hi I love your writing sm!!! I feel like you would eat this type of request up, of course it’s a sensitive topic so I totally understand if you don’t want to write about this!!
so maybe the reader has a past with absuive relationships/childhood (clark may or may not know) and one day Clark and her get into an argument over something (maybe he’s gone a lot and and she misses him anything you can think of lowk) and he raises his voice at her and she gets like visibly scared and goes from arguing to like shutting down because he scared her/reminded her of her past and basically he just makes it up to her apologizes and all that fluff goodness
BUT LIKE HE REALLY GROVELS ANYWAYS I FEEL LIKE YOU WOULD EAT THIS UP!!! 💗💗
maybe smutty too if you want 😛
Gentle giant
clark kent x f!reader
cw: implied / referenced childhood abuse (I kept it pretty vague), trauma, anxiety, heavy hurt/comfort, arguing with clark </3, fluffy ending
wc: 1.5k
a/n: hi, thank you so much for your request!!! I decided to leave out the smut just so it wouldn’t interfere too much with their reconciliation or feel performative, hope that’s okay with you <3
now playing: Growing Pains – Ethel Cain
“Gosh- ugh, dang it!”
Clark’s groan echoes through the hallway as he stumbles over your bag. He picks it up, eyebrows drawn together.
He’s not usually one to get upset over small things like this but the day had stretched him thin. After receiving the reprimanding of a lifetime from Perry because Clark had been late again, the printer at the office just wouldn’t unjam. Additionally, he had to work overtime to make up because a few colleagues had taken notice of his frequent absences.
Now, he was starving and exhausted and sweaty and – it was all just too much.
With your bag under his arm, Clark enters the kitchen to find you sitting at the dining table. The food on your plate earns you an exasperated look: Clark doesn’t consider cheese slices and pretzel sticks a proper dinner.
“Hey,” he greets you, the word coming out much rougher than he had intended.
You look up, smiling brightly.
“Hi,” you squeal as you stand up to kiss him. Your lips on his ease his annoyance by a little but he still feels the aggravation boiling in him. As much as he tries, he just can’t figure out what’s upsetting him so much and the guilt he feels over his reaction doesn’t help.
“You forgot your bag,” he says, holding out the item. Your smile doesn’t drop – it fades.
You mutter an apology and then add, “I missed you so much. You’re pretty late.”
He doesn’t want to roll his eyes but he does.
What the heck is wrong with him?
“Yeah,” he mumbles and sits down only to steal a cheese slice from your plate.
No ‘I missed you, too.’
No ‘How was your day?’
Clark just sits there, eyes half closed as he chews and the discomfort of the silence chases goosebumps up your arms.
“Are you alright?” you ask, keeping your voice soft. Small.
“Yes.”
The single word carries more bite than you have ever heard from him before. He regrets it instantly but he doesn’t have the energy to ask for your forgiveness. Not now.
“Are you sure?” you question timidly. You begin to reach out, wanting to rest your hand on his, maybe knead out the stress while you’re at it, but he pulls away.
“I’m just- I’m tired and I wanna take a shower. I hate to ask because I know it’s late, but can you make food? Like real food?”
He eyes your plate critically and you swallow.
He feels like such a jerk and knows that his ma would give him one hell of a talk for being so gruff with you. He’d like to put himself in timeout.
“Sure, I… yeah, any specific request?”
You’re so sweet about it even as Clark hears the uncertainty in your voice.
“No, just… just food, okay?”
He barely waits for your nod before he bolts for the bathroom. The ache in his bones is something utterly unfamiliar, just like the anger threatening to spill over.
Clark showers quickly, hoping the cold water will soothe his tightly drawn muscles and cool his head at the same time.
Tall as he is, he struggles to fit all of himself under the spray. He cramps himself into the small space and knocks over your shampoo and conditioner in the process. The liquids spill and a sigh of pure frustration parts his lips.
“Jeez,” he mutters. As he cleans up the mess, he makes a mental note to buy you replacements but when? He’s been busy all week, more assignments in his planner than work hours, and all he wants is to go to sleep.
A soft knock on the door follows and then your voice carries through the wood, “Are you okay in there?”
“Yes,” he bites and steps onto the bathmat. He’s sure there’s still soap clinging to his back. As he wraps a towel around his hips, you speak up again, “I thought I heard something fall.”
“Gosh, can you just- yeah, I dropped your dang shampoo stuff! I’m sorry, ok?”
Clark rips the door open, his chest heaving.
You stand there, one hand still raised in the ghost of your knock. Your eyes are wide, searching his face.
He is about to say something, maybe find a way to fix the situation, when a strange smell wafts through the apartment.
“What the-,” Clark sprints into the kitchen to find smoke curling from the oven. It reaches out with tiny claws, slowly darkening the room.
“Stay back,” he calls out as you follow him, your expression torn between guilt and… and fear.
He quickly shuts off the heat and opens the oven to let the smoke escape.
“Open the window,” he instructs and you quickly walk over to do so.
Once the smoke clears, he leans against the counter, rubbing a hand across his face.
He doesn’t look at you once, just stands there and frowns.
“I’m sorry, Clark, I- I didn’t think I turned up the heat so much. I was gonna… I’m really sorry,” you stutter.
If he had looked at you for a second, he would have seen the way your hands shook, the way you curled into yourself, trying to take up less space.
But he doesn’t look. He just keeps his lips pressed together tightly, trying to swallow his frustrations and bite back any anger.
“Clark-“ you begin again but he interrupts.
Your name falls from his lips in a tone you had never heard from him before.
He doesn’t yell. Not exactly. But a man his size has a voice to match it. You know he doesn’t mean to scare you, he would never do that intentionally. But the word spill out with such irritation that you take a step back.
It’s not a way of deescalating the situation, not a conscious decision to give him space. It’s fear that draws you away from him.
At first, he doesn’t notice. He hears you walk out of the kitchen and his first instinct is to feel relieved. At least until he picks up on your heartbeat.
It’s fast, much too fast. The irregular rhythm, the hiccups and then the muffled sound of your hand pressed against your lips as you try to keep yourself from crying – it breaks his heart.
All anger dissipates and is instead replaced by a mountain of guilt.
Clark pushes away from the counter and follows you slowly.
“Sweetheart?” he calls out to you.
You’re standing in your shared bedroom, your back to him. He sees your trembling shoulders and his stomach drops.
He says your name once. You flinch.
“Baby,” he whispers as he steps closer.
Cold fear runs through his veins when you don’t turn around.
Clark doesn’t know whether he should reach out. He doesn’t want to scare you any more than he already did but he needs to see your face.
“Baby, can you please look at me?” he requests, keeping his voice gentle.
Slowly, you turn around, your eyes downcast. Small streaks of tears glisten on your cheeks, the low lighting catching in them.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt pitifully, “I’m sorry for burning dinner. I’m sorry that I annoyed you. I’m sorry-“
Every other word is followed by a hiccup as your voice trembles. You sniffle, trying to pull yourself together and it pains Clark to see you like that.
“No, darling, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He softens his posture, tilts his head. His hands are raised slightly, as if to say, ‘I won’t hurt you’.
“Gosh, I- I’m the one who needs to apologize. I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that.”
You peer up at him slowly, your gaze still unsure.
Clark reaches out, hoping you’ll meet him halfway. Your hand trembles as it finds his. But then you step closer, and he opens his arms in which you let yourself be enveloped.
Your tears drench the crumbled cotton of his shirt as he strokes your back.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, “I’m not mad, I promise.”
He softly pulls away to face you, his heart cramping as he watches the salt stream from your eyes.
“You were so angry when you came home,” you mumble, your voice thick with tears, “And my bag- I shouldn’t have left it there, I should have hung it up, I’m sorry, I-“
He shushes you gently.
“It’s just a bag. It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. There was no reason for me to get so upset.”
His palm travels up and down your spine, soothing away the rest of your tears.
“Are you still angry with me?” you ask quietly.
Clark shakes his head.
“I was never angry with you in the first place. I’m just stressed. I had a long day but that’s not a reason to take it out on you.”
He cups your chin and gently raises it so you meet his eyes.
“Please, can you forgive me?” he asks. His hand tenderly strokes your cheek.
When you nod, he lets out a sigh of relief.
Clark pulls you closer and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Sorry for being such a jerk,” he whispers into your hair.
“I’ve already forgiven you,” you answer but he shakes his head.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, “I’m still a jerk.”
You chuckle softly and glance up at him.
“That almost qualifies as a cuss word, Clark.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎
☆ find my masterlist here ☆
[for anyone who has ever been told they're hard to love.]
relationships have always been a special kind of emotional turmoil for you.
too much. then never enough. you never quite fit the picture your partners tried to paint - the neat, manageable life they expect you to make yourself smaller for. one of them had called you tumultuous. another had called you confusing.
both had left.
then along came simon riley.
he lets love exist in the quiet places.
in the silences on the sofa after long days. in the steadiness of his palms cupping your cheeks when the spiral starts pulling you under, thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin until the chaos in your head quiets. in the solid press of his hand at the small of your back as he guides you through crowds of people - never leading too far ahead, never letting go.
you're never a burden.
in rooms full of people, his quiet bulk stays at your shoulder like a shadow you can lean into. when your hand finds his and squeezes too tight as strangers approach, he simply squeezes back.
no questions.
no judgment.
just simon. solid, present, yours.
but he also let love exist loudly.
he let it crash through the kitchen at 2 a.m. when the mood struck and you blasted ridiculous music while making toast, dancing like nothing could touch you. he’d lean against the doorframe in his black hoodie, arms crossed, watching you with that rare, softness in his eyes he saved only for these moments. sometimes, rarely, he’d join you. large hands on your waist, spinning you under the cheap overhead light like the kitchen was a stage and the burnt toast didn’t matter at all.
with simon, you weren’t “too much” or “not enough.”
Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Your car dies in rush hour heat, and Emily Prentiss proves—without trying very hard—that she's exactly where she wants to be.
Tags: disabled!reader, fibromyalgia, chronic pain, pain flare in the background, emily prentiss being quietly devastating, slow burn energy, not quite a confession but close enough, rush hour chaos, dead car as a meet-cute if you were already halfway there, she came running before you even asked, warm domesticity without a label yet, she notices everything, the way she says first option, no use of y/n, soft pining, she's so competent it's actually a problem, reader trying to be independent, emily not letting her, being looked after without being diminished, amber light and almost-moments, this is the beginning of something and they both know it
Word Count: 3.6k words
The irony isn't lost on you.
Of all the days for your car to decide it's done, it picks this one—peak rush hour, four lanes of gridlocked traffic stretching out in both directions like a long, collective sigh, the summer heat pressing down on the tarmac and bouncing back up into your face in slow, punishing waves. Your body is already doing its usual thing, the familiar ache sitting deep in your joints like wet concrete slowly setting, and now this. You're standing beside the bonnet of your dead car with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to hold music that sounds like it was composed specifically to erode the last functional remnants of your patience.
The roadside assistance operator finally picks up.
"Yes, hi. My car's stalled in—" You glance at the nearest street sign, squinting against the glare. "—the middle of Kingsway, I think. Yeah, just stalled, won't start. Yes. Yes, I'll hold."
More hold music. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a position that doesn't immediately cost you something, and then make the mistake of leaning against the car door—the metal has been sitting in full sun and it scorches straight through the thin fabric of your shirt, and you jerk upright and swear under your breath. Which sets off a small cascade of pain that rolls up from your lower back and fans out across your shoulders like something unfurling from its centre, slow and inevitable. The kind of pain that isn't sharp or dramatic, just relentless, the way a headache is relentless—present, constant, a low hum underneath everything else, the background radiation of your body doing what your body does.
You shift your weight again.
Still on hold.
"Need a hand?"
The voice comes from behind you, familiar in a way that lands somewhere behind your sternum before you've even turned around—warm, a little dry, carrying that particular undertone of someone who finds the world genuinely amusing without quite managing to hide that they also care about it. You turn, and there she is.
Emily.
Standing on the pavement beside a dark SUV you recognise immediately, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket, sunglasses pushed up into her hair like an afterthought, her expression caught somewhere between concern and the kind of fond amusement that makes you feel like you're the punchline to a joke she's too kind to actually tell. She looks, as she always looks, like she belongs exactly where she is.
You're not sure whether to be embarrassed or grateful.
The hold music is still going.
"I'm—" You gesture vaguely at the car, at the phone, at the general catastrophe of your afternoon. "I've got it handled," you say, which is clearly a lie, and she clearly knows it's a lie, and the small twitch at the corner of her mouth tells you she's choosing not to comment on it, which is somehow worse.
"Sure," she says pleasantly.
"I do."
"I know you do," she says, which isn't agreement, exactly. More like acknowledgement dressed up as agreement—she's good at that, the conversational sleight of hand. She steps closer, glances at your car with the air of someone assessing a situation rather than a vehicle, and then pulls out her own phone with the smooth efficiency of someone for whom problems are just logistics that haven't been resolved yet.
"Who do you use for breakdown cover?"
You tell her. She makes a small, dismissive sound.
"I know someone better. Give me two minutes."
You open your mouth to point out that you're already on hold, but she's already dialling, already half-turned away with the phone to her ear. You watch her exchange fewer than a dozen words with someone on the other end, give your location with crisp precision—your cross street, the direction you're facing, the make and colour of the car—and hang up in the time it takes the hold music to complete one full cycle.
"Tow truck'll be here in twenty," she says, slipping her phone back into her pocket. "You can cancel whoever you've got on hold."
The efficiency of it is almost funny.
You hang up on the hold music without a second thought.
"You're lucky I was nearby," she says, and there's a smirk tucked into the words, light and warm, as she leans casually against the hood of her SUV and folds her arms. Her eyes move over you—not invasive, just careful, the habit of noticing that's so deeply built into her you don't think she's always aware she's doing it. "You okay? You look like you've been standing in the heat for a while."
"I've been standing in the heat for a while," you admit.
"That wasn't what I asked."
"It was implied."
"I'm a federal agent," she says. "I ask what I mean."
You look at her. She looks back, patient and unhurried, waiting for the actual answer in the way she always does—she has this quality of making silences feel like invitations rather than pressure, and it works on you every single time.
"I'm fine," you say.
"You say that every time."
"Because I'm always fine."
"You're always fine in the way that means you're managing," she says, and it's not unkind, just precise—the kind of precision that makes you feel seen in ways you haven't entirely given permission for. She tilts her head toward her car. "Sit down. Use the air con."
"I don't need—"
"You've been standing on hot tarmac for however long it took me to find parking," she says, "and your fibro doesn't care how much dignity you're trying to maintain."
It's said without flourish, without the particular careful tone people sometimes use around your health as though they're handling something fragile—just factual, straightforward, the way she says everything that matters. It shouldn't make you want to smile.
You want to smile.
"Are you always this bossy, or is this a special occasion?"
"This is my resting level," she says seriously. "You should see me on a good day."
You sit down.
The driver's seat is pushed back for her legs and it's surprisingly comfortable, and the cool air from the vents is so immediately relieving that you close your eyes for a moment and just breathe—in through the nose, out slow. The ache doesn't go anywhere; it doesn't work like that, it's not a headache you can clear with a cold drink. But the heat had been sitting on top of everything else like a second weight, and peeling that layer back is something. It always helps to peel a layer back.
Emily leans in through the open passenger window, arms folded on the frame, close enough that you can smell her perfume over the hot city air.
"Better?"
"Don't gloat."
"I'm not gloating," she says. "I'm observing."
"That's gloating with extra steps."
She laughs—genuinely, the kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her look younger and less careful—and the sound of it does something to the tight, frustrated knot in your chest, loosening a thread without fully unravelling it. You find yourself almost smiling again, despite yourself, despite the dead car and the traffic and the slow geological ache working its way through your joints.
"Okay," she says, when she's done laughing. "So. What happened?"
"It just died."
"Just died."
"I was at the lights, the engine stuttered, and then nothing."
She nods slowly, the way she nods when she's filing information. "Any warning sounds before?"
"No."
"Funny smells? Dashboard lights?"
"Emily." You give her a look. "It's a car, not a suspect."
"Everything," she says, entirely seriously, "can be interrogated given the right circumstances." She turns to regard your car through the windscreen with an expression of theatrical gravity, head tilted, considering. "I could have a word with it. See if it'll talk."
"Please don't."
"I've broken harder cases."
"It's a 2019 hatchback."
"Everyone has a breaking point," she says sagely, and then glances at you sideways. "Tell you what—if it turns out to be the alternator, I'll let it off with a warning. But if it's something it could've told you about sooner, I'm pressing charges."
You actually laugh at that—properly, out loud, the kind of laugh that surprises you with how full it is. It cuts through the afternoon heat like something clean and sharp, and Emily looks quietly pleased with herself in the way she always does when she manages to get you there—not smug, exactly, more like someone who was genuinely trying and is glad it worked.
"I think it's beyond interrogation," you tell her.
"Nothing's beyond interrogation," she says firmly. Then, after a beat: "I'm also an excellent character witness, if it needs one."
"For my car."
"For your car."
"You're very strange," you tell her warmly.
"You keep spending time with me anyway," she points out.
You don't have a good response to that, mostly because it's true and you both know exactly why it's true, and acknowledging it out loud feels like stepping off a ledge you haven't quite decided to step off yet. The weeks of coffee that ran long, of texts that turned into long back-and-forth threads about nothing in particular, of the way she looks at you sometimes like she's working up to something—all of it sits between you, comfortable and charged, a live wire neither of you has touched.
Not yet.
You wait. The traffic crawls past in both directions, indifferent to all of it. The sun starts to lose a fraction of its ferocity, the light shifting from white toward amber, and somehow the twenty minutes pass less miserably than twenty minutes stranded in rush hour traffic have any right to. She talks, and you talk, and she has a way of making conversation feel effortless without making it feel like nothing—she asks questions that are genuinely curious rather than polite, she listens like she means it, she offers her own things in that particular ratio where you always come away feeling like you've learned something real about her, like she let you in through a door that isn't always open.
She tells you about something that went sideways at work that week, a miscommunication involving a very upset local detective and a case file that went to the wrong address, and she tells it with enough dry self-deprecation that you're laughing again before she gets to the end of it.
"That's not—" You press the back of your hand to your mouth. "That's genuinely awful."
"It was genuinely awful," she agrees. "Reid thought I was angry at him for four days. He kept leaving apology notes on my desk."
"That's adorable."
"It was," she says, and she's smiling at the memory, something soft in it. "He wrote one in three different languages. I kept them."
"Of course you did."
"I'm sentimental," she says, glancing at you. "Don't tell anyone."
"Your secret's safe with me."
"I know," she says simply, and the simplicity of it lands differently than you expect, heavier and warmer, settling somewhere low in your chest.
By the time the tow truck appears at the far end of the lane, you've almost forgotten to be annoyed about any of it.
