him.

“Hey. Hey! Shut up and listen to me.” His grip tightens when Steve wouldn’t meet his eyes. “She’s still in there, alright? YOU kept her alive, you hear me? You did everything you could.”

Steve shakes his head, tears sliding down his face now, silent and messy. “I didn’t even tell her. I didn’t tell her how I felt. What if she—” His voice breaks again, and he groans at the repetitive thought infiltrating his brain like a parasite.

Javier squeezes his shoulders to cut him off, not wanting either of their thoughts to go there. “Then you tell her when she wakes up.”

Steve nods, barely. His hands drag down his face as he collapsed back into the seat again, chest heaving. He was completely wrecked, broken open in a way that feels irreversible.

And Javier just sits there with him, quiet, steady, keeping him from falling apart completely.

Eventually, a nurse approached. A gentle-sounding middle-aged lady with a sympathetic smile on her face. She didn’t come with an update, but with a clipboard and questions he couldn’t process. Javier handled it for him. Names. Date. What happened. Steve didn’t move, didn’t look up.

Until the nurse hesitated.

“She’s stable… for now,” she said carefully. “She’s out of surgery. On a ventilator.”

That was enough to jolt him upright.

He was on his feet before he could think, ignoring Javier’s sharp “Steve—fuck, wait!” as he ran down the corridor like a man possessed, looking for you. The run was short, but every step felt heavy.

And then he saw you.

Through a large gap in the curtains, he sees you laying pale and still in the hospital bed. Machines surrounded you, monitors, IV drips, the rise and fall of your chest unnaturally controlled by the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator. A tangle of wires framed your face, the one he knew better than his own now.

You looked... gone. Hollow. Like the light that made you you had been stolen and left behind nothing but a fragile, possibly failing body.

Steve froze, trying to process his thoughts. He dragged himself backwards to lean against a wall opposite your room.

What if the last proper words he ever said to you were those dumb words in the car? What if he never got to say all the things clawing up his throat now? He didn’t even feel Javier stand beside him again until he heard his voice.

“She’s fighting, man. You know she is.”

Silence fell again. He stood there, completely unravelled, watching the rise and fall of your chest through the curtain. It was the only thing anchoring him.

The nurse from the waiting room finally catches up to Javier and Steve, cautiously standing in front of both men.

“Would you like to sit with her? We’re weaning her off the anaesthesia, but it’s up to her body to decide when it wakes up. I don’t have to tell you how bad her injuries are...” The nurse asks with quiet resolve, mainly directing her words to Steve.

“I’ll wait outside.” Javier suggests with a pat on Steve’s back, making his way back to the waiting room.

The nurse guides him into the room, pulling the chair closer to the bed.

“She’s very lucky to have a boyfriend who cares so much, you know?” She says as she slips out of the room, fully closing the curtain. Steve refused to correct her, because for the first time since the shooting, he smiled. A real, genuine smile.

But it didn’t last long.

The hum of the ventilator echoed in his ears, the harsh beeping of the monitors, the gun shots that brought you here; it's all he can hear. He took a seat beside the bed, his hand hovering above yours for a second before he finally reached out and held it gently. Careful not to press too hard.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “I’m here.”

There was no response. Just the soft hiss of the ventilator, the steady rhythm of machines doing what your body couldn’t.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he added, voice hoarse. “Still are, honestly.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still clutching your hand like it was the only thing keeping him steady. He stared at the floor as he began to speak his mind.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if you don’t wake up.” He took a sharp breath, carefully thinking about his choice of words.

“I was gonna tell you... About how I felt. But I figured we had time. And now…” His voice trailed off.

“Fuck, just come back to me.”

Three days. That’s how long it took for your body to decide it was ready.

You tried to move, but a weight on your hand stopped you. Someone's hand. A familiar one. Steve's.

Your brows furrowed, and the hand not being held by Steve’s lifts, trying to swat away the ventilator.

He lets go of you and swats the curtain open so hard he manages to yank a few notches out. “She’s waking up!” he yells, unsure if any of the nurses understood him with how fast he was yelling.

The medical team came in fast, moving past Steve as they began the process of removing the vent. Steve backed into the corner of the room, barely breathing. Finally, the tube was out.

Your breath hitched during a deep, painful inhale which made you wince, but you were breathing on your own.

“Can you hear me?” one of the nurses asked. You nod in a daze, blinking once. Then again.

Your eyes moved slowly, unfocused at first, as you try to find him past the medical team swarming you. You knew he was there, and standing in the corner like a ghost of himself, there he was.

“Murphy…” you croaked, voice cracked and weak.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Relief hit him so hard he slumped onto the wall behind him.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, half to you, half to himself.

You gave him the faintest of smiles. “See, I knew you’d miss the sound of my voice.”

Steve let out a choked laugh, wiping a hand down his face as the medical team disperse. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He replies as he drags the chair over to your bed.

You scan your face as he scans yours, and you give him an even better smile than before.

“You… look like shit,” you croaked.

A laugh burst out of him, and his forehead dropped to your hand.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

And this time, when he looked at you, he didn’t hide it.