Almost.
"Right," Emily says, pushing off from the window and straightening up, rolling her shoulders back. She squints at the truck, then at you. "I'll drive you home after."
"I'll get an Uber," you say.
She turns and looks at you with an expression that is not quite exasperation and not quite amusement and is somehow both.
"You won't."
"Emily—"
"I'm not letting you take an Uber," she says, and there's a tone underneath it—firm and warm in equal measure, like the way certain old buildings feel in winter, solid stone with heat radiating from somewhere within. It's not a command, not quite, but it doesn't leave much room either. Something protective sitting just below the surface, something that doesn't announce itself but makes itself felt. "Besides," she adds, and the warmth shifts back into something a little more playful, "it'll take forty minutes in this traffic. You'd be miserable."
"I'm already miserable."
"You're currently at a managed level of miserable," she says. "I'm preserving the status quo."
You look at her for a moment. She looks back, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting.
"Fine," you say.
"Good choice."
"I'm going to start charging you a consulting fee," you tell her, "for how often you make my decisions for me."
"You'd never follow through," she says cheerfully. "You like it."
You open your mouth and then close it again, because the genuinely irritating thing is that she's not wrong, and she knows she's not wrong, and pointing that out would only make it worse. She's already smiling, the particular satisfied smile of someone who has made an excellent point and is gracious enough not to labour it. Barely.
The tow truck driver is efficient and cheerful and gets everything sorted with a minimum of fuss, and within fifteen minutes your car is secured and you're back in the passenger seat of Emily's SUV, the city moving past the windows in slow amber light as she navigates out of the mess of Kingsway with the ease of someone who's driven in considerably more hostile conditions than this.
"Where am I taking you?"
You give her your address.
"Good neighbourhood," she says.
"You've never been to my neighbourhood."
"I've driven past it."
"That's not the same thing."
"Close enough for an opinion."
"That is such an agent thing to say," you tell her. "You can't just do a drive-by and claim familiarity."
"I noticed the good coffee shop on the corner," she says. "That tells me everything I need to know."
"What does it tell you?"
She glances at you, a quick sideways look that carries a smile. "That you have decent taste."
"Just decent?"
"I'm withholding judgement on the rest until I have more data," she says, and there's something in the way she says it—light and deliberate, like a door left slightly ajar—that makes warmth move through you, slow and certain.
The conversation settles back into its easy rhythm. She tells you more about her week, you tell her about yours, and the city moves past in its amber-and-shadow evening state, all long light and softened edges. At one point there's a gap in the conversation—not uncomfortable, just a natural breath, the kind that only happens between people who don't need to fill every silence—and in it, she glances at you out of the corner of her eye.
"You know," she says, her voice easy, "you could've just called me."
The words land softly, without fanfare.
"I had it handled."
"You were on hold for roadside assistance in forty-degree heat," she says, "with your fibro flaring, on a day you'd already told me this morning was hard." She says it the way she says everything that matters—matter-of-fact, not wielding it like a correction, just naming the thing you'd both been circling. "You could've called me. I'd have come running."
There's a beat of silence.
The traffic light ahead turns amber, then red.
You look at her profile—the line of her jaw, the way her hands rest easy and certain on the wheel. She's not looking at you now, but something in the set of her shoulders is very still in the way that means she means what she said and she's letting it sit there without dressing it up or walking it back.
"This morning was a text," you say. "Not an invitation to rescue me."
"Maybe I'm always looking for an excuse," she says, and it's light, there's a smile somewhere in it, but it doesn't fully cancel out what's underneath. She glances at you briefly. "You're not a burden. I need you to know that."
You don't know what to do with that, exactly. You're not sure if she means it the way it sounds or if she means it the way you want it to sound, and the difference matters and also might not matter at all—because either way she's here, she came, she handled the tow truck and the hold music and the twenty minutes in rush hour traffic like it was simply what you do for someone. Like it was obvious.
"I didn't want to be a bother," you say.
"You're not a bother."
Simple. Clean. No hesitation.
"Emily—"
"You're really not," she says, quieter now, and the traffic light turns green, and she drives, and you sit with it.
Your street appears sooner than you're quite ready for, the familiar rows of terraced houses and the old oak at the corner catching the last of the evening light, its leaves lit from beneath in pale gold. She pulls up outside your door with the quiet competence she does everything, the engine idling, and for a moment neither of you moves.
Her fingers drum a slow, absent rhythm on the steering wheel.
The oak tree shifts slightly in a breath of wind you can't feel from inside the car. The amber light is doing something to everything—softening hard edges, laying itself across the dashboard and the backs of her hands like something offered rather than imposed. You feel the ache in your body the way you always feel it, a constant companion with no concept of timing, no understanding of moments it should respect—but it's sitting further back than it was an hour ago, less at the front of everything, and that's something.
"Thank you," you say. "Genuinely. You saved me from a significantly worse afternoon."
"That's my job," she says, and the smirk is there, small and fond.
"You're not my FBI agent."
"No," she agrees, and something shifts in her voice, settling into something quieter that doesn't have a smirk in it at all. "I'm not."
She looks at you then—properly, the way she doesn't always let herself. Her eyes are very dark in the evening light and there's something in them that you've seen before, in pieces, in half-glimpsed moments she tends to redirect before they can become fully legible. It's legible now. Close enough to read.
"Next time," she says, "just call me first."
Her voice is softer now than it's been all afternoon, the professional crispness gone entirely, and what's underneath is something quieter and truer and unguarded in the way she rarely lets herself be—the way she only is, you've noticed, in the small hours of long evenings and the still centres of difficult days.
"I don't mind being your first option."
The words settle around you like the evening light itself, like the low warmth of the idling engine, like the particular feeling of being known by someone who paid close enough attention to learn you. You want to say something—you're aware of several possible responses, some of them sensible, some of them not at all—but what comes out is just her name, soft and a little wondering.
"Emily."
She smiles. Not the smirk, not the warm professional thing she uses to fill rooms—something smaller than that, and much more real, and entirely just for you.
"Go inside," she says. "Take your meds, drink something cold, lie down."
"Are you prescribing for me now?"
"I'm observing," she says. "Completely different thing."
"The line between those two seems very blurry from where I'm sitting."
"Good thing you're about to go inside and lie down, then," she says, and there's a warmth tucked into the practicality of it, something that makes it feel less like being managed and more like being looked after, which are different things, and she seems to understand that distinction intuitively.
You unbuckle your seatbelt. Reach for the door handle. Pause.
"I'll call you next time," you tell her.
"Yeah?"
"First option," you say, and something in her expression shifts—just slightly, just enough, the way light shifts when something moves in front of it.
"Good," she says.
You get out. The evening air is still warm but gentler now, the worst of the heat exhaled out of the day, and you stand for a moment on the pavement and watch her pull away—smooth and unhurried, indicator flashing amber at the junction before she turns and disappears around the corner.
The oak tree moves again in the breeze, its pale-gold leaves catching and releasing the light.
You stay there a moment longer than you need to, the evening settling around you like something you're not quite ready to go inside and leave behind. There's an ache in your body that hasn't gone anywhere—it doesn't do that, it doesn't care how the day ended—but alongside it, underneath it, threaded through the familiar weight of it, is something else entirely. Something that sits in the chest rather than the joints, warm and not entirely comfortable, the way new things sometimes feel before you've found the right shape for them.
She said she'd come running. She said you're not a bother.
She said first option, like it meant something specific.
You think about the weeks of it—the coffee, the texts, the way she says your name like it's something she chose rather than something she was given. The particular quality of her attention when she turns it on you. The smirk that softens into something else when she thinks you're not watching closely enough to catch it. You've been watching closely. You suspect she knows that.
You turn toward your front door, your keys already in your hand, the evening light at your back.
Hi, you've very quickly become one of my favourite fic writers!! I absolutely adore your writing!!! Especially Aaron!!
I don't quite know how to word this properly so I'll try my best but could you possibly do an Aaron fic where maybe it's earlier in the their relationship and it's showing more of him learning how to care/help reader. Cause while I think taking care of people comes naturally to him there's still stuff to learn and I think with the way you write him it would be so tender and loving! Does that make sense? I hope it does! I was thinking reader if chronic fatigue and chronic pain but really whatever works!
Thank you so much for all you do!!! I love your stuff so much!!!🌻💛💛
Title: Learning Curve
Summary: A month of wrong pillows, diet articles, and small recalibrations, and he never once looks away.
Tags: disabled!reader, chronic pain, chronic fatigue, depictions of pain flares, bad pain days, hurt/comfort, soft!aaron hotchner, aaron doing research and getting it wrong, gentle corrections, learning curve as love language, reader not being a burden here, no use of y/n, fluff, slow burn domesticity, the tea tin said everything, you don't have to get up, being chosen not in spite of, competence as care, reading you before you speak, the ergonomic pillow arc, love in the recalibration, quiet evenings and amber lamps, he never flinches
Word Count: 4.3k words
The dinner isn't going to happen. You know this before you've fully registered that you've sat down on his couch—not as a thought but as a shift in the signals your body is sending back. One moment you're standing in Aaron's kitchen with a knife in your hand and good intentions, the onion half-chopped and the oil barely warm in the pan. The next, something that isn't quite a decision happens in your legs, and you're sitting on his couch, and the knife is on the counter, and the rational part of your brain is saying get back up and the rest of you is simply—not.
So you're on the couch. You're not getting back up.
It's not dramatic. That's the thing people never quite understand about it—it's not a collapse, not a sudden thing with narrative shape. It's more like the tide going out. One moment the energy is there, carrying you through the cutting and the stirring and being a person in someone else's kitchen. And then it isn't. And what's left is you, on his couch, shoes still on, looking at the middle distance while your body quietly informs you that the shift is over. Everything aches, the way it always does but louder tonight, past the point where you can just background it and get on with things. Your hands feel wrong—stiff and too heavy, like they belong to someone else. And underneath all of it the tiredness that isn't really tiredness, the kind that lives somewhere below sleep, in the actual matter of you.
You think, vaguely, about the onion. You were looking forward to this—cooking together, the easy domesticity of it, a month in and still at the stage where that kind of thing feels like a small deliberate gift.
Aaron notices within about thirty seconds.
He appears in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder, and he looks at you, and then he just—stops. The expression he gets is very still and very careful, like a man looking at something he doesn't want to disturb.
"Hey," he says. Just that.
"Hey," you say back. "I think dinner is going to be a takeaway situation."
Something moves across his face—not alarm, not quite. Something more considered.
"Okay," he says. And then: "Thai or Indian?"
That—the way he just pivots, takes the new information and adjusts without making a whole thing of it—makes something in your chest loosen. Relief, moving through you like a breath you've been holding too long.
"Thai," you say. "Please."
He nods, puts the dish towel on the counter, and goes quiet in that particular way of his—the silence of a man actively running calculations you're not privy to. He goes very still when he's working something out, like all his energy gets redirected inward. You can almost see it: clocking your colour, the way you've sunk into the cushions, the fact that you're not apologising. Reading you the way he'd read evidence. You don't particularly mind. You're too tired to mind.
He disappears into the kitchen for a moment—you hear him covering the pan, tidying—and comes back with a glass of water. Sets it on the side table without a word. Without an I thought you might need this. Without any of the fuss.
Just the water. Just there.
He sits on the arm of the chair opposite. Not too close. He's reading the room correctly enough to know this isn't a comfort-by-proximity moment. Not yet.
But then: "Have you tried a hot bath? I've heard that can help with muscle—"
"It doesn't, for me," you say. "Hot water makes the fatigue worse. I just end up stuck in the bath."
"Right." A pause. "There's ibuprofen in the cabinet above the sink, if you haven't—"
"I've already taken what I can today."
A beat. "What about—I read that light stretching can sometimes help with—"
"Aaron." Your voice is gentle, because you're not angry—there's something almost sweet about the way he's working through the list—but you're tired in all the ways a body can be tired at once and the kindest thing is to be honest. Tired like sediment. Like something settled to the bottom of a very deep lake. "This isn't something to fix."
He looks at you. Really looks—the way he does when he's listening, not just waiting.
"There isn't a thing you can do that will make it stop," you say. "It happens, and then it passes, or it doesn't pass as quickly as either of us would like. There's no right answer you're going to find if you just think about it hard enough."
You watch him take that in.
The silence that follows would worry you with someone else—would feel like withdrawal or a prelude to the wrong thing being said. With Aaron, you're starting to understand, silence is just how he moves through things he doesn't yet have language for. He doesn't fill space with noise. He goes still, like a held breath, like water finding its level.
He uncrosses his arms. Moves to the other end of the couch—not crowding you, just adjusting his position. Close enough to be present. Far enough that you've got room to breathe.
"Then what helps?" he asks, and the question is so genuinely meant, placed so carefully in the space between you, that something small and defended in your chest unclenches without your permission.
You have to think about it. The honest answer, not the easy one.
"Sometimes nothing," you say. "Sometimes it just has to run its course. But sometimes—" You pause. "Sometimes just not being alone with it. That's something."
He nods once. And he stays where he is.
He picks up his phone and orders Thai—asks you to confirm your usual before he places it, which is the kind of thing that sounds small and isn't—then puts it down and is just there. Warm and solid and not making you talk about it any more than you already have. The lamp in the corner gives out that amber light that makes his apartment feel like something you could live inside. You drink the water in small sips. Everything still hurts, quietly, the way it will all evening. You exist in the borrowed warmth of the evening, and it's enough.
When the food comes he brings it to the coffee table without suggesting you move to the dining table. He puts on a nature documentary—something wordless and visually soothing, which you suspect is deliberate—and doesn't make it a thing. Just an evening. Just the two of you.
Over the next week, he does research.
You know this the way you know most things about Aaron—not because he tells you, but because you start noticing the evidence. A specific ergonomic pillow appears on what's becoming your side of his bed, dense and unyielding in a way that communicates I consulted a website. You press your hand into it and wince and then feel immediately guilty for wincing because the intent was so clearly good. He texts you an article on a Tuesday morning—thought this might be useful—a link about anti-inflammatory diets, and you can picture him at his desk reading it with the same careful attention he'd give a case file. The thermostat has been adjusted two degrees cooler than you'd like, and when you mention you're chilly he says something about a study on optimal temperature for pain management.
He looks so earnest about it. Not proud of himself, not waiting for thanks—just genuinely, entirely earnest, like this is a problem with a correct answer and he's determined to find it. It makes your chest ache with a fondness you weren't braced for.
The pillow is first.
"It's too firm," you tell him, holding it up. "My neck needs to sink in a bit or everything tightens up."
"Noted," he says, and takes it back without a trace of wounded pride. "What do you use at home?"
You describe it. He listens like you're giving him information he'll be tested on later.
The diet article takes more care. You sit next to him and say, "I know you meant well with this," and he raises an eyebrow slightly—which you've learned is the Aaron version of go on.
"I've tried most of the anti-inflammatory approaches. Gluten-free, dairy-free, nightshades, all of it. For some people they really help. I'm not one of those people. The research is genuinely mixed and a lot of it is based on tiny samples."
"The study in the article had a sample of forty-two," he says.
"Yeah."
A pause. "That's—not great."
"No. It's really not."
He exhales through his nose—which you've come to understand is his version of well, that's frustrating. "Alright," he says. "I'll stop sending you articles."
"You can still send me articles," you say, because you find you mean it. "Just run them by me first. I can usually tell before you've read the whole thing whether it's worth your time."
Something in his expression shifts—softens, in that way he has where it doesn't quite reach a smile but exists in the neighbourhood of one. "That's a more efficient system," he says.
"I have years of experience filtering health content."
"I imagine you do."
The thermostat comes up that same afternoon, when he finds you in a cardigan over your jumper and frowns.
"The cold makes it worse," you say. "My joints especially. I know the internet said cooler temperatures help but whoever wrote that doesn't live in my body."
He goes and adjusts it without another word, and when he comes back he sits down next to you and says, very mildly, "I may have over-indexed on the research phase."
"A little bit," you say.
"I'll recalibrate."
"You don't have to stop," you say, and you mean this too, with a warmth you weren't entirely expecting. "The fact that you're trying to understand it—even when you get the specifics wrong. It means something."
He looks at you for a moment. Then he reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, easy and unhurried, the casual affection of someone who's decided they're allowed to touch you.
"I'll try to get fewer specifics wrong," he says.
"That's all anyone can ask."
He takes each correction the same way—not hurt, not defensive, just integrating and adjusting. You realise, watching him do it, that he's building a picture of you. Not the condition. Not the general category of person who has days like yours. Your specific version of it—the particular way your particular body works and fails and recovers.
It feels like being paid attention to in a language you'd stopped expecting anyone to learn.
The morning you wake up in his bed and know—before you've opened your eyes, before you've so much as shifted your weight—that it's a bad one. These mornings carry their own particular dread, arriving before you've even opened your eyes—something in the quality of the dark, something in the weight of your own body against the mattress, and you already know. Everything's wrong in the specific way it goes wrong: heavier than it should be, stiff in the joints, the tiredness sitting on your chest like something has moved in overnight and made itself comfortable and has no intention of leaving just because you need to get up.
Aaron's already up. Aaron is always already up.
You hear him in the kitchen, the low sounds of coffee being made, and you lie there doing the thing you always do first thing—taking stock. How bad. How bad is it today. You've been doing this long enough that it's automatic, this quiet internal audit: what can be pushed through, what can be modified, what just has to be sat with. This morning the audit comes back bad across the board. Everything that usually aches is aching more. The tiredness is the thick kind, the wading-through-water kind, where even the idea of standing up and crossing the room is something you have to think about first.
You try to push yourself to sitting. The room lists slightly. You put your feet on the floor and sit on the edge of the bed, gathering yourself, and you're still in that process—still negotiating with gravity—when Aaron appears in the doorway.
Work shirt open at the collar, sleeves half-rolled. He looks at you. Takes in the posture, the stillness, the pace of it.
"You don't have to get up," he says.
Not are you okay or what's wrong or can I get you anything. Just—permission. A quiet certain statement of it, like he's already thought it through and landed somewhere simple. Like he's figured out that what the bad mornings cost most isn't getting up—it's having to act like getting up is fine, the constant low-level work of making sure nobody around you is worried, and he's choosing to let you off that particular hook.
Something in your throat goes tight.
"I was going to—" you start.
"You don't have to," he says again. Same tone. No pressure in it.
You look at him for a moment, this man in his doorway, and you feel the tight thing in your throat become something more complicated. You nod, and you lie back down, and you don't apologise for it.
He brings you coffee in bed—the way you like it, because he learned that early—and sits beside you on top of the covers with his own mug and his case files, reading. Not asking you to narrate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Not estimating your trajectory. Not looking at you with that specific expression, the helpless concerned one that makes you feel like a problem someone's been handed without adequate preparation. Once he makes a quiet noise of derision at something in the file, and you ask what, and he tells you—something dry and brief about whoever wrote the report—and you laugh a little even though laughing takes more out of you than usual, and he glances over at you with something fond in it.
The morning passes. He doesn't make it mean anything except what it is.
The flare hits about three weeks in.
It starts on a Friday evening, building quietly the way they sometimes do—a warning that accumulates rather than announces itself. By Saturday morning you're already in a different category of bad, the kind that has its own specific texture: everything hurts more than it usually hurts, sharper, with edges, and the tiredness is the complete kind—not tired, not exhausted, but some place past all the words you have for it, where the idea of walking to the kitchen involves a genuine moment of weighing up whether you have what it'll cost.
By Sunday afternoon you're on his couch with your shoes off and the blanket he brought without being asked, going on two full days now. You haven't showered. You've cried twice, briefly, from pure exhaustion rather than sadness. You're running on dregs. Aaron's been in and out—tea, soup you mostly didn't eat, working at the dining table close enough to be present but not hovering—and you've been grateful for the calibration of it even as the part of you that keeps a running tally of what you're costing people has been quietly compiling reasons to leave.
"I should go home," you say. Your voice comes out flatter than intended, scraped thin.
Aaron looks up from the table. Looks at you properly.
"You've been here since Friday," he says.
"I know. That's too long."
"It's not."
"Aaron." You push yourself up a little, which takes more out of you than you'll admit. "I'm not—I'm not good right now. I'm not the version of me that's nice to be around. You don't have to—"
"You shouldn't drive," he says. Quiet. Certain.
You open your mouth.
"You're exhausted and you're in pain and you've been lying down for most of the day," he says. Not unkindly. Just factual, the way he is when he's made a decision. "You shouldn't drive."
You know he's right. You hate knowing he's right. You sit back down.
He closes the case file. Comes over and settles in the chair nearby—doesn't try to sit close, doesn't reach for you—and says, "What do you need right now?"
"I don't know," you say, which is honest.
"Do you want me to sit with you or give you some space?"
"I don't—" You stop. Everything feels wrong today, including being touched—like your skin has decided it's had enough of the world and any contact is just one more thing landing on something already overwhelmed. "Not touching right now," you say. "But don't go far."
"Okay," he says, and stays in the chair, and doesn't make a face about it. That small absence of a face is its own kind of relief.
Over those two days he learns things in real time. He learns that do you want me closer? asked from the doorway is better than an arm around your shoulders that arrives without warning on a day when everything already feels like too much. He learns that sometimes you want the weight of him next to you—something real to anchor you to the present—and sometimes the same weight is too much and you need a closed door. He learns to ask, every time, without making the asking feel like a production.
You snap at him once, that same afternoon. Something small—he moves a cushion and it's the wrong moment, and you hear the sharpness in your own voice before you can stop it.
"Sorry," you say immediately.
"Don't worry about it," he says, and steps back, gives you the space, and doesn't bring it up again.
Later, when the worst of it has settled from a roar to its usual background noise and you've managed half a shower and you're feeling something closer to human, you find him in the kitchen making tea.
"I'm sorry about earlier," you say. "That wasn't fair."
He turns around and looks at you—that careful look.
"You were in pain," he says. "You don't need to apologise for being in pain."
"I was rude."
"You were having a hard day." He sets the mug down in front of you. "There's a difference."
You look at him. He's so steady about it. You'd been waiting, somewhere under the surface, for the moment where you'd see it in his face—that this was beyond what he'd signed up for. You've seen that moment before, with other people, and you've learned to brace for it.
It doesn't come.
"Are you sure you—" you start.
"Yes," he says, before you've finished. Dry, definitive, with the faintest edge of amusement. "I'm sure."
"You don't know what I was going to ask."
"You were going to ask if I was sure about something related to whether I wanted to be here," he says. "And yes. I am."
You laugh a little. It comes out more watery than you'd like.
"Alright," you say.
"Alright," he agrees, and sits across from you while you drink the tea, and tells you something mildly unflattering about a colleague—not anything identifying, just something dry and observational—and you laugh again, and you think: this person is choosing this.
By the end of the month, he's not perfect at it. You don't need him to be—perfection would feel like a script, and what you need is real. His love language is competence, which means his learning curve is visible and genuine and occasionally involves him standing in a doorway with his jaw slightly set, clocking that you're struggling and working very hard against the instinct to immediately propose a solution. He slips. Suggests things. Ibuprofen when you've already had it, movement when movement is the last thing. Sometimes the concern comes out as efficiency—Aaron Hotchner trying to think his way around something that doesn't work like that—and you gently redirect him, and he nods and files it away.
But less often. Noticeably less.
He keeps your tea at his apartment now—the specific one, the loose-leaf one in the round tin, the one you'd mentioned once in passing, the one he'd watched you reach for without comment three times before it simply appeared in his cabinet as though it had always lived there. Not because a website said to. Because he watched.
It's there one evening when you arrive and you stop for a moment, just looking at it.
"When did you get this?" you ask.
"A week or so ago," he says, from the other room, not looking up. Like it's obvious. Like of course he noticed.
He knows what a bad day looks like on you before you've said a word. He reads it in the way you carry yourself through his door—the set of your shoulders, whether you meet his eyes straight away or take a moment with your back to him before you turn around. He's learned the difference between the tired that's ordinary and the tired that has weight to it. He's stopped asking what do you need every single time because sometimes he already knows—he's already moving toward the kettle, or shifting the blanket to the end of the couch—and asking would make it a production when it doesn't need to be one.
And when he doesn't know, he asks. Simply. Without loading the question.
There's an evening, about five weeks in, when you're lying with your head in his lap while he reads and the lamp is on—the good one, the amber one—and the tea is the right temperature on the side table and the whole room feels like something you could trust. Your body is doing its usual thing, the background hum of complaint that you've lived with long enough that most days it's just wallpaper—there, but not dominating. You're not having a good day, not exactly, but you're not having a bad one either. Somewhere in the middle, in the ordinary unglamorous territory of living in a body that requires constant negotiation, and for once the negotiation isn't costing you more than you have.
You realise, without any ceremony, that you haven't felt like a burden tonight.
Haven't felt like a condition being accommodated or an inconvenience someone has decided to tolerate with grace. You've felt like a person who is tired, being kept company by someone who wants to be here. The difference is enormous. It's the difference between being held at arm's length and being held.
You think about the ergonomic pillow. The thermostat. The diet article with its sample of forty-two. All of it so completely wrong and so completely sincere. How the research was never really about fixing you—it was about paying attention, because paying attention is the only language Aaron has ever been fully fluent in, the only way he knows to say you specifically, the actual grain and weight of you, not just the general idea.
You think about you don't have to get up, and how those five words landed like something settling into place.
You think about the tea tin, in his cabinet like it's always been there.
Aaron turns a page. His free hand rests at the crown of your head—not stroking, just there, the weight of his palm a steady quiet presence.
"Still okay?" he asks, low, without looking up.
"Yeah," you say. "You?"
"Mm." He turns another page. "Good."
You're falling for him, you realise. You've been falling for him probably since before the ergonomic pillow, maybe since the night with the Thai food and the nature documentary and the water he brought without being asked. But it lands now, fully, in this ordinary nothing-evening.
Not because he figured it all out. Because he's still figuring it out and he doesn't flinch from the figuring. Because he looks at the true shape of your life—the difficult unglamorous non-negotiable reality of it—and he doesn't look away. Doesn't make you feel like a problem he's reluctantly agreed to take on.
He's learning you. Not a condition. Not a list of accommodations. You.
"Aaron," you say.
"Mm?"
You think about trying to explain it—what it means that the tea is there, what it meant when he stood in the doorway and said you didn't have to get up, what it means right now, his hand at your head and the lamp and the silence. You think about trying to find words for the specific quality of being chosen. Not in spite of. Not contingently. Just chosen.
You don't have them yet.
"Nothing," you say. "Just checking you were there."
A brief pause. Then, without looking up from his page: "I'm not going anywhere."
And the thing is—you believe him.
Outside, the city hums and flickers, indifferent to this room, this lamp, this small private fact. Aaron turns another page. His palm rests at your crown like something that's decided where it belongs. The tea goes slowly cool.
Just someone staying in the same room with the true shape of your life. Learning its particular weight. Not flinching.
Every bad morning. Every flare. Every evening where dinner doesn't happen and the couch has to be enough.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Some days, the world is just too loud, and tonight, all you can do is survive it.
Tags: disabled!reader, sensory processing disorder, the world is too loud, autistic-coded breakdown, overstimulation, reader struggles with textures and noise, safe clothing rituals, derek is safe space personified, gentle!derek, derek reads to you until it feels bearable again, no use of y/n, comfort without fixing, hurt/comfort, touch as permission not demand, one of those days, post-overwhelm soft fic, background noise is the villain
Word Count: 2.7k words
The world has been too loud today.
It started before your eyes even opened—sunlight splintering through the blinds in too-sharp slats, slicing into the safety of sleep with surgical precision. Your brain registered the assault before your body did, jerking you from the edges of unconsciousness into a waking that felt more like drowning than anything else. You rolled away, desperate to dodge it, but the pillow was already too warm, and the sheets were a battlefield of textures: the seam of the duvet scratchy against your ankle, the tag of your T-shirt a tiny razorblade at the nape of your neck. The waistband of your pyjama bottoms dug in too tight, the hem of your sleeve suddenly unbearable. You stripped them off by breakfast, already retreating into soft cotton and silence, and hoped the day would right itself somehow. It didn't.
You did everything right. You always do. You know your checklist like muscle memory: the early application of the weighted vest, its grounding pressure like a hug you can bear—one that doesn't require reciprocation, doesn't shift unexpectedly, doesn't ask anything of you. Noise-cancelling headphones snug over your ears, cutting the world down to a low, manageable thrum. You skipped breakfast music, kept the blinds low, lit candles instead of turning on the overhead lights. You ate lunch on the porch in the shade, in your softest hoodie, listening to the birds instead of the traffic, trying to replace overwhelm with stillness. You avoided screens, skipped phone calls, turned off every notification. A silent dinner followed—forks set gently, bites slow, nothing crunchy or metallic or hot enough to burn. Even your clothes were pre-vetted: soft, worn, safe. Still, it hasn't been enough. Not today. Not with the way the world clawed at you from the minute you woke up.
Your skin feels too thin. Your teeth ache from the tension in your jaw. Even blinking feels too loud inside your skull. Your bones hum like tuning forks, vibrating with something you can't name but can't escape. You try deep breathing. Try pressure points. Try grounding techniques one after the other like rituals. You recite facts, count colours, focus on sensations you can name, but none of it sticks. Your brain, a shaken snow globe. Your thoughts, drifting flakes refusing to settle. Still the wildfire rages beneath your skin.
Now the day has dissolved into the heavy hush of evening, and you are curled up in the corner of your bed like something shrinking, something folding in on itself to survive. Limbs drawn tight to your chest, spine curled, your body trying to disappear into the mattress. Your fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, twisting and untwisting the edge like you're trying to unravel the static from your skin. The blanket is a lifeline and a threat all at once—too warm, too close, not close enough. Your chest rises and falls in careful rhythm, every breath measured like you're counting down the seconds until this feeling passes. Eyes shut, jaw locked, breath slow and deliberate—but inside, it's chaos. Your nervous system buzzes like a downed powerline, every cell sparking. It feels like ants crawling under your skin, like your bones are too loud for your body to contain them, like your muscles are screaming without making a sound.
Your discarded headphones lie on the floor nearby, abandoned like a lifeline that turned into a noose. Today even the soft hum of silence was too much. The pressure on your ears turned wrong. Claustrophobic. Suffocating. Every second wearing them had become another needle to endure. The sensation twisted and turned until it was louder than the sounds they were meant to protect you from. So you sit here now, unarmoured. Raw. Bare. Even the air feels wrong—too still, too heavy, like it's pressing against your skin. Every texture amplified. Every sound, even imagined, echoing.
The bedroom door opens with a click you'd normally brace against, but you're too far gone to flinch. Still, he pauses. Like always. Derek never approaches without asking. He stands just inside the doorway, his frame silhouetted in the soft glow of the hallway light, reading the room with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen without being watched. He doesn't speak right away. He waits. Waits for the air to settle, for your breathing to even slightly change. He doesn't fill the space with questions or concern, doesn't crowd you with his worry.
"You okay if I come closer?"
His voice is low. Gentle. Careful. It falls into the room like mist instead of thunder. Each word is spaced just enough to breathe. He always speaks like that when you're like this. Like his voice could be another texture—and he wants to make sure it's the soft kind. You don't open your eyes, but you nod once, just enough to be seen. Even that small motion is a cost. But he's worth it.
There's a beat of quiet, just long enough to give you space to change your mind. Then, measured steps—no stomp, no rustle. He moves with precision, the kind that's learned not out of obligation, but love. The kind that listens. The kind that adapts. He doesn't sit on the bed. Doesn't reach for you. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor beside it, back to the wall, legs crossed like he's settling in for the long haul. You don't have to look at him to know the way his body shifts—solid, steady, present. He's here. Entirely here. Not hovering. Not fussing. Just... here.
Then he starts to read.
His voice is your favourite kind of quiet. Not whispering, not patronising, not performing. Just... there. Present. Warm. Low and even, like a lullaby that never needs to rhyme. The words are familiar—the cadence of a book you've read enough times to know where he's up to without needing to open your eyes. He chose it on purpose. He always does. One of the dog-eared paperbacks from your shared shelf, worn thin from years of comfort. He doesn't start at the beginning. He knows better than to jar you with newness tonight. He picks a chapter deep in the middle, one that doesn't need context to soothe. He reads like he's offering something—like each sentence is a gift carefully unwrapped just for you.
But still, you listen. Not because you need to follow the story. Because his voice is a rope, and you are clinging to it, one syllable at a time. It's the rhythm of it, the steady pulse, the unfurling of something that doesn't ask anything of you. It's the way he gives it freely. No pressure. No expectation. Just presence. The cadence of it becomes a backdrop to your breath, a pulse to sync your heartbeat to.
You feel the fire begin to retreat. Not extinguished. Not gone. But less. Like his words are water, cool and steady, trickling over the frayed edges of your nerves. Like the air shifts slightly with every sentence, drawing the temperature down, quieting the alarm bells still ringing behind your ribs. You feel your toes unclench. Your shoulder lowers a fraction. A quiet exhale leaks out of you, unplanned but honest. It doesn't fix it. Nothing does. But it helps. God, it helps.
After a few pages, his voice dips lower, softer. He's near the part you love. The part that always makes you feel safe, even when your brain is trying to convince you that the walls are too close and the lights are too loud and everything is too much. He knows that. Of course he does. He's read this aloud enough times to have memorised your favourite line, knows how you breathe differently when he says it. And he lingers there, just slightly. Just enough. His breath slows with yours. You can feel it—subtle, rhythmic.
When he turns the page, the sound is slow and intentional, the slide of paper against paper barely audible over the murmur of his voice. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't expect you to look at him. Doesn't ask how you're doing or tell you you're okay. He just reads, and in doing so, tells you everything.
You're not alone. You're not wrong. You're not too much.
You're here. And so is he.
The book continues in his hands, voice dipping and rising in all the right places, a current you can float on without needing to swim. Your breath evens out. Your jaw unlocks. One hand releases its grip on the blanket and shifts slightly, resting closer to where he is. Not touching. Not yet. But close. Close enough that if you needed, he would understand. His presence is a harbour you can dock in. You don't need to reach out, but if you did, he would be there in a heartbeat. If your hand brushed his, he'd simply rest his there—solid, steady, asking nothing.
You stay like that, suspended in the calm he brings, until the words themselves start to blur at the edges of your mind. The ache hasn't vanished, but it's dulled. Your thoughts haven't stopped, but they've softened. The static is quieter now, beneath the weight of his voice and the safety he's built, line by line, page by page. There's a lull in the air. A gentling.
Eventually, you reach out.
Your hand moves with the hesitance of a question asked in a language without words, slow and unsure, like your body is still waiting for permission even after it's been granted. Your fingers brush his forearm, then pause, trembling. The contact is featherlight, barely a whisper, but he notices. Of course he does. Derek always notices.
He doesn't flinch or startle or look up with alarm. He simply adjusts, gently turning his wrist so your fingers meet his palm, and then—only then—does he close his hand around yours. No squeeze. No pressure. Just the steady weight of presence, warm and real. His thumb rests against the back of your hand like punctuation, anchoring you without demanding anything. He's quiet, still, like he understands the sanctity of the moment—that your reaching out is not casual, but an offering. A sign of trust. A fragile truth wrapped in skin, vulnerable and sacred.
You could do this without him. You have. You've survived darker nights and louder days. You've breathed through spirals alone, curled tight in rooms where no one saw you. You've fought tooth and nail for equilibrium, for peace, for the fragile stillness that sometimes feels just out of reach. You've made lists, found anchors, counted breaths in the dark until your lungs remembered how to work. You've clung to mantras like lifelines, repeated the names of things you could touch to keep from floating away. You are capable. You are strong. Your resilience has been forged in silence, in discomfort, in pushing through. In endurance. In exhaustion. In sheer, raw survival.
But letting him be your soft place—letting him be the still point in the chaos—makes the process feel less like a war. Less isolating. Like you don't have to carry the weight of your nervous system by yourself. Like maybe you don't have to shrink to survive. With Derek, there's space to just be. No urgency. No noise. No demands to snap out of it or explain why. Just room enough to exist, however you are in the moment. And that kind of space is rare. Priceless. Healing in ways no words could ever quite articulate. It's not about being saved. It's about being seen, fully and without condition. It's about being allowed to unravel without fear.
He shifts beside the bed slowly, carefully, the book closing with a soft thud on the floor, and only then does he move. His hands are unhurried. His steps deliberate. He crawls up beside you without ceremony, laying down on top of the blanket instead of under it, giving you space without retreat. His head on the pillow next to yours. Close, but not overwhelming. He doesn't try to pull you in. Doesn't drape an arm over you or murmur anything reassuring. He just lies there, grounded, letting you feel his presence at your own pace. The air between you hums with quiet understanding. The way he meets your silence with his own feels like a language of its own.
For a while, there's nothing but breath.
The rise and fall of his chest. The subtle weight of his hand in yours. The distant hum of night beyond the walls—crickets, maybe, or the wind brushing against the windowpane. A car passes somewhere far off. Pipes creak in the walls. The house breathes with you. The world hasn't gone silent. But it's quiet enough now. Bearable. A kind of hush settles over everything, thick and safe, like the moment before snowfall touches the ground.
Your breathing starts to synchronise with his. Not intentional. Just... natural. Your body noticing the rhythm beside you and beginning to match it, like a tide pulled toward something calm. Each inhale feels a little less jagged. Each exhale a little less tight. The thrum in your head quiets by degrees. Your heartbeat, once erratic, slowly begins to follow a steadier beat—his. A rhythm that is not yours alone to carry anymore.