Not the pain.

Not the fear.

Not the love.

Not anymore.

Two weeks later, you were released from the hospital. Still sore, still exhausted, but alive. Breathing. Healing.

Steve insisted (ordered) on you staying in his apartment while you recovered. Something about not trusting your neighbours or you to be alone. You rolled your eyes and argued once, weakly. He raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and that was the end of that.

His place was cleaner than you expected, though a little chaotic. Coffee mugs, case files, a mountain of laundry waiting to be folded; normal signs of life.

But for the next two days, all his focus was on you.

He cooked.

He made sure you took your pain meds.

He hovered when you coughed.

He let you watch tv in his clothes and didn’t bat an eye when you didn’t change them.

But every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you like he wanted to say something before swallowing it down.

Two days with Steve flew by, but the need to catch Pablo Escobar doesn't stop for anyone. He didn’t want to go, told you about dozen and one times while making sure your meds were lined up on the counter and your water bottle was full.

You reassured him, gently teased him even, but when the door clicked shut behind him that morning, the apartment felt colder.

Steve's first shift back was hell.

Carrillo. He threw the sicarios out of the helicopter mid-air. Steve had barely kept it together. He worked through the night and part of the next day to keep the thoughts at bay. When he returned a whole 31 hours later, his jaw was clenched, shoulders straight and heavy like bricks.

You looked up from the couch. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes and tossing his jacket aside. He made a beeline for the kitchen, opened a beer, and leaned against the counter like gravity was failing him. He stayed there for a while, but the idea of being left alone with his thoughts had him feeling sick.

As he came back into the living room, slumping onto the couch with his beer already on the table and head in his hands, you knew something had happened.

You shuffled closer to him, resting a supportive hand on his back. “Steve? Talk to me.”

“I just—Jesus, I don’t even know where to start.”

You waited. Gave him time.

He ran a hand down his face as he sat back upright. “Carrillo pushed two guys out of a chopper today. Just—no hesitation. No warning.”

He swallowed hard, still coming to terms with the day that passed. “And I stood there and watched it happen. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even flinch. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m angry because it was wrong… or because it felt like part of the job.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“That doesn’t make you heartless,” you said quietly. “It makes you human. You’ve been through literal hell out there Steve.”

He shook his head, eyes glassy but refusing to spill. “No but you don't get it. I almost lost you. And then I come back and I’m right in the thick of it, like nothing happened— shit, like you weren’t lying in a fuckin' hospital bed a few days ago.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t do it like this anymore. Not without saying it.”

You cocked your head to the side but stayed silent, letting him find the words.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

He pauses, trying to gauge your reaction. With no avail, he kept going, like if he didn’t say it now, it would eat him alive.

“I tried not to. I really did. It was the wrong time, the wrong place—hell, everything about this was wrong. We were partners. You were my backup. My best friend. And I told myself that was enough, that I could handle it. That I could keep it in. But then I almost lost you and I—" He pulls out his pack of cigarette from his pocket, ready to light one. Instead, he throws them on the table.

“You just got out of the hospital. You’re still recovering. You shouldn’t have to deal with me and my shit on top of everything else. And I know working together makes things complicated, dangerous, fuckin’ reckless even. And yeah, maybe this is the worst possible time to say any of it. Maybe I should’ve waited until you were better. Until we were both in a better place. But I’ve been holding this in for months. And I’m tired.” Steve turns his whole body to face you, but your eyes are locked in on his; raw and pleading.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t look for you the second I walk into a room. I’m tired of watching you get hurt and not being able to say how much it kills me. I’m tired of holding it all in while it tears me to fuckin' pieces!” He almost yelled. With a deep breath, his voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “If you don’t feel the same, if you need space, or time, I’ll back off. Hell, I’ll leave Colombia if I have to. I just needed you to know... Before I drown in it.”

Silence settles between you, thick and heavy. Steve uses the opportunity to take a swig of his beer, thinking about the whiskey he’s going to drown himself in when you reject him.

“Steve.” You finally call out, and he can’t decipher your tone of voice.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head down, as if he was bracing for impact. You cautiously reached out for his face with both hands, gently turning his head towards you. Your eyes met his wide, scared and hopeful ones.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while,” you said softly. “I just didn’t know how to show it. Not when we were both carrying all this weight. I didn’t want to lose what we had. And after everything that’s happened, with everyone we've lost… I didn’t know if it was fair to throw my feelings on top of it all.”

Steve gently rested his hands on the sides of your pyjama-clad thighs, still scared he was going to hurt you.

“But for me,” you continued, voice thick with emotion, “it’s you. It’s always been you, Steve. Always has been. Always will be.”

His breath hitched. He stared at you like you you hung the stars, like hope was a fragile thing and you’d just handed it to him wrapped in gold.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow. Warm. Real. The kind of kiss that said I’m here. I see you. I’m not going anywhere.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead gently against yours.

“I’m all in,” you whispered. “You can’t get rid of me that easily now.”

His lips quirked up, breathless, eyes slowly opening to meet yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Outside, the world kept turning. But inside that apartment, for once, it could wait.

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