"You don't need to talk," he murmurs eventually, voice low and steady, vibrating more in the air between you than in your ears. "You don't need to do anything."
His words aren't reassurance—they're permission. A gentle reminder that you're allowed to exist without performance, without explanation. That stillness is not failure. That rest is not weakness. That surviving—quietly, slowly—is enough. That you don't need to earn your right to peace.
You turn your head just slightly. He's already looking at you. Not watching—just being there. His eyes soft, not pitying. There's no expectation in them, only patience. Only warmth. You don't reply. Not aloud. You don't have to. He nods like he understands anyway, and something in your chest loosens further. The breath you take next is deeper, steadier. Not perfect, but freer.
The moment holds. Lingers. It stretches into something timeless, where minutes stop mattering and your internal clock forgets how to tick. The tension in your jaw releases another inch. Your muscles no longer clench by default. It's not peace, exactly. But it's the beginning of something kinder. A softness begins to wrap around your thoughts like cotton wool. Not smothering, just buffering you from the sharpness of the day.
Something inside you uncoils, slowly. Like a tight thread loosening, tension unwinding from the centre out. The pressure behind your eyes doesn't vanish, but it recedes—like the tide pulling back from the shore. Your breath isn't perfect, but it's easier. Your limbs aren't light, but they're no longer burning. The static is still there, but it's not screaming. Just murmuring now, low and manageable. Like background noise you can finally tune out. Like radio static drifting into white noise that somehow makes space for silence.
Derek doesn't speak again. He doesn't need to. He just lies beside you, breathing, being. His presence says everything: I see you. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to explain. You don't have to mask. You are not a burden. You are not broken. You are loved, here and now, exactly as you are. Even in the quiet. Especially in the quiet. Especially when you feel like you've got nothing left.
Your fingers twitch against his. He responds by gently brushing his thumb in slow, lazy arcs across your knuckles—no pattern, no rhythm. Just there. It doesn't demand your attention. It just exists alongside you. Something to feel if you want to. Something that won't vanish if you don't. The simplicity of it is grounding in a way nothing else could be. It's the kind of touch that holds no weight, and somehow, that's what makes it enough to keep you anchored.
And for once, the world feels quiet.
Not silent. Not empty. Just... calm.
Like a soft hush in the middle of a storm. Like the stillness between heartbeats. Like the moment just after the rain stops, when everything feels rinsed clean and waiting. Like the first breath after crying—shaky but whole. Like warm hands on cold skin. Like the familiar scent of home. Like belonging.
summary : crying during sex with frank usually means pleasure. but not this time.
warnings : SMUTTTTTTTT, MDNI, p in v, crying, begging, soft!frank, worried!frank, hella angst,established relationship, unprotected sex, mentions of emotionally abusive ex boyfriends, and uh yeah
word count : 7k
a/n: based on this rq holy guacamole yall r feeding me
The apartment door shuts harder than usual.
Not slammed.
Frank doesn’t slam doors.
But enough force behind it that you look up immediately from the couch.
“You okay?” you call out. Silence answers first. Then heavy boots across the floor. Frank rounds the corner a second later still wearing his jacket, shoulders tight beneath worn black fabric, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch. There’s fresh rain caught in his hair. A bruise darkening along one cheekbone. Your stomach drops a little.
“Frank?” His eyes land on you. And something in his expression shifts instantly. Not fixed. Not gone. Just… softer. Enough that your chest tightens.
“Hey,” he says quietly. You sit up fully now, blanket falling into your lap.
“What happened?”
“Nothin’.” You stare at him. Frank stares back for exactly three seconds before exhaling through his nose.
“Long night.”
“That bruise says otherwise.” His hand comes up automatically toward his face like he forgot it was there.
“Looks worse than it is.”
“Frank.”
“I’m okay.” He says it gentler this time. Tired instead of defensive. You study him another second before patting the spot beside you on the couch.
“C’mere." Frank hesitates. Which tells you immediately something’s wrong. Usually the second you ask for him, he comes. Now he just stands there looking exhausted. Wet from the rain. Big enough to fill the whole room with tension without even trying.
“Baby.”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “Lemme just…” He gestures vaguely toward himself. Blood. Bruises. The mood hanging off him like smoke.“You don’t gotta deal with me like this right now." Your face softens instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” That look crosses his face again. That awful wrecked little flicker he gets whenever you’re kind to him at the exact moment he thinks he deserves it least. You stand slowly and walk toward him. Frank watches every step.
“You think I care about a bruise?” you murmur.
“It ain’t the bruise.”
“Then what is it?” His jaw shifts once.
“You ever have one’a those nights where you feel like maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with you?” The honesty of it punches straight through you. You stop directly in front of him now.
“Frank.” His eyes stay fixed somewhere over your shoulder instead of your face.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“You shouldn’t have t’pull me back together every time I come home like this.” Your throat tightens painfully. So that’s what this is. Not anger. Shame. You lift your hands carefully to his jacket collar.
“Look at me.” Frank does. Slowly.
God.
There’s so much exhaustion in his face it hurts to see.
“You wanna know what I see?” you ask softly. His mouth twitches bitterly.
“Probably a mess.”
“I see my favorite person.” That lands visibly. His eyes close briefly like the words physically hurt him.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” His hands settle automatically at your waist now. Big. Warm. Familiar. “You just…” He shakes his head once. “Don’t know what you do t’me sometimes.” You smile faintly.
“Probably because you never tell me.” Frank huffs quietly at that. Then his thumbs move against your hips absentmindedly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Grounding himself through touch.
“You eat?” you ask.
“Mm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Ate enough.”
“Frank.” He finally looks properly guilty.
“…Had coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“Depends how desperate you are.” You roll your eyes softly and start tugging his jacket off his shoulders. Frank lets you. Always lets you.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face instead of your hands now. “Still here though.” That pulls your attention up immediately. There it is again. That insecurity buried under all the muscle and violence and sharp edges. Still here though. Like he’s waiting for the day you won’t be. Your expression softens without meaning to.
“C’mere,” you whisper. Frank goes instantly. Like he was holding himself back before and finally ran out of strength to do it. One second there’s space between you. The next his arms are around your waist and your back hits the wall softly behind you as he folds himself into you with a low rough exhale.
Not rough. Never rough with you. Just close. Desperate for it. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the tension bleeding out of him slowly beneath your hands.
“Better?” you murmur into his hair.
“Little.” You smile faintly and run your fingers through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. Frank makes this quiet sound deep in his chest. Not quite a groan. Not quite relief. Something warmer.
“You smell good,” he mutters after a minute. You laugh softly.
“That’s your opening line?”
“M’tired.”
“Clearly.” His hands flex once at your waist. Then still. Then flex again. Your breath catches slightly. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His head lifts just enough to look at you. The mood changes all at once. Subtle. Dangerous. Not from aggression.
From attention.
The kind only Frank knows how to give — complete and heavy and impossible to ignore.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice almost makes it worse somehow. You nod once.
“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Then back up.
“You sure?”
“Frank.”
“Mm?”
“You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.” Heat crawls slowly up your throat. Frank notices that too. His mouth twitches faintly at one corner.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly. Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders.
“You come home all bruised and exhausted and somehow I’m the flustered one.”
“Not my fault you like me.” You snort softly.
“Your ego is unbelievable.”
“Earned it.”
“Oh my God.” Frank finally smiles then. Small. Crooked. Real. And suddenly the whole room feels warmer for it. Before you can protest, he has you lifted and he's flopping down on the couch with you straddling his lap. In a single smooth motion he pulls you down flush against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big battered hands slow and deliberate as they peel the blanket the rest of the way off your lap. He’s still rain-damp, the heat of him radiating through your shirt. You know what he wants. You’ve gotten better at reading the way his hands settle—sometimes gentle, sometimes not. Tonight they’re careful. Not because he wants to be, but because he’s making himself be.
“Comfortable?” he asks it deadpan, like you haven’t been in his lap a thousand times before. His voice thrums against your thigh, the steady warmth of his body working the last of the chill out of you. You lean in close, your chest pressed to his still-necked t-shirt, and tangle your fingers in his damp hair.
“Better,” you whisper, and the hunger in his face is gone, replaced by something softer. Wanting, but not desperate. Not yet. He slides his hands up under your shirt, the calluses on his fingertips catching along your ribcage. Always so gentle when you’re like this, like he’s still trying to talk you out of belonging to him all the way. You’ve never let anyone else touch you when you’re hurting. Frank figured that out fast. And he never asked questions about it. Not even once.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, but it’s not a command. It’s that low hush of his when you’re both off-balance, when it matters that you get it right. He drags his mouth along your jaw, delicately, and you angle your head back for more, hungry for it. He grinds his hips up into you just enough that the bruised part of him brushes your thigh. He grunts, barely, keeping his eyes open. Watching your face instead of his own pleasure. You’re already warm everywhere. He’s never made you ask for anything, so you don’t start now. Just shift in his lap and let your hips roll forward, finding that careful friction, your panties damp and hot between you already, the thin cotton of his sweats doing nothing to dull the heat of him. His hands have found their way inside the waistband of your pants, palms bracing the small of your back, steadying you in place.
“Frank,” you breathe, and he’s got a mouthful of your collarbone, his breath shuddering out as he catches your scent. It’s suddenly so intense you have to cover your own mouth, biting down on your knuckles to keep from making noise. He pries your hand away, brings your fingers to his mouth, sucks at them soft, then hard. You want him all at once. Want him until you’re shaking with it. His hand slips beneath your underwear, slow, careful. You’re so wet already it’s embarrassing, but Frank’s never made you feel ashamed of it. It’s almost like he likes it. Like every desperate sticky slick part of you is proof you want him as much as he wants you. He slides one thick finger in and you whimper. He’s so big that you feel it everywhere, a deep insistent pressure that’s almost too much. It’s almost funny. You know he knows it.
“Easy,” he whispers, and you almost laugh at how well he reads you. You let him curl his finger inside you, let him coax your legs open wider across his lap. It hurts a little, but the ache is good. It’s supposed to be good, the way he does it—careful, incremental, always waiting for your breath to catch before he gives you more.
“Frank,” you mumble. He just nods into your neck, like yeah, he knows, that’s how it is for him too. Somewhere between the steady stretch of his palms and the slow, hot pressure gathering in your center, everything else falls away. You can almost forget about the rest of the world. The crummy apartment. The busted boiler. Even the bruise along his jaw. It all dissolves into the rhythm of his hand working you open and the neat, even slide of his wrist against your skin. You can hear him breathing against your shoulder, steady, measured, like he’s counting out every pulse of sensation you give him. A minute passes. Maybe more. You press your face into the slope of his throat and let the smell of rain and sweat and blood ground you right there in the present.
“Holy fuck,” you gasp, almost more air than sound. He pulls back to look at you, eyes half-lidded.
“You want more?” he murmurs, not a tease, just a question. You nod, but then he does it—he adds another finger, thick and slow, and you feel the burn start up sharp and hot across your hips. You suck in a breath, grip at his forearm.
“I want- I need you inside me.” He keeps his palm splayed low on your back, like a promise to anchor you through. His breath stutters when you say it, and for a beat he just…looks at you, lashes low over his cheekbones, the blue shock-clear of his eyes almost guiltless with how badly he wants you. Wants to fix something in himself using this.
“C’mere,” he says rough, nudging your hips up and forward. Lifts you just enough that he can wriggle his sweatpants down, bare to you and already impossibly hard, that first heavy brush of him against your thigh making your stomach bottom out. His skin is so warm it feels dangerous. You’re vibrating with nerves and want and something that tastes like anticipation, metallic in the back of your tongue. He’s so unfair. That’s the narrative you settle on, even as you reach down, embarrassingly eager, and wrap your hand around him. The weight—absurd. Sometimes you wonder how a person gets made that way. How whatever god or biology was in charge decided Frank Castle needed to be built like a goddamn tank everywhere. He’s leaking already, thick and wet; you run your thumb over the head, and in response he shivers, jaw going tight. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat. He mutters something that sounds like “Fuckin’ hell, baby, you’re killin’ me.” You breathe out, try to steady yourself, let him angle you how he wants. His hand’s gentle but firm; he lines you up, rubs himself slow through your slick, getting you used to the idea, maybe, or just getting himself off on the wet suck of your body. It’s involuntary, the way you whimper—Frank hushes you soft into your neck, teeth scraping where your pulse jumps. Then he’s pushing in. Slow.
Too slow, you think, but then you realize he’s only a quarter in and it’s already—God, how is anyone supposed to take all of it? You dig your nails into his shoulders, bite his collar out of self-preservation. The stretch feels raw and greedy and delicious at first; you squirm, desperate for more, and Frank grips your hip with an iron clamp to hold you steady.
“Easy, baby. Slow, like this. You gotta let me in, okay?” His words are slurred, reverent. He keeps his face buried in your shoulder like he can’t look at you, or maybe he’s just that close to unraveling. You try to breathe through it. Try to unclench, force your body open around him. Another inch, and you gasp—pain-bright, almost electric—and he stops, instantly, just holding you there. His thumb paints slow circles into your skin.
“You got it,” Frank whispers. “You always do.” He rocks you a little, just a hitch back and then in again, and you can feel yourself melting, a little at a time, until he’s halfway in and you can barely remember your own name. There’s so much of him. It’s not fair, you want to laugh, except the tension’s too thick in your throat for sound. He fills you up in a way that makes you gasp for air. You’re shaking by the time you take half of him and you know it, and Frank knows it, so he keeps whispering to you, soft and low and steady, like if he keeps talking you through it you’ll remember why you want it so bad.
“Doing so good,” he says, like it hurts to get the words out. “You take it so fuckin’ good, sweet girl. S’a lot, I know.” His mouth finds your ear, brushing the shell with every word. “Y’okay?” The praise makes it easier, somehow. You nod, a wild little jerk of your chin, and work yourself lower onto him, your body protesting in that way you crave. By the time he’s all the way inside you, you can’t do much more than breathe hard against his neck and let the bright white edge of the ache melt into raw heat. He holds you there, unmoving, just this enormous presence inside you, chest rising and falling. You could almost cry, from the intensity. You want the ache until it becomes something else. He keeps murmuring, stroking your sides, kissing your hair, saying things you barely process but know you’ll carry with you for days. Sometimes you think Frank needs this even more than you do—needs to see you take every inch of him, needs to know you’ll let him in all the way. He starts slow and steady. Always does, even if half the time he’s gritting his own teeth about it. Lets you get there together, lets you rock yourself down inch by inch, all the while his hands keep you steady and his voice keeps you anchored, soft filthy praise dripping into your ear until you feel—ridiculously—like you can do anything.
Then you’re there. All the way, you think. Except it almost doesn’t feel like it could possibly be all the way—there’s just too much, the end of him pressed snug up against your insides, propped open around the root, the stretch of it pulsing and hot. You breathe. You shake. You clutch at the thick line of his neck and you can’t help but whine, just a little.
“Too much?” he asks, and you know the tremor in his arms is him holding himself back, not wanting to push, not wanting to lose you.
You shake your head.
“No, I—just—” He twitches his hips up, barely moving, and your vision goes white and spotty for a second.
“Holy fuck, Frank.” He laughs rough, squeezing at your waist.
“You like that?” You’re not sure you can answer out loud, but you nod, jaw gone slack. Your nails dig in and he keeps moving, tiny little thrusts, each one dragging a shivery shock up your spine. He’s watching you again. Always watching. Watching for pain, for pleasure, for the moment you tip from one to the other. It’s almost too much, that kind of attention. Makes you want to hide and bask in it all at once. The slow body-crawl of heat builds, wrapping itself low in your belly. You find a rhythm in his lap, rutting down onto him, greedy for the friction. Frank lets you take the pace, lets you fuck yourself down on him even though you know it’s probably killing him to keep still. You know he wants to flip you over, to drive into you so hard you see through time, but he never does. Always gives you control. Always makes it about you. He hums in your ear, sweet and dark.
“God, you’re perfect. Beatiful little thing, takin’ me so deep. Look at you.” He palms your ass, squeezes, bounces you gently on top of him. “So fuckin’ full, huh?” You whimper.
“Can’t—can’t—” He rocks up to meet you, catches your mouth on his, swallows the noise you make.
“You can. Always do. Makes me so proud, babe.” It should be embarrassing, how easily he can undo you with just words and a handful of slow, deep thrusts. But it isn’t. It’s grounding, real. The rest of the world fades around the two of you—the busted lights, the ticking wall clock, even the ache in your own hips. There’s only Frank, heat and power and patience, his hands guiding you around him like a prayer. You’re close. Closer than you should be. A coil of heat in your belly, tight and ready to snap. You chase it, grind down harder, until a sharp pinch of pain ricochets through your body. You body stutters, and you gasp in pain, your movements slowing. The pain spikes again—sharper, brighter—and suddenly you can’t breathe through it. Frank begins to move faster, lost in you, his mouth open against your neck, heartbeat stuttering in your own chest in time with the insistent rut of his hips. You brace yourself, try to ride over the sensation, swallow down the tears pricking hard at the corners of your eyes, but then the burn turns cold and wrong. Your thighs start to tremble, not with want but with the pure animal shock of a body pushed too far. You dig your nails into his shoulders, hard. It’s supposed to mean please, supposed to mean more, but right now it just means stop—your whole body screaming at you to pull back, to close up, to end it.
"W-Wait, Frank, stop-"But Frank’s so deep in his own wanting, he barely notices.
“Frank, just—slower—” you try, but your own voice scraps out small, swallowed by the ragged panting between you. He doesn’t hear it. He’s moving you up and down in his lap, huge hands bracketing your hips, eyes half-lidded, sweaty lashes against the bruised swell of his cheek. He keeps talking to you, low and thick, saying things you can’t process through the static in your head.
"Wait, Frank, stop, please-" Your vision’s gone a little blurry. He feels like too much, not just physically, but all of it—the weight, the heat, the way he needs you to be okay so badly he doesn’t see when you’re not. The pain flares, deep, and suddenly you’re crying. Not a pretty, slow leak, but a reckless overflow, hot and stinging at your chin. You try to push off of him, to get purchase against his chest, but your arms have all the strength of wet laundry. You try to speak, but it comes out a crushed, keening little sob.
“Frank, stop! Stop-” It hits him all at once. He freezes, muscles going rock-still under your palms. His hands leave your hips so fast you nearly slide off him; he fumbles you upright, like he thinks you’re about to faint.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay, hey.” His voice goes from dark velvet to pure panic, the kind of sound that would be terrifying if it weren’t Frank, if it weren’t so desperate. He tries to pull out but you grip at his wrist, too disoriented to untangle yourself from him. He’s breathing hard—like he’s been gut-punched—and now he’s holding you suspended in his lap, his hands trembling, his face a mess of confusion and guilt and horror.
“Shit. Oh, baby, what—? Did I—? Fuck.” You shake your head—don’t know what you’re denying, just need him to not move, not right now. He pulls you in close, rocks you like he used to rock his daughter, you bet, gentling you with shushing sounds and muttered apologies that taste sour against your ear. He wraps you up, big arms closing around you, framing you in meat and heat and nothing else. The second he realizes you’re crying, Frank goes white. Not pale. White. Like all the blood in his body evacuated at once.
“Oh my God.” The words fall out of him shredded raw. He’s trying to pull back without hurting you, hands shaking so badly he can barely coordinate them. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You can’t stop crying. And that’s the part that terrifies him. Not because you’re loud. You’re not. You’re trying so hard to keep it quiet that it hurts worse somehow. Little broken sobs caught in your throat while you curl instinctively inward, arms wrapping around yourself the second he finally manages to pull out and get you settled properly against his chest.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Frank’s voice is frantic now. “Look at me, sweetheart. C’mon. Look at me.” You can’t. Your face is buried against his shoulder, shaking too hard. Humiliation crawls hot and sick through your stomach.
Of course this happened. Of course.
You knew better than to ruin it.
Frank’s still talking, panicked apologies tumbling over each other while one hand cups the back of your head and the other rubs helpless circles between your shoulder blades.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks shakily. “Baby, talk t’me. Please.” You nod before you can stop yourself. Frank goes dead still. Not angry. Not annoyed. Destroyed.
“Oh, Christ.” His forehead drops against your hair. “I hurt you.”
“I’m sorry,” you choke out immediately. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.
“…What?” The word comes out dangerously soft. Your chest caves in harder instantly.
“I tried, I just— I thought I could—”
“Stop.” Frank pulls back enough to look at you, hands gentle but firm around your face. “Why’re you apologizin’?” Because that’s what you do. Because every other person before him taught you that needing a second was inconvenient.
That discomfort was normal. That stopping midway was selfish. Too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too much. You can’t even look him in the eye now.
“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” you whisper. Frank stares at you. And slowly—slowly—something awful settles across his face. Not anger at you. Understanding.
The horrible kind.
“Baby…” His voice cracks around the word. You shake your head, sobbing.
"God, i'm so sorry, Frank !" You whine, hiding your face in your hands. You climb off of him sniffling as you pull your clothes back on, not daring to look at him.
“Hey.” Frank catches your wrist before you can get far. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you from bolting completely. “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”
You can’t breathe.
The humiliation is swallowing you whole now, hot and familiar and awful. You know this part. Know it down to the bone. The shift afterward. The disappointment. The frustration hidden behind reassurance. The inevitable distance that comes after you become difficult.
Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much work.
“It’s okay,” you say automatically, voice wrecked. “I’m okay, I’ll just—” You tug weakly at your shirt with shaking hands. “I just need a minute.” Frank stares at you like you’ve started speaking another language.
“A minute?” he repeats faintly.
“So you’re not—” Your throat closes hard around the words. “So you’re not stuck dealing with this.” Something on Frank’s face breaks. Not anger. Not irritation. Heartbreak.
“Dealin’ with this?” he echoes hoarsely. You still can’t look at him. Because if you do and he looks annoyed even for one second, you think it might kill you.
“I know it’s frustrating,” you whisper quickly. “I know I ruined the mood, I just thought if I could push through it a little longer—”
“Push through?” Frank sounds physically sick now. Your hands shake harder trying to pull your clothes back into place. You can feel yourself spiraling, words falling out too fast now because silence was always worse before. Silence usually meant somebody getting angry.
“I really did want to, Frank, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”
“Baby.” Sharp now. Not mean. Desperate. “Stop apologizin’." You flinch anyway. And that— That does something catastrophic to him. Frank’s entire body stills as he watches you recoil from just a change in his tone. His breathing turns uneven immediately.
Your face crumples instantly.
“Oh, baby.” Frank gathers you against him again immediately, palm spanning the back of your head. “C’mere. C’mere, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know why I’m like this,” you whisper miserably into his chest.
“Who made you think this was somethin’ you had t’push through?” Your throat closes completely. That’s answer enough. Frank exhales once. Shaky. Like he’s trying very hard not to explode.
“Hey.” He waits until your eyes finally flick toward his. His own are glassy now. Furious and heartbroken all at once. “Listen t’me real careful.” His thumb brushes under your eye, catching tears before they fall. “You never— ever— gotta endure me.” That word breaks something open in you.
Endure.
Because that’s exactly what it felt like before. Something to survive until it was over. Frank sees it happen on your face and looks genuinely sick.
Silence.
Then quietly:
“One of my exes used to sigh whenever I asked him to stop.” The words feel rusted coming out. “Like I was ruining something.” Frank’s entire body goes rigid beneath you. You keep staring at his shirt instead of his face. “And if I cried he’d tell me I was making him feel guilty on purpose.” Frank exhales once. Slow. Controlled. Dangerously controlled.
“Another one used to just…” You swallow hard. “Keep going until he was done.” The room goes completely still. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. For one terrifying second you think maybe you finally said too much. Then his arms tighten around you with startling force. Not painful. Protective.
Violent in its tenderness.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked beyond repair now. “Jesus Christ.” You finally look at him then. There are tears in his eyes. Actual tears.
Not pity. Not disgust. Just devastation on your behalf.
“That wasn’t okay,” he says roughly. “None’a that was okay.”
You blink hard. You feel awful.
“You were already upset,” you whisper brokenly. “I just wanted t’make you feel better and now I’m—” You shake your head unable to speak. Your whole body is shaking, and you can barely breathe. You shake your head. You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks. "I'm okay. I-I'm okay, we can-" You reach for your shorts, ready o tug them down again, "We can keep going, i'm okay. "
Frank looks at your hand reaching for your shorts like it physically hurts him.
“Hey.” His voice breaks immediately. He catches your wrists gently before you can tug them down any further. “No. No, sweetheart.” Panic flashes across your face instantly.
“I can, really, I’m okay now, I just freaked out for a second—”
“You are cryin’ so hard you can barely breathe.” Not harsh. Not accusing. Just devastated. “Baby, look at yourself right now.” That humiliation spikes all over again. You yank your hands back automatically.
“Great.” Your voice shakes violently. “Now I’m making a huge deal out of nothing.” Frank’s entire expression twists.
“Nothing?” he repeats softly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You can’t stop now that the spiral’s started.
“I should’ve just kept going,” you whisper miserably. “I almost had it under control.” Frank goes dead still. Then very carefully, like he’s handling something shattered, he reaches for your face again.
“No.” Firm this time. Certain. “You listen t’me right now.” Fresh tears spill immediately. “You bein’ in pain is not somethin’ t’‘get under control.’” Your chest caves inward harder.
“But you wanted—”
“You think I wanted you hurtin’?” His voice cracks around the words. “Sweetheart, I would rather never touch you again than have you force yourself through somethin’ because you’re scared’a disappointing me.” That knocks the air clean out of you. Frank sees it happen. And suddenly he’s pulling you fully back into his lap again despite your weak protests, wrapping the blanket around both of you until you’re cocooned against his chest.
“Nope,” he mutters when you try to squirm away again. “Not lettin’ you run from me right now.”
“I’m embarrassing myself.”
“No, baby.” His hand smooths through your hair carefully. “You’re havin’ a trauma response.”The words hit weirdly. Too clinical. Too real. You laugh shakily through tears.
“That sounds dramatic.” Frank actually leans back enough to stare at you incredulously.
“You just told me multiple men treated you like your pain was inconvenient.” His jaw flexes hard. “That ain’t dramatic. That’s fucked.” You flinch faintly at the sharpness in his voice—not directed at you, but still sharp. Frank notices instantly.
“Hey.” Immediate regret floods his face. “Shit. Baby, not at you.” His hands cradle your jaw carefully. “Never at you.” Your breathing turns uneven again.
“I keep waiting for you to get tired of this,” you admit quietly. Frank looks poleaxed.
“Of what?” You gesture helplessly between the two of you.
“This.” Your voice gets smaller and smaller. “Me needing too much reassurance. Ruining things. Crying all the time—”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank pulls you closer so fast your forehead bumps lightly against his collarbone. “Who told you you ruin things?”You laugh once. Broken.
“Nobody had to say it outright.”
“Yeah,” he says darkly. “They did.” Silence. Then quietly:
“One guy stopped touching me for like… a week after I asked him to stop once.” The confession spills out before you can stop it. “Wouldn’t yell or anything. Just acted cold until I apologized.” Frank’s arms tighten hard around you. Another memory surfaces ugly and unwanted. “Another used to finish and then get annoyed if I cried after because it ‘killed the vibe.’” Frank shuts his eyes. You can literally feel anger radiating off him now—not explosive, but terrifyingly deep. Ancient. Protective.
“You know what kills the vibe for me?” he says finally, voice rough as gravel. You shake your head weakly.
“You thinkin’ you gotta offer your body back t’me while you’re still cryin’.” That one makes your face crumple completely. Because you hadn’t even realized that’s what you were doing. Frank brushes both thumbs under your eyes gently. “Baby, sex with me is never gonna be somethin’ you survive.” His forehead presses against yours again. “It’s supposed t’feel safe.” You stare at him through blurry vision. Frank groans, running his hands down his face. "For fucks sake." He rasps. "Can't believe I fuckin' hurt you." You shake your head immediately.
“No, Frank—”
“Yes.” His voice cracks hard over the word. “Yeah, I did.” He looks genuinely shaken now. Like this has cracked something open inside him he doesn’t know how to fix. His hands keep moving over you compulsively—your hair, your shoulders, your back—like he needs constant confirmation that you’re still here and not afraid of him.
“This’s never happened before,” he whispers more to himself than you. “Never with you.” And somehow that makes you cry harder. Because he sounds devastated by it. Not inconvenienced. Not irritated. Devastated. Frank notices instantly and curses softly under his breath.
“Shit, no, sweetheart, I ain’t upset with you.” He cups your face quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” You sniff hard. “I know.” But he still looks haunted. His eyes keep darting over your face like he’s searching for damage he missed. You sniff miserably.
“You’re not disappointed?” Frank actually lets out a disbelieving breath of laughter.
“Sweetheart, I got a beautiful girl sittin’ in my lap trustin’ me enough t’tell me this stuff.” He shakes his head gently. “Why the hell would I be disappointed?” Your face crumples all over again. Because he means it. Completely. Frank watches another wave of tears spill down your cheeks and immediately shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders like he can shield you from the whole world if he wraps you up enough.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Hey, c’mon. Look at me a second.” You do. Barely. His expression nearly breaks your heart. There’s still guilt all over him, heavy and ugly, but underneath it is something even stronger—care. The kind that settles deep into his bones. The kind that makes him hold you like something precious instead of fragile. “You know what I’m disappointed about?” he asks quietly. You shake your head. “That somebody taught you love was somethin’ you had t’earn by ignoring your own pain.” Your breath catches hard. Frank brushes your hair back carefully, fingertips feather-light against your scalp.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the only thing breakin’ my heart right now.”You stare at him for a long moment before whispering:
“You’re really not mad?” Frank looks almost offended by the question.
“Baby.” He cups your face in both hands. “You could stop me a hundred times in one night and I still wouldn’t be mad at you.” Your lip wobbles again.
“I don’t know why this feels so scary.”
“Because people made it scary.” Immediate. Certain. “That ain’t your fault.” You look down at your hands curled against his chest.
“I thought if I was easy enough nobody would leave.” Silence. Then Frank makes this awful quiet sound like the words physically hurt him.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His arms tighten around you again, and suddenly you’re tucked completely against him, your head under his chin while he rocks you slowly without even realizing he’s doing it. “You do not gotta make yourself small t’keep somebody,” he murmurs into your hair. “Especially not me.” Your eyes burn.
“But what if one day it’s too much?” Frank pulls back just enough to look at you directly.
“You cryin’ in my arms is not too much.” His thumb strokes under your eye again. “You needin’ reassurance is not too much.” A kiss to your forehead. “You gettin’ scared because people hurt you before is not too much.” Another kiss. Slower this time. “You are not too much.” You break completely after that. Not loudly. Just this soft, devastated collapse against him while years of tension seem to leak out of your body all at once. Frank holds you through every second of it. No impatience. No discomfort. Just one big hand rubbing slowly up and down your back while the other cradles the back of your head. Eventually your breathing starts evening out little by little. Frank notices immediately. You sniff weakly against his shirt.
“I’m gross.”
“You are literally the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“I’ve been crying for like twenty minutes.”
“And?” He shrugs one shoulder. “Still true.” A tiny laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Frank’s entire face softens at the sound.
“There y’are,” he murmurs again, like hearing you laugh is the greatest relief he’s ever experienced. You finally relax enough to melt properly into his lap, exhausted now. Frank adjusts the blanket around you automatically, tucking it beneath your legs with absurd care. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks quietly after a minute. You hesitate.
“A little sore.” His face immediately twists with guilt again. “Hey.” You catch his wrist before he can spiral. “Not in a bad way.” Frank still looks miserable. He leans into your palm instinctively. Eyes closing for half a second.
“You know what would’ve happened with anybody else?” you ask quietly. His jaw tightens.
“I don’t wanna think about anybody else touchin’ you right now.” Despite everything, your mouth twitches faintly. He shakes his head. "Alright, alright." He asks, already lifting you to settle you on the couch, getting to his feet and walking off to the kitchen. You blink after him, still wrapped up in the blanket while he disappears into the kitchen like he’s on a mission.Drawers open.Cabinets. The freezer. You hear him muttering under his breath the entire time.
“Jesus Christ… where th’fuck…” Another drawer slams shut. Then: “Found it.”You can’t help it. You smile weakly into the blanket. A minute later Frank reappears carrying an ice pack wrapped carefully in a dish towel and a glass of water balanced awkwardly in his massive hand like he’s transporting explosives. His eyes are on you immediately. Soft.Still worried sick.
“Okay,” he says quietly, kneeling in front of the couch. “Talk t’me. Where does it hurt, baby ?”You pull the blanket tighter around yourself automatically.
“It’s not bad.”
“Didn’t ask if it was bad.” He settles one hand carefully over your knee. “Asked where it hurts.” The concern in his voice almost embarrasses you all over again. You glance away. “Just… there.” You gesture vaguely downward, face heating. Frank’s expression immediately gentles further somehow. Not teasing. Not awkward. Just careful.
“Okay.” He nods once like you told him something important. “Cramps or soreness?” You stare at him.
“What?”
“I’m askin’ questions,” he says patiently. “Humor me.”
“…Mostly soreness.”
“Sharp pain?” You shake your head.
“Okay.” Another nod. “That’s good.” He reaches up slowly. “Can I touch you?” The question alone nearly makes you cry again. You nod quickly. Frank’s palm settles against the outside of your thigh over the blanket first, grounding more than anything else.
“Any bruising?” he asks softly.
“No. Just sore."His entire face tightens with guilt again. “Hey.” You immediately reach for him. “Frank.”
“I know.” He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles automatically. “I know. M’just checkin’.” He shifts onto the couch beside you then and gently pulls your legs over his lap before you can protest.
“Frank—”
“Nope.” He adjusts the blanket around you again. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You are not a doctor.”
“I watched, like, six hours of The Pitt with you.”
“That is not medical training.”
“Disagree.” You snort softly despite yourself. Frank looks absurdly relieved to hear it.
“There she is,” he murmurs. Then he carefully presses the wrapped ice pack into your hands. “Hold that where y’need it, sweetheart.” You blink at him.
“You got me an ice pack?”
“Baby, I was about three minutes away from drivin’ you to urgent care.”
“You are catastrophically dramatic.”
“You cried during sex.” He looks genuinely baffled you aren’t understanding his perspective here. “That’s, like, top three worst moments’a my life.” Your mouth falls open.
“Frank.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder. “This felt worse.” You stare at him for a second. Then another. And suddenly you’re laughing again. Not the shaky crying kind this time. Real laughter bubbling up out of nowhere while Frank watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare it away.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, hiding your face behind the blanket. “You’re insane.”
“There she is,” he says immediately, pointing at you like he just proved a theory. “That’s my girl.”
“You compared me crying to getting shot.”
“Accurate comparison.”
“It absolutely is not.” Frank crosses his arms stubbornly.
“I got shot in the shoulder once. Walked it off.”
“You absolutely did not walk it off.”
“Emotionally, I did.”You snort so hard you nearly lose hold of the ice pack. Frank’s eyes light up at the sound. There’s still worry in him. You can feel it humming beneath everything else. But now there’s relief mixed in too. Relief that you’re laughing. Talking. Still curled up against him instead of pulling away. He reaches over and tugs the blanket back up around your shoulders when it slips.
“You cold?”
“No.”
“You shivered.”
“I laughed.”
“Mm.” Skeptical. “Suspicious.”
“You are literally built like a furnace.”
“Good.” He shifts closer immediately anyway, dragging you sideways until your head ends up back against his chest. “C’mere.” You go willingly this time. Frank settles deeper into the couch with a quiet grunt, one hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down your arm while the other stays planted protectively on your thigh over the blanket. After a minute you murmur:
“You know you don’t have to look at me like I’m gonna explode, right?” His hand stills briefly.
“I do not look at you like that.” You tilt your head up. Frank is, in fact, looking at you exactly like that.
“…Baby,” he says defensively. “You cried.”
“I’m aware.”
“In my lap.”
“Yes, Frank.”
“During sex.” You groan and bury your face back into his chest immediately.
“Okay, now I’m dead.”
“Nope.” He tightens his arm around you. “Not allowed.”
“I’m serious, this is mortifying.” Frank’s voice softens instantly.
“Sweetheart.” He waits until you peek up at him again. “You know what I remember most right now?”
“What?”
“You trusted me enough to say stop.” Your expression flickers. Frank brushes his knuckles gently across your cheek.
“That matters t’me.” You swallow hard.
“I almost didn’t.” That one hits him. You see it immediately. His jaw tightens and his eyes close briefly before he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
“But you did,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m real glad you did.” Silence settles for a moment after that. Warm. Soft. Safe. Then:
“…You really would’ve taken me to urgent care?” Frank looks offended.
“Baby, I was mentally suiting up to fistfight a gynecologist.” You choke on air laughing.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: A bad morning with your heart leads to a hospital visit, but Aaron's steadiness makes even the hardest parts feel less like carrying it alone.
Tags: disabled!reader, cardiac-valvular EDS, cardiac episode, hurt/comfort, hospital visit, soft!aaron hotchner, aaron being so quietly prepared it undoes you, he learned the medication order, he saved the number, he made a list of questions, he adjusted your scarf at a red light, chronic illness, the weight of a familiar road, this time and the weight of those two words, the relief and the dread in the same breath, no use of y/n, slow tender love, intimacy without drama, being known in the specific and granular way, he reads you like evidence, he never offers exits he can't mean, falling asleep to a steadier heartbeat, your heart is imperfect and so loved, cozy domestic aftermath, soup negotiations, fluff, hurt/comfort, quiet devotion in every small thing
Word Count: 4.3k words
The morning sun filters through the curtains in thin, pale strips, and you feel the weight of Aaron's hand resting on your hip before you feel anything else—warm, heavy, anchoring you to the mattress like a stone dropped into shallow water. His fingers are lax with sleep. His breathing is slow and even against the back of your neck, the particular rhythm of a man who's finally, after years of a job that doesn't let you fully rest, learned how to do it properly.
Before you even open your eyes, you notice it.
Your heart is doing that thing again.
Not painful, exactly. But wrong. A flutter, a skip, a rhythm that doesn't quite belong to you—like someone's changed the time signature mid-song without telling the rest of the orchestra. Your chest feels tight in the way that has no clean name, the kind of tight that isn't pain but lives right next door to it and shares a wall, and when you shift against the sheets, testing it, the lightheadedness hits fast enough that you go still again. The room hasn't moved. You know that. But your body hasn't gotten the memo, and for a moment everything tilts on an axis that only you can feel.
You breathe. Count.
You know this feeling the way you know the layout of your own kitchen in the dark—by memory, by repetition, by the particular shape of having navigated it so many times that your body does it without you. The flutter is familiar. The tightness is familiar. Even the lightheadedness, that particular brand of the world deciding to tilt without asking you first, is familiar. Your heart has never quite agreed with the rest of you about how it's supposed to work. The valves do what they do—leak a little, strain a little, make themselves known at inconvenient hours—and you've learned, over years, to tell the difference between the kind of morning that rights itself by noon and the kind that needs more than patience.
This one, you think, needs more than patience.
You know this. You've known it since long before Aaron. Long before any of this.
It doesn't make it easier to lie here and catalogue it.
Aaron stirs. His hand tightens on your hip—reflex first, consciousness second—and you feel the exact moment he surfaces from sleep, the shift in his breathing, the slight tension moving through his arm.
"Morning," he murmurs, and his lips press to the curve of your shoulder, warm and unhurried, the kind of kiss that isn't asking anything, just—there. Just his way of saying he's here, he's awake, this is where he wants to be.
Then he looks at you.
His soft "good morning" dies on his lips.
He's learned to read you in the specific and granular way that takes time, and patience, and the willingness to be wrong a few times first. He'd been wrong early on—had said are you okay? in that careful, measured voice, calibrating his concern against what he thought you needed, and you'd smiled and said I'm fine and he'd known, even then, that those were two different conversations. He doesn't do that anymore. Now his eyes move over your face the way they move over evidence: careful, unhurried, gathering information before he commits to a conclusion.
"How bad?"
The fact that he doesn't say what's wrong—that he already knows to ask how bad—makes your throat tighten in a way that has nothing to do with your heart and everything to do with him.
"Manageable," you say, which is true, and not the same as fine, and you both know it.
He holds your gaze for a moment. Just a moment, long enough for you to see the thing that moves through his expression—not panic, not pity, something quieter and harder to name than either—and then he reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his thumb resting briefly against your jaw. It's such a small gesture. It lands like a whole sentence.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
He doesn't say it twice because he needs convincing. He says it twice the way you say it to yourself sometimes in the mirror—like the word is an anchor, like repetition makes it real.
He's already reaching for his phone.
Not emergency services—that distinction matters, and he's never gotten it wrong, not once, which tells you everything about how carefully he listened when you explained it to him—but your cardiologist's line, saved under Dr. Reyes - cardiac (non-emergency). He'd added that parenthetical himself, early on. So I know, he'd said. When it's that line, I know. The phone screen throws cold blue light across his face in the dim room, and you watch his jaw set with the particular tension of a man doing the only useful thing available to him and being grimly, privately frustrated that there isn't more.
"I'm going to get your morning meds while it rings," he says, already sliding out of the bed with the unhurried efficiency of someone who has thought through the sequence in advance. "Don't sit up too fast."
"I know not to sit up too fast," you say, which comes out more fond than pointed.
"I know you know," he says, glancing back at you over his shoulder, and there's the ghost of something warmer than a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Humour me."
You hear him in the kitchen—the soft percussion of cabinet doors, the tap running, the faint clink of pill bottles. You've told him where everything is so many times that he moves through it without thinking now, without having to ask, and there's something both quietly lovely and quietly painful about that. About how much of this he's absorbed. About how much there is to absorb.
You know the drill.
You've known it for years. The event monitor, the echo, the waiting room with its particular smell of recycled air and recycled patience. The specific exhaustion of a body that requires more management than most, the weight of a condition that doesn't announce itself with drama but with interruption—with a heart that skips on a Tuesday morning, with the fatigue that follows a bad episode like a shadow dragging at your heels, with the quiet, ongoing renegotiation of what your day is going to look like. You've made a kind of peace with it. Mostly. The peace isn't clean; it has seams you can feel when you press on them.
Aaron comes back with a glass of water and your morning medications in his palm, arranged in the order he's learned you take them, and he sits on the edge of the bed beside you and waits while you push yourself upright slowly, carefully, letting the blood pressure settle before you commit to being vertical.
"Still dizzy?" he asks.
"A bit," you say. "It's okay."
He watches you take the first tablet. Then he puts his free hand on your back, warm and flat between your shoulder blades—not rubbing, not doing anything in particular, just there—and you feel something in you unknot a fraction. He does that sometimes. Holds his hand there like he's taking your temperature in a language that doesn't have a name.
"Dr. Reyes is in at eight," he says. "I left a message."
"She's going to say the same thing she always says."
"Probably." He takes the empty glass back from you. "But I'll feel better hearing her say it."
You look at him. He's still in his pyjamas, his hair not yet tamed for the day, and he looks—softer, somehow, like this. Less like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner and more like just Aaron, the man who hums under his breath while he makes breakfast without seeming to notice he's doing it, who leaves little notes in Jack's lunchbox that are so earnest they make your chest hurt, who will deliver an absolutely withering one-liner with a completely straight face and then look away before he lets himself smile. The man who kisses you hello like you've been gone a week even if you've only been in the other room. The man who looked at all of this—all of you, every complicated, high-maintenance, uncertain inch of you—and decided, without apparent hesitation, that this was exactly where he wanted to be.
"You don't have to come," you say. You say it every time, not because you mean it, but because you think he should always know it's an option.
He gives you the look. The one that's replaced whatever he used to say when you offered him an exit, because he realised, eventually, that answering it seriously was giving it more weight than it deserved.
"Get dressed," he says, and presses a kiss to your temple. "I'll warm the car up."
The drive is quiet in the way that means something—not the quiet of nothing to say but the quiet of too much, of words that would ring hollow no matter how carefully chosen. The city is still mostly asleep, or doing that early-morning version of itself, all pale light and near-empty streets, and Aaron drives with one hand on the wheel and one resting over yours on the centre console. He doesn't ask how you're feeling every five minutes. He'd tried that, once, and you'd gently told him that being asked repeatedly made the space between each question feel like waiting for a verdict, which was worse. He'd nodded, slow and serious, and he'd never done it again.
What he does instead is talk, low and matter-of-fact, filling the silence with logistics the way he fills gaps at crime scenes—purposefully, so nothing goes unaccounted for.
"I grabbed your medication list from the drawer. It's in my inside pocket."
"Thank you."
"Your sister knows. I kept it brief."
"She's going to ring me seventeen times."
"She already has. I told her we'd call when we knew something." He glances across at you, brief. "She said, and I quote, if he doesn't text me updates I'll drive down there."
You exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh. "She would."
"I know," he says, with a tone that suggests he's fully prepared to facilitate exactly that if it comes to it. He squeezes your hand once, quick and warm, then settles back.
Each small practicality lands like a stone placed carefully in the gap left by everything he can't fix—the insurance card, the medication list, the text to your sister. It's not plugging anything. It's acknowledging the shape of it. Somehow that's more comforting than any promise that everything will be fine, because promises about outcomes are hollow things, fragile as spun glass, and he's too careful with you to offer you something he can't guarantee.
You look at his profile against the pale morning. The strong set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that never fully smooths, the way his thumb traces a slow arc across your knuckles without him seeming to notice he's doing it. You feel the love for him as a physical thing, warm and a little unwieldy, sitting in your chest alongside everything else that's happening in there.
At the hospital, there's a particular exhaustion in being somewhere familiar for reasons you wish weren't familiar. It's not the exhaustion of navigating something new—it's heavier than that, more specific. The weariness of a path you've worn into the ground through repetition, each visit adding another layer to the groove. The same corridor, the same intake forms you could fill in with your eyes closed, the same knowledge that you're here not because something went catastrophically wrong but because your body is doing what it's always done, which is require more attention than most.
The nurse at the desk—Maricel, who's been here as long as you have, more or less—looks up and gives you a small nod that contains an entire conversation.
"Same as before?" she asks.
"More or less," you say.
"We'll get you in." She glances at Aaron, who is already holding your coat and has already found the chairs nearest the door without being told. "He can come back with you once you're settled."
"I know," you say. "Thank you."
It goes the way it always goes. The event monitor first—the leads cold against your skin, the familiar catch of adhesive, the particular indignity of sitting still while technology makes its assessment. Aaron sits in the plastic chair beside the bed, close enough that his knee presses against yours, steady and constant. He's brought a small notepad, and he writes something on it while you wait, and when you raise an eyebrow at him he shows you: a list of questions for Dr. Reyes, neat and numbered. Nothing catastrophising. Practical. Specific.
"You made a list," you say.
"I had time in the waiting room." He caps the pen. "Is that alright?"
"It's very you," you say, which isn't a complaint, and he seems to know that.
He reaches over and tucks your hand into both of his, and his thumb makes slow circles on the back of it while the machines hum their flat, uninvested language around you. He doesn't look at his phone. Doesn't check his watch. He asks you, after a while, if you're warm enough, and when you say mostly he drapes your coat across your lap without comment. He tells you about a restaurant Jack mentioned wanting to try, something new in the neighbourhood, and you talk about that for a while—whether Jack's developed sophisticated taste or just seen an advert—and it's ordinary, and strange, and exactly right, this small island of ordinary in the middle of all of this.
You appreciate it more than you'll ever fully articulate.
When Dr. Reyes comes in, her expression is the particular neutral of someone who is not alarmed, and you feel your body calibrate to it automatically, the way you've calibrated over years of learning to read the register of medical faces before they speak.
"Good morning," she says, and she looks at Aaron. "You must be the partner."
"Aaron Hotchner," he says, and stands to shake her hand with a gravity that makes you want to smile, because he brings the same quality of serious attention to this that he brings to everything and it is, in its way, the most Aaron thing in the world.
"I have questions," he says.
"I saw the list," she says, which means Maricel told her, and she pulls up a chair. "Let's go through them."
He does. He asks about the specific presentation this morning, whether the pattern has shifted from previous episodes, what the event monitor data is showing so far, what the echo will tell them that it hasn't told them before. She answers him without condescension, and you watch him listen in the way he listens when he's building a complete picture, absorbing everything, storing it. At one point his hand finds yours again on the bed—just rests there, not quite holding, just touching—without him breaking eye contact with Dr. Reyes.
You think: he's doing this for himself as much as for me. Not in a selfish way. In the way that someone who loves you needs to understand the landscape of what you're living with, needs the map, because the alternative—the blankness of not knowing—is worse for him than any difficult information could be.
The verdict, when it comes, is the verdict you've been holding your breath for.
The episode doesn't require intervention.
This time, she says, and the words land the way they always do—relief and the quiet weight of but there will be a next time arriving in the same breath, neither cancelling the other out. You've learned to hold both. The relief is real, immediate, like the first full breath after being underwater too long. The weight is also real. It doesn't leave when she does. You've stopped expecting it to.
You've made peace with that.
Mostly.
Aaron is still learning to.
You see it in him as Dr. Reyes goes through discharge. He's writing down everything she says, and his handwriting is neater than it needs to be, the way handwriting gets when you're focusing harder than the task strictly requires. He asks one more question—about activity levels for the rest of the day—and she tells him light is fine, no strenuous anything, listen to your body. She looks at you when she says the last part, not him. You appreciate that too.
When she leaves, Aaron sits for a moment without speaking, forearms braced on his knees, head slightly bowed. You reach out and put your hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, the way he does for you.
He exhales.
"Okay," he says.
"Yeah," you say. "Okay."
He looks up at you, and there's something in his face that he's stopped trying to manage in front of you—not fear exactly, but the long shadow of it, the place where fear has been living and has left a mark. He lifts your hand from his back and holds it in both of his, his thumb pressed to your pulse point at your wrist, and he stays like that for a moment. Not saying anything. Just—feeling it. Feeling you.
"Hotchner," you say softly.
"I know," he says. "I know."
He brings your hand up and presses his lips to your knuckles, slow and deliberate, his eyes closing briefly, and it's the most unbuttoned you've ever seen him in a fluorescent-lit hospital room, which is saying something.
The drive home is different from the drive there. Still quiet, but the texture of it has changed—softer now, more settled, the quiet of two people who've come through something and are still here. He drives with his hand over yours again, but looser now, the grip of comfort rather than the grip of effort. At a red light he reaches over without looking and adjusts your scarf where it's slipped, tugs it back around your throat with a careful, practiced efficiency, and you watch him do it like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's not something that would have required a whole conversation to explain to someone else.
"I'm going to make soup," he says, as if this has been the plan all along.
"You make terrible soup," you say.
"I make competent soup. There's a difference." He considers. "Jack says it's good."
"Jack is eleven and will eat anything if it's in a bowl."
He almost smiles. It reaches his eyes, the real one, the rare one, and you feel it like sunlight through glass—indirect, but warm. "I'll order from the place on Clement Street," he says. "Is that acceptable."
"That's acceptable," you say.
"Good." He squeezes your hand. Doesn't let go.
That night, he holds you closer than usual.
You've already eaten—he'd ordered enough for approximately four people and pretended not to notice when you only managed half of yours, had simply put the rest in the fridge and said whenever you want it without making it into anything—and you're in bed earlier than normal, earlier than either of you would typically admit to, the day having taken more from you than it appears to on the surface. It always does. That's the other part of this no one talks about: the aftermath isn't just physical. It's the low-grade depletion of managing your own fear all day, of performing okay-ness for people at the edges of your life, of carrying the weight of a body that asks more of you than you sometimes have to give.
You don't have to perform with Aaron. That's not nothing. That's, actually, most of it.
He's lying propped against the pillows with a book he's barely reading, his reading glasses low on his nose, and you settle against his side and feel his arm come around you immediately, no hesitation, like a reflex he's stopped questioning. He puts the book down. He doesn't make a thing of it. His lips brush your temple, warm and unhurried, and his hand begins to move in slow, absent patterns on your arm—not a conscious gesture, just the thing his hands do when he wants to touch you and doesn't need a reason.
"Hey," you say, quietly, against his shoulder.
"Hey," he says.
"Thank you. For today."
He's quiet for a moment. His hand stills on your arm, then starts moving again. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I know I don't. I'm doing it anyway."
He turns his head and presses a proper kiss to your hairline, lingering, his face half-buried in your hair. You feel him breathe. Feel him settle.
"I looked up the valve stuff again," he says, eventually, careful and quiet. "Last night. Before we fell asleep. I know you've explained it. I just wanted to—" he pauses, "—I wanted to understand what it's doing in there. Why it does what it does."
Your throat does something complicated. "And?"
"And I think your heart is working harder than it should have to," he says. "Which makes two of us."
You laugh, soft and unexpected, and you feel him smile against your hair. You tuck yourself closer, your head against his chest, and you can hear it—his heart, steady and reliable, a metronome you've fallen asleep to enough times now that it's as familiar as your own. The contrast is not lost on you. You've thought about it, in quieter moments. The strange intimacy of having a body that makes itself known while his just—works, quietly, without complaint. There are bad days when that particular disparity sits heavily. Tonight it doesn't. Tonight it just feels like two different things existing alongside each other in the same dark room.
"You can ask me things," you say. "If you want to understand it. You can just ask."
"I know," he says. "Sometimes I don't want to make you explain yourself when you're already—" he considers, and you feel the pause, the care he takes with it, "—when you've already spent the day dealing with it."
"Sometimes that's the right call," you admit. "But not always."
"Tell me when."
"I will."
His arm tightens around you slightly, a quiet emphasis, and you close your eyes and listen to the slow, even sound of him breathing and the muffled ambient noise of the city outside, indifferent and continuous, going about its business in the dark. In here the room is warm, and the lamp on his nightstand throws a low amber light, and your heart—still imperfect, still yours, still navigating the particular complexity of connective tissue that never quite behaved the way the textbooks said it should—your heart beats on.
It doesn't beat the way other hearts do.
It never has.
It beats a little too fast sometimes and a little wrong and occasionally it skips steps entirely, like a record jumping its groove, like a sentence that starts one way and ends another. It has, over the years, accumulated its own file at the cardiology practice, its own notes, its own history. You've sat in rooms like today's room so many times that you know what the machines sound like when they're recording and what the faces look like when the news is good. You know the relief and the this time in the same breath. You've built a life inside the space between manageable and fine and learned that it's a perfectly liveable space, if smaller than you might have chosen.
You think about what Aaron said. Working harder than it should have to. You think about that without resentment, tonight—just as a fact, a characteristic, like the way you've learned not to stand up too fast, or the way you know by now that a run of bad nights will catch up to your chest before it catches up to anything else, or the way you have to plan around things that other people don't think about. Just your body, doing what it does. Just yours.
Aaron's hand has stilled on your arm. His breathing is getting heavier. He always falls asleep before he means to, especially on days like this, when he's been running on careful attention for hours, on the particular energy expenditure of being present rather than useful, which is harder for him than the useful.
You watch his chest rise and fall.
You think about the notepad full of questions, and the medication in the right order, and the way he adjusted your scarf at the traffic light without thinking about it. You think about tell me when and I wanted to understand and the press of his lips against your knuckles in a fluorescent-lit hospital room, eyes closed, utterly unbuttoned, holding your wrist like it contained something necessary.
You don't know what you did to get here. You're not sure the question is the right one.
You just know that when your heart does its sideways thing on a Tuesday morning, and the world narrows down to holding still and counting beats, there is a hand on your hip before you've even said a word—and that the man attached to it has already memorised the medication order, already saved the number under non-emergency, already learned the difference between your kinds of stillness.
Outside, the city hums on, indifferent and full of itself.
In here, Aaron's arm tightens around you in his sleep—a reflex, unconscious, the thing his body does without permission—and you feel it like a second heartbeat, steadier than your own.
hi jade <3 i miss hotch too :( i saw a tiktok earlier of a prank/trend where a couple was cuddling in bed at the guys place and suddenly the girl told his man that she wants to go home, and she sounded like kinda sad and quiet, and her man got SO worried and serious SO quick, and it was so sweet how he was so gentle and reassuring with her :( it really made me think of hotch (and clark ngl)
—Aaron’s soft-handed reaction to a prank makes you emotional. fem, 1k
It is not Aaron’s fault that he doesn’t use the internet, but it makes pulling pranks on him so easy it’s practically impossible to stop yourself.
He’s resting his chin atop your head as you read with your e-reader resting on his bicep, face to collar, his smell in your nose. The romance novel you’re reading is good, but it isn’t half as romantic as the man that’s holding you. Nobody is as gentle as your Aaron. You’re honestly not sure anyone else ever could be, and it’s your dumb luck that landed you in his arms, in his bed, with his nose in your hair and not a care in the world between either of you.
He takes a long, deep breath that is so obviously his way of smelling you, and his sigh after like he took a drag of a cigarette makes you melt. The words on your e-reader go blurry as your eyes flutter, content. And then you get your evil little idea and lay the reader flat on his arm. His arm is bigger than the reader is wide, which almost stops you from opening your mouth at all.
If you ask nicely, he’ll squeeze you.
But you really wanna mess with him, so you make yourself small. Let your spine go rigid, and let your profiler get the message.
He peers down at you in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
“I want to go home,” you say, matching your tone to the very worst (which is to say, best) video, her voice sad and soft, like she was truly defeated. And it couldn’t break Aaron’s heart more to hear it, even if the scary FBI training means he doesn’t take your acting as entirely truthful.
“What?” he asks, shifting you in his arms, down his chest some so he can your face. He takes your face in his hand, his thumb rubbing up the line of your cheek. “You want to go home?”
“Yeah, I wanna go home.”
“Why, honey?” His voice is like gossamer, thin and silken. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter, hm?”
His eyebrows get that square pinch between them as he caresses your cheek. You falter in the face of his gentleness, which makes it all the more believable that there’s something wrong.
“Have I done something? Please don’t leave, I’d worry myself to death if you left me now.” His voice is familiar and warm, slow, forever mellifluous. You’ll never get sick of the way he talks—it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, how he could make anything at all sound like a love note. “What’s making you feel unsure? Tell me what’s going on in there.”
You know that Aaron’s gentle, but he’s gone so sweet so suddenly it has emotion brewing in you that you haven’t earned. You swallow a silly lump and try to smile. “It’s nothing,” you say.
Aaron slowly cards his hand behind your neck and encourages you into the curve of his neck, his second hand at the small of your back in a perfect fit. Warm and big, stretching over one of your most delicate parts.
“I don’t know what to think about it, honey. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’d rather be at home than with me. If you need space, you can have it. Of course you can have it, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not what this is about. Do you trust that you can talk to me?”
You want to cuss, but your throat burns, and all you can force out is a reprimanding, “Aaron.”
“‘Cos I can fix anything.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? So let me fix it for you, sweetheart.”
It is perhaps your greatest shame to be near tears in his arms as you plead with him to pretend you never said it. “I was just– I just wondered how you’d react, is all, there’s nothing wrong.” And Aaron doesn’t believe you, still soft as silk, so you tell him about the video you saw and he hums. You’re worried he’ll be rougher with you, then, because it’s not like you’ve earned his sympathy, but he rubs your back slowly and hums pensively, the smell of his skin under your nose.
“Something still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks in a murmur, unaware of the molten heat in your throat and stomach simultaneously. You couldn’t explain it to him if he did notice it. “Did you– was it a surprise, that I wanted you to stay and work things out with me? I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear, that I’d fix anything for you.”
It’s just—it borders being too much, too kind. It’s the ache of biting into something sweet with a bad tooth, how he’s gone this tender, how he hasn’t once pushed you off of his chest. It hits you how willing he is to spend endless minutes reassuring you over nothing, a scenario that you created, and how easily he reads your smallest emotions.
You’re downed by a video prank, and it’s all your fault.
Luckily, Aaron doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tips your head back with your ear against his shoulder, looking up at him from his chest all wide-eyed and in love as he leans down for a slow kiss. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, worried your voice will wobble and betray you if you speak, so Aaron leans down again to press another kiss to your mouth, this time very purposefully misaligned, so as to kiss right under your nose.
“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks, like you haven’t just deregulated yourself by accident.
“I’m okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” He gives your back a good rub, like he’s waving his hand into your spine. “How’s that? Is that helping?”
“Little more,” you tell him. You don’t mention going home again.
He brings the blankets over your and strokes shapes into the small of your back, eventually finding the humour in things when you're spent on his chest, murmuring a loving, “So sweet,” into your crown.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Derek catches you mid-crash before you can fake your way through it, and refuses to let you spend one more hour managing alone.
Tags: disabled!reader, multiple sclerosis, MS fatigue, bad flare day, hurt/comfort, soft dom!derek morgan, derek seeing through every excuse you make, the performance of fine, stubbornness as a coping mechanism, he's not asking he's telling, good girl as an anchor, being caught before you fall, tender authority, nonsexual intimacy, no use of y/n, quiet domesticity, medication routines, being looked after without losing dignity, love in the practical sense, the particular exhaustion of fighting your own body, he learned your worst days and moved toward them, warmth and weight, you are not a burden here, rest as an act of trust
Word Count: 2.9k words
The wall hits you somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen—not a metaphor, not an exaggeration, but something that feels almost architectural in its solidity, like running chest-first into stone you didn't see coming. Your legs have been lying to you all morning, making promises they had no business making, and now the debt's come due all at once, a bill presented without warning at the worst possible moment. Every step is a negotiation with a body that's stopped honouring agreements, each footfall dragging like you've got concrete poured into the soles of your feet, curing slowly, pulling you earthward with the patient, indifferent weight of something that's already decided how this ends.
You know what this is. You know exactly what this is.
You've been here before—stood at this particular junction between stubbornness and common sense more times than you can count, and every single time, you've taken the same exit. There's a perverse logic to it that even you can recognise: if you can just get the water, take the meds, sit down under your own power, then this doesn't have to be a crash. It can just be a bad hour. A bad morning. Something manageable. Something you handled.
So you keep moving.
The kitchen is ten feet away. Maybe twelve. You're measuring it in steps that cost more than they should, the counter gleaming and solid at the far end of it like a finishing line, like a promise, like the one fixed point in a room that's starting to feel slightly unmapped. You're almost there. You're—
You're barely through the doorway when you hear him move.
Derek doesn't say anything immediately. That's the thing about him—he never rushes to fill silence with noise. You feel his attention before you hear his voice, that particular quality of focus he carries, the way it lands on you like a hand on your shoulder before his hands are anywhere near you. It's the same awareness he brings to everything that matters to him, this steady, unblinking notice, and right now it's entirely on you. The chair scrapes back across the tile. His footsteps are quick and certain, three strides that close the distance between you before you've managed another half-step toward the counter, and then he's there—right there, solid as a wall but warmer, filling up the space between you and the rest of your bad plan.
"Oh no, you don't."
His voice is low and level, the kind of tone that doesn't rise because it doesn't need to, the kind of tone that has never once needed volume to carry weight. His hands find your shoulders—warm, large, the grip of them firm without being harsh, like being caught by something with roots that go all the way down.
"What do you think you're doing, huh?"
The question isn't rhetorical. He's actually looking at you, actually waiting, his dark eyes moving over your face with the same systematic attention he'd give a scene—cataloguing the pallor and the shadows and the particular set of your mouth that you know, from experience, gives everything away.
You open your mouth. The protest rises on instinct, the same worn-smooth reflex that's been your first response to concern for longer than you've known him, ground down to something almost reflexive by years of practice.
"I'm fine."
Even as the words leave you, you know how they sound. Thin. Unconvincing. The verbal equivalent of a building facade held up by scaffolding that's already starting to buckle in the middle, the kind of structure that looks like it's standing until you look at it too long.
Derek raises one eyebrow. Just the one. It communicates an entire paragraph.
"You're fine."
He repeats it back to you not as a question but as an object he's examining, turning it over in his hands, and the flatness of it makes the word sound exactly as hollow as it is.
"No, you're not."
He doesn't say it harshly—there's no frustration in it, no impatience, nothing punishing in the weight of it. Just certainty. The blunt and settled certainty of a man who has watched you long enough and closely enough to know the difference between fine and the performance of fine, between genuinely okay and too stubborn to admit otherwise. His hands shift from your shoulders to steer you—firmly, without apology, back the way you came.
"And don't try to argue with me. I'm not letting you push yourself into a full-on crash."
"Derek—"
"Nope."
Just the one word. Not unkind. Not cold. But absolute in a way that settles somewhere in your chest and sits there, and you feel the fight in you waver like a flame in a draught.
You consider pushing back anyway. The stubbornness in you is its own creature, has always been—a thing that lives behind your ribs like an ember that doesn't know how to go out, and right now it's flaring, throwing heat, making arguments in your head about self-sufficiency and not wanting to be a bother and it's just water, it's just twelve feet. But your body chooses that exact moment to make its position abundantly clear, your next step coming out uneven in a way you can't disguise, your hand shooting out toward the wall before you can stop it.
Derek's already there. His arm comes under yours, solid and steady, and he takes your weight like it costs him nothing, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he was already expecting it and positioned himself accordingly—which, knowing him, he probably was.
That's when you stop arguing.
He doesn't comment on it. Doesn't say see or I told you or make any particular face about it. He just keeps moving, arm under yours, his pace adjusted to yours without a single word about the adjustment, steering you back down the hallway with the same unhurried efficiency he brings to every practical problem. You feel the heat of him against your side, the dependable solidity of him, and something in you that's been pulled taut since you woke up this morning and felt the particular quality of wrongness in your limbs starts—almost imperceptibly—to ease.
The bedroom is dim when he gets you there, curtains drawn against the afternoon, the familiar smell of the room gathering around you like something you didn't know you needed until it was already pressing in on all sides. He guides you to the edge of the bed with the practised ease of someone who has done this before—not with helplessness in his touch, not with the overly careful handling of something fragile, but with competence. The kind that comes from love wearing practical shoes and showing up to the difficult parts without being asked.
"Sit," he says.
You sit. The mattress takes your weight and you feel something in your spine unlock, some tension you've been carrying in the architecture of your posture all morning.
"Lie back."
Not a question. Not even really a request. Just the quiet, unhurried expectation of someone who already knows you're going to do it, like the direction is merely a courtesy—acknowledging that you're still a person who gets to move under your own power, even if he's the one deciding where. You lean back against the pillow, cool cotton against the back of your head, and you feel something unknot in the centre of your chest that you hadn't fully registered you'd been holding together with spite and sheer bloody-mindedness all morning.
The ceiling is familiar. The room is quiet. Derek moves around the bed with focused efficiency, adjusting the pillow behind your head, then checking the one beside you, his brow furrowed slightly in the concentrated expression he makes when he's doing something worth doing correctly.
"You're not moving from this spot until I say so."
"Derek, I really don't need—"
"I know what you think you need." He says it easily, without heat, like a man who is entirely at peace with having the last word on this subject. "And I know what you actually need. And right now those aren't the same thing."
He pulls the blanket up over you, tucks it at the edges with more gentleness than the declaration probably warrants—this careful attention to the small details, the way he's always done the big things and the small things with equal seriousness, like neither is beneath his notice. Then he straightens, and he looks at you. Just looks, for a moment, with that open and uncomplicated gaze that has never once contained a single gram of pity. There's something in it that makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with fatigue.
"I'll get your water and your meds," he says. "And then you're going to rest." He tilts his head slightly. "Got it?"
He waits. He's very good at waiting—has this quality of absolute stillness when he wants an answer, like the question will just sit there in the air between you indefinitely, patient and immovable, until you decide to meet it.
You look at him. You look at the ceiling. You let out a long breath.
"Got it," you say.
The corner of his mouth does something warm.
"Good girl."
The words are light, said easily, in the same register as that's it or there you go—but they do something to you anyway, something immediate and settling, the verbal equivalent of a hand pressed flat and sure between your shoulder blades. You feel the tension in your jaw release. Something in your shoulders. Your body recognising, at the level below language, that it's been given permission to stop performing. He holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary—making sure it landed, making sure you felt it—and then he's gone, footsteps quiet down the hall.
He's back before the silence has time to develop edges. Water first—cold glass pressed carefully into your hand, his fingers wrapping briefly around yours to make sure you've got it before he lets go. Then your medication, and he knows which ones without asking, knows the order, knows the one that makes you drowsy goes last and not first, has learnt every detail of the routine with the quiet, specific diligence he applies to everything he's decided matters. You take them one at a time. He watches—not hovering, not taut with anxiety, just present the way a lighthouse is present, not performing vigilance, just making sure you can see where the rocks are.
When you hand the glass back, his hand moves to your hair. Slow and deliberate, fingers carding through from your temple backward, unhurried as if he's got all the time there is and intends to use it. The tenderness of it lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, warm and heavy as afternoon light coming through glass.
"Good girl," he says again, quieter this time—lower, and with a weight the first time didn't have. Not praise, exactly, or not only that. Something with more gravity to it, something that finds the worn-out places in you and settles into them like ballast.
You exhale. A real one. The kind you haven't managed since you woke up.
"You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." Simple as that. No argument available.
He sits down beside you then, the mattress dipping with his weight, and he settles his hand on your thigh—large and warm and completely, deliberately still. Not moving. Not doing anything with it except being there, an anchor against the particular kind of drift that bad days bring, the feeling of being slightly untethered from yourself.
"How long have you actually been this bad?" he asks. Not quite a question—more like a man who already knows the answer and is giving you the chance to be honest about it.
You consider softening it. You don't.
"Since this morning. I thought it'd level out."
"And instead you spent the whole day waiting for it to level out." He says it without heat. Just the plain shape of the thing, laid out between you.
"I was going to rest after I got the water. And I almost made it into the kitchen."
He makes a sound—warm, unimpressed, fond underneath in a way that makes the combination somehow worse and better at once. "Baby, you made it to the kitchen doorway."
"That's basically the kitchen."
"That is really not the kitchen." His thumb moves, just once, a slow arc against your thigh before going still again. "You know what happens, right? What happens when you push through it all day."
"I know."
"Tell me."
You blink. It's not a challenging kind of tell me—it doesn't have any edge in it—but it's not negotiable either.
"It costs me more later," you say, the way you'd recite something learnt by heart.
"It costs you more later," he confirms, like you've said something correct and he wants you to hear it confirmed in his voice, not just your own head. "Every time."
"I just hate—" you start, and stop, because the sentence has too many endings and none of them feel like things you want to hold in your mouth right now.
"I know," Derek says. Before you have to find one.
And that's the thing—he does. That's the part that still occasionally catches you off guard, the depth of his comprehension, the way he doesn't ask you to explain yourself on the days when explanation is one more thing your body can't spare the energy for. He just knows. He made it his business to know, some point early on when he decided you were someone worth knowing thoroughly, and he's never once made you feel like the knowing was a burden.
Your eyes sting faintly, staring at the ceiling.
"Hey." His hand on your thigh shifts, just slightly, pressing with more intent, and you look at him. "You don't have to do everything on your own. You know that, right?"
"In theory."
"Not in theory. In practice." His voice is quiet now, the authority still woven through it but softer at the edges—the way good leather softens over time, not losing its structure but becoming more suited to the shape of what it's holding. "I'm here. That's not an accident. That's not just—circumstance. I'm here, which means I'm here for this. For all of it."
You look at him for a long moment.
"That's why I'm here," he says. "So let me take care of you. Alright?"
And there it is—let me, not I suppose I should, not the language of obligation in care's clothing. An offer and a direction at once, and the combination of those two things, the softness and the certainty threaded through each other like that, is the specific thing about Derek that has undone you since the beginning. You look at him—this man who learned the particular shape of your worst days and moved toward them rather than away, who holds the edge of your limits with both hands and doesn't look away—and you feel the last of the morning's armour come loose.
"Okay," you say. Quietly. Meaning it.
His hand, still resting on your thigh, turns slightly—palm flat against you, warm and certain as a seal. Grounding you here, in this bed, in this room, in the specific and concrete fact of being looked after.
"Okay," he echoes. "Close your eyes."
Outside, the afternoon light shifts and drifts behind the curtains, the world carrying on at its own ordinary pace while yours slows to something your body can actually hold. The fatigue settles into you differently now—not as something you're bracing against, not as an enemy you're managing with sheer force of will, but as a simple truth you're allowed to acknowledge without it meaning anything has gone wrong. Your body asking, plainly, for what it needs. And someone here to make sure it gets it.
Derek doesn't move. His hand stays warm and steady on your leg, like a hearthstone, like something that's been warm so long it's forgotten how to be anything else, and the room fills with a quiet that has texture and weight to it. The particular quality of shared silence between two people who don't need to perform ease because they've arrived at the actual thing. You have been at your worst in this room before. You've been frightened and exhausted and furious at your own body, and he's been here for every version of it, and none of it has changed the way he looks at you.
That's not nothing. That's, in fact, everything.
The heaviness behind your eyes is growing now, the specific weight of a body that's been given permission to be exactly what it is—tired, and asking, and allowed. It moves through you the way water moves downhill, inevitable and unhurried, finding every low place and filling it. Your limbs loosening from the long effort of holding themselves at attention all morning. The pillow is soft. The blanket holds your warmth back to you. The room is dim and quiet.
Derek's hand is still there.
You know it'll be there when you wake up. Not because he's told you so, but because you know him—know the quality of his steadiness, the way he commits to what he cares about with every part of himself and doesn't look for the exit. You'll open your eyes and he'll be there, or close enough to hear you call, and either way it'll be the same: you won't be handling it alone.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You just wanted to shower. But your body—and your period—had other plans.
Tags: disabled!reader, ms flare, early period, depictions of chronic pain, depictions of fatigue, emotional shutdown, breakdown, reader's self-disgust, derek caring for you like it's nothing, hurt/comfort, gentleness in the mess, no use of y/n, derek morgan is soft actually, bathroom floor tenderness, reader struggling to feel human, you don't have to be okay to be loved
Word count: 2.7k words
You'd planned to shower.
You'd thought about it all the way home—warm steam, lavender shampoo, the scratch of your loofah across skin that's felt too tightly wrapped all day. You'd imagined the sound of water drumming on porcelain, the softness of a towel pulled tight around your shoulders, the brief illusion of relief as heat soaked through your muscles. You'd thought maybe it would ease the pressure in your back, loosen the dull, aching tension that's clung to you since your lunch break. You'd pictured the mirror fogging up, the tiles slick with condensation, your limbs slowly unraveling from the tight, pulsing coil they've curled into over the course of the day. You'd wanted to feel clean. More than clean. Reclaimed. You'd wanted to scrub the office off your skin—the cold stares, the pitying glances when you stumbled once at the printer, the way someone asked if you were "doing okay" with just enough weight in their voice to make you shrink.
But that's all it is now: a plan. A thought. A distant flicker swallowed by the reality of your body giving up the second you close your front door.
It starts in your knees. A strange, sudden tremble. You try to step forward, but your legs give a warning jolt and threaten to fold beneath you like paper straws. Your breath hitches. You toe off your shoes with stiff, clumsy movements, each foot dragging like it weighs a hundred pounds. Wobbling, you catch yourself on the wall, palm scraping against the cool paint as you brace. That simple motion makes your shoulders scream. A thousand needles bloom behind your ribs and bloom again down your spine. You curse softly, voice barely audible over the rustling of your clothes, the faint hum of your fridge somewhere down the hall, the dragging, disjointed rhythm of your own breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Try not to cry.
The hallway stretches before you like a tunnel, floor tilting sideways. You grab for the wall again. Your vision dips. Each step is harder than the last, a slow, sludgy shuffle. Your muscles are abandoning you, one by one. You lean against the bathroom doorframe before fumbling for the light switch with fingers that don't quite obey, missing it once, twice, before the room floods with sterile brightness. The bulbs are too harsh, too white. It turns everything into edges and shadows and makes your headache throb even harder, pulsing behind your eyes like a warning bell.
By the time you make it to the bathroom, your legs are shuddering beneath you, trembling as if they've run a marathon rather than sat at a desk for eight hours. Each step feels like dragging yourself through molasses, thick and slow and clinging. Your arms ache, too, as though you've been lifting weights instead of typing emails. Fatigue sinks into you like wet sand, heavy and suffocating, pulling you under. Your fingers buzz with that strange, pins-and-needles haze you've grown too familiar with. It creeps from your elbows to your wrists to the space between your knuckles. And just as you lower yourself onto the closed toilet lid—slow, slow, don't fall—you feel it.
Heat. Damp. A sudden, sick flush of understanding.
No.
Your period. Early.
You freeze for a second, brain catching up with what your body already knows. Then your face falls into your hands, elbows pressing into your thighs. Your breath stutters out in shallow bursts, catching hard in your throat. Of course. Of course it comes today. Not when you're prepared, when your bag's got supplies and your mind's alert. No, it sneaks in now, kicks you while you're already down. The wet discomfort makes you shudder with something halfway between disgust and defeat. You think back—when was your last one? Didn't your app say four more days? There was no warning. No cramps. No tension. Just this. This awful, unexpected, humiliating betrayal.
You shift your weight forward again, trying to peel yourself upright. It feels like moving through syrup, every motion thick and resistant. Your trembling fingers fumble with the waistband of your trousers, the elastic suddenly stiff and unyielding, like your body's resisting even this small mercy. You finally manage to get them down. Underwear too. You try not to look.
But you can't not see it. It's everywhere. Thick, clotted red. On your thighs. The insides of your legs. Your hands now, too. You groan, quiet and hoarse. Even the air seems heavier now, warm and close, like it's pressing down on you. You don't have the strength to stand, to climb into the shower like you planned. Your legs are limp things now, aching and trembling, and the idea of standing feels laughable. Instead, you reach blindly for a wad of toilet paper, hand shaking so badly you barely tear it from the roll.
You press it between your legs. It tears.
Thin, useless. It shreds against your skin, disintegrates in the blood, leaves specks of white fluff clinging to you like confetti from some cruel celebration. You stare at your hand. At the smudges of red in your palm. You grab more paper, try again. Dabbing. Wiping. Your fingers are slick and useless. Shaky. Ungraceful. Your hand cramps halfway through the motion. You grit your teeth and keep going.
You feel like a child. That's what it is. Not a woman. Not a grown adult with bills and deadlines and a man who calls you sweetheart like it means something. Just… this. This wreck of a person. This hot, trembling, bloodied mess, with legs half-numb and stained knickers bunched around your ankles. The tile is cold under your feet, and you only now realise you never even took your socks off. One is damp. You don't know if it's sweat or blood or the water pooling from the edge of the shower curtain. You don't check. You can't.
There's a trail of red from the seat to your knee. You notice it too late. It blooms on your skin like a warning sign. Your thighs stick uncomfortably where they press together, the blood already starting to dry at the edges. You breathe through your nose. You reach again. The toilet paper shreds again. Your stomach turns.
Your eyes blur. Not with tears, not yet, but with that strange heat behind them that makes your vision swim. Your breath comes in shallow gasps. You lean back against the wall, let your head thud gently against the cool tile. The contrast to your flushed skin is stark, jarring. It keeps you conscious. Anchored. You close your eyes for a moment and try to feel something else. Anything else.
Even as your hands start to cramp again and your legs slide a little wider apart in defeat, you try not to cry.
But your throat's tight, and your chest's heavier than it should be. Your eyes sting, even as you blink hard, jaw clenched. There's a familiar heat in your sinuses, that pre-cry ache that makes you feel eight years old and helpless. Your breath stutters. You inhale too fast and choke on it. You lean forward again, arms over your knees, curling in on yourself like that will somehow shrink this whole moment into something smaller. More manageable. Less humiliating.
There's blood under your nails now. You notice it as you look down, hands limp in your lap, streaked with red and tissue fibres and sweat. You press your thumbs into your palms until the sting distracts you. It doesn't work for long.
Your vision catches on the edge of the bath mat. A speck of lint. A crack in the tile grout. Anything to focus on that isn't your own body. You stare until your eyes burn, and even then, you don't look away.
You just wanted a shower. That's all. Just a bit of steam and soap and ten minutes to feel human again. To stop feeling like a stranger in your own body. To reclaim something. Anything.
But you sit there instead. Bleeding. Shaking. And utterly spent.
You don't even hear the door click open. Not the keys, not the footsteps. Not at first.
You only become aware of Derek when the air changes—some subtle shift in the quiet, like your body recognises his presence before your brain can name it. A breath you didn't realise you were holding releases. And then, from the doorway:
"Sweetheart?"
You flinch.
His voice is soft, almost hesitant, but your heart still leaps in panic. You're not ready to be seen. You can't imagine how you look right now—flushed, shaking, knickers tangled around your ankles, toilet paper clinging to your fingers, legs and thighs streaked with drying blood. Your head jerks up, and your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just air and shame. Your chest tightens like it's being squeezed from the inside.
His brows pull together when he steps into view. His eyes move fast, sharp and assessing—like he's piecing together a scene in a fraction of a second. He sees the blood. He sees your hands. He sees you, too still and too pale and too small in a bathroom that suddenly feels like a spotlight. But he doesn't startle. Doesn't grimace or pause or look away. He exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself not because he's unsettled—but because he wants to be exactly what you need in this moment. Not afraid. Not alarmed. Just solid.
"Shh, it's okay." His voice drops low, firm and tender all at once. "I've got you."
He crouches down beside you with barely a pause, grabbing a clean washcloth from under the sink. He runs it under the tap, wrings it out quickly. His movements are precise, practiced. Not clinical—gentle. Like he's done this before, maybe not this exactly, but enough to know how to move without hesitation. Without fear. Like none of this fazes him. Like it's the most natural thing in the world to find you like this and simply… help. His knee hits the tile with a soft thud. You flinch again, but he doesn't seem to notice.
You shake your head as he leans closer. "Derek—no, no, I'm—please don't. It's gross. I can do it."
"You can't, sweetheart." His tone is calm, not a single note of judgment in it. "And that's okay. Let me take care of this."
"I'm a mess," you whisper. "It's too much. I'm too much."
"No, you're not." His fingers brush your thigh as he begins to clean you up, wiping gently with the warm cloth. "You're human. That's all. This isn't too much for me."
The cloth glides over your skin, the warmth a jarring contrast to the cold creeping in your limbs. He starts at your knees and works with slow, unhurried care. There's no tension in his body, no rush. Just patience. Just tenderness. He moves like time doesn't exist. Like the only thing that matters is getting you clean and safe and settled. And every time the cloth touches you, another layer of mortification peels back, replaced by something quieter. Something almost like comfort. Almost like grace.
You flinch again as he wipes over the most tender parts, but not because it hurts. Because he's seeing all of it—your pain, your mess, the parts of you no one's supposed to touch without gloves and clinical detachment. You can't bear it.
"Derek, please, I can do it, just give me a second—"
"Stop." His voice is firmer now, but still warm. "You don't have to prove anything to me. I'm here because I love you. Not because I expect you to perform being okay."
Your lip trembles. You don't want to cry. But his hands are so steady, so kind. His eyes stay on your face, not your body, not the blood, not the damage. Just you. Just the part of you that's trying to hold it all together and failing. You look away as a tear rolls down your cheek.
He catches it with the back of his hand. Then, gently, he leans in and kisses your temple. "You're allowed to need help. Especially from me."
The washcloth is stained now, but he doesn't seem to care. He works gently, wiping everything away until there's nothing left but warm, clean skin and the sound of your breathing. Then he reaches behind you to grab your softest pair of period panties from the drawer—he knows where they are, of course he does—and guides your legs through them one at a time. His touch is featherlight but grounded. Reverent, almost.
You try to help, lifting your hips, but your strength fails halfway through and you slump back with a frustrated noise. Derek doesn't comment. He just keeps going. He gently adjusts the waistband, smoothing it over your hips like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's a privilege to care for you this way.
"I can stand," you murmur.
"You can try. But I've got you if you can't."
You push yourself upright slowly, and he helps you, steadying you with a hand on your back. It takes a lot—more than you want to admit—but you get there. Enough to slip into the loose cotton sleep shirt he pulls from the shelf. It smells like fabric softener and home. You nearly cry just from the softness of it brushing over your skin.
He doesn't rush you. He waits, giving you time to breathe, to settle into your skin again. You feel like you should apologise—for the mess, for the silence, for the fact that this is your life now—but every time the words gather in your mouth, you see the soft, steady look in his eyes, and they crumble before they can escape. You don't need to say anything. He already knows.
When it's done, when you're finally dressed and swaying gently with exhaustion, he lifts you without ceremony. Not like a damsel. Like a partner. Like someone worth carrying.
He carries you to the bed like he's done it before. As if it's a privilege. He tucks you into bed with the kind of care people reserve for fragile things. Adjusts the pillows. Pulls the blanket to your chin. Smooths the hair from your face. Makes sure your water bottle is within reach, sets your heating pad on low, plugs your phone in with practiced ease. He glances around to double-check that everything you might need is close by. A snack. The remote. Your meds. The heating pad cord tucked so it doesn't pull.
Then he leans against the headboard beside you, nudging your hip with his.
"You know," he says, cocking his head as if considering something deeply, "you're still the prettiest girl in the world. Even covered in blood. Kinda unfair, really."
A broken sound bursts from your chest. Half sob, half laugh.
"Derek."
He grins and leans in close. "I mean it. Absolute goddess. No competition."
You laugh again, watery but real. He makes a show of wrinkling his nose and peering down at your shirt.
"You know what this is?" he asks.
"What?"
"Hardcore. This is commitment. This is ride-or-die."
You snort and bury your face in his chest. "You're ridiculous."
He wraps an arm around your shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into your back. "Yeah. But I'm yours."
You sit there for a while like that, pressed close in the quiet. He doesn't fill the silence with platitudes. Doesn't push you to talk or move or be anything other than what you are in this exact moment. He just holds you. Like your breath is his rhythm. Like your comfort is his only priority. The steady beat of his heart against your cheek anchors you better than any medication.
He hums softly. A song you recognise but can't name. And maybe it doesn't matter. Because the warmth of his chest, the familiar scent of his hoodie, the sure weight of his arm—it all tells you the same thing.
You're safe.
Because with Derek, even the messiest parts of you are never too much.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Derek shows up to help with a flat-pack bookshelf, and somehow, putting things together has never felt so easy.
Tags: disabled!reader, joint pain implied, reader adjusting position without comment, derek morgan being quietly attentive, he makes room without making it a thing, domestic fluff, flat-pack furniture chaos, soft!derek morgan, no use of y/n, he notices everything and says nothing, building something together, reader contributing on their own terms, gentle teasing, warm banter, the kind of love that just settles in, cozy afternoon vibes, assembly instructions written by the devil himself, step 4 is a war crime, the bookshelf is a metaphor, slow burn comfort, you are not a burden here, he stays exactly where he is
Word Count: 2.7k words
The floor is unforgiving against your bones, and the instruction manual is written by someone who hates you personally.
You've been sitting cross-legged for twenty minutes, which you're starting to regret, surrounded by the kind of chaos that flat-pack furniture specialises in—plywood panels leaning against the sofa like they're exhausted just from being unboxed, a zip-lock bag of screws that rattles with a suspiciously low number of components, and roughly forty pieces of wood that all look identical until you're holding the wrong one. The whole living room has the particular atmosphere of a disaster in early stages: there's packaging foam on the carpet, a single screw that rolled under the coffee table twenty minutes ago and has not been recovered, and a general feeling that the situation is not yet under control and may never be.
The bookshelf box promised assembly in thirty minutes. The bookshelf box lied.
Derek is sitting beside you with one knee up, elbow resting on it, reading the manual with the focused calm of someone who has not yet been personally victimised by it. He turned up an hour ago, took one look at the mountain of unboxed components spread across your floor, said "alright, let's see what we're dealing with," and sat down with the ease of a man who has never in his life been daunted by a project. You'd watched him settle in with a feeling that was partly gratitude and partly the specific quiet pleasure of having someone show up and mean it.
You have been staring at Step 4 for three minutes.
Step 4 shows two pieces of wood and an arrow. The arrow does not point anywhere specific. It simply exists—confident, directionally ambiguous, mocking you in the universal language of bad technical illustration. You've rotated the manual. You've tilted your head. The arrow continues to point at nothing, impervious to interpretation.
"This is a disaster," you groan, and toss the manual sideways. It skids across the laminate and lands face-down, which feels correct. Which feels like justice.
Derek picks it up without looking at you, with the slow theatrical sigh of a man performing long-suffering patience for an imaginary audience. He turns it over in his hands, then sideways, then upside-down. His mouth is doing the thing it does when he's trying not to smile and losing the battle by a significant margin.
"It's not a disaster," he says, with the particular confidence of someone who has clearly never been personally humiliated by flat-pack furniture. "It's an adventure. Big difference."
You turn to look at him fully. You want him to understand, through eye contact alone, the depth of your disagreement.
"An adventure," you say, "would mean we're having fun." You gesture at the scatter of components around you both, the sea of identical-looking panels, the bag of screws that is definitely going to come up short. "This is just chaos, Derek."
"Chaos can be fun."
"It's really not."
He chuckles at that—low and warm, the sound of it settling into the room like light through a window—and leans over to press his lips to your temple. Unhurried. Deliberate. Like there isn't a half-assembled bookshelf judging you both from the middle of the living room floor.
"Don't worry, baby," he says, his voice low against your hair. "I've got this."
"You've been saying that for twenty minutes."
"And I still mean it."
You want to argue with that. You genuinely do. But he's already turning back to the manual with a kind of easy authority that you find both reassuring and deeply annoying, reading it—actually reading it, not skimming, not glancing—his eyes moving steadily across the page like it's a case file and not a document specifically designed to confuse. He sets it down after a moment and starts sorting components the way someone might sort playing cards before a game: methodical, unhurried, grouping pieces by size and shape without having to double-check. Like he's already mapped it in his head.
"You know," you say, watching him, "most people just wing it."
"Most people end up with a wobbly bookshelf and a screw left over."
"And?"
He looks at you sideways, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "And I'm not most people."
You laugh despite yourself, which he catches, and his grin widens just slightly—the satisfied kind, the kind that means he knows exactly what he just did. You reach for a panel to prove you're still a useful participant in this process, adjust your angle to get a grip that works, and slot the piece into the frame, holding it steady while Derek guides a screw into place. The wood sits flush. Something clicks.
"Good," he says, quiet and certain, not making a thing of it. Just an acknowledgement. Just good.
It lands warmer than it has any right to.
You try the next section yourself. The bracket is fiddly and small and the diagram's arrow is still pointing at nothing in particular, and you're holding the piece at the right angle, you're sure of it, or you were sure of it, right up until Derek makes the expression that means you've done something wrong. Not a wince. Not a laugh. Just a small, almost imperceptible pause in his own movement, his attention shifting to what you're holding.
You look down. The piece is backwards.
"I had a vision," you say.
"A wrong vision."
"An alternative vision."
He reaches over and eases it free without any impatience in his hands at all, gentle the way he always is when he's correcting rather than competing, and slots it back in the right way. Then he looks at you, and there's something in his expression that's soft in a way that still gets to you—even now, even here on the floor surrounded by packaging foam and errant screws.
"You're cute when you're frustrated, you know that?"
"I'm not frustrated."
"You've been glaring at that bracket for thirty seconds."
"I was thinking at it," you say. "There's a difference."
He grins—wide and real—and you huff, because you're definitely not smiling. Except you are. Warmth spreads through your chest like something spilling slowly over a rim, sweet and unhurried, impossible to hold back once it starts.
You shift your position, moving from cross-legged to sitting with your legs out to one side, the change easy and unremarkable. Derek doesn't comment on it. He just tilts slightly, creating room, the way he does—no fanfare, just adjustment, like water finding its level.
You lean into his arm without making a decision about it.
"Can I do anything useful," you ask, "or should I just sit here and be decorative?"
"You can hand me pieces when I ask."
"That's very generous of you."
"I thought so."
"I'll have you know," you say, "that I've been extremely helpful. Morally, if not physically."
He looks at you then—slow, unhurried, that particular expression he gets where he's laughing without moving his face. "Morally."
"Moral support is still support."
"Is that what you're calling it."
"I'm calling it a crucial contribution," you say, straight-faced, borrowing his phrasing back at him, and he does laugh at that, low and easy, the sound of it filling the room like it belongs there. He bumps your shoulder with his, gentle, the way he touches you when he just wants to be touching you—no purpose, no reason, just contact. Just there.
"Alright," he says. "Morally crucial. Hand me that piece."
You hand him a panel. He takes it, turns it, checks it against the diagram, and nods. You hand him another. The two of you fall into a rhythm that isn't quite assembly so much as it's conversation in another register—him asking, you finding, occasionally you holding things in place while his hands do the precise work. It's slower, maybe, than if he'd just done it alone. But it doesn't feel like that. It feels like something.
"You're enjoying this," you say.
"I'm not not enjoying it."
"That's the same thing."
"Is it?"
"Derek."
He looks up then, fully, that unhurried gaze settling on you with the warmth of afternoon light on stone—slow and steady and genuinely amused. "I like building things," he says simply. "And I like being here. So yeah. I'm enjoying it."
You don't have an argument for that. You look back at the frame.
"Hand me the long one," he says. "No, the other long one. Yeah, that."
And you watch him.
There's something almost meditative about it, the way he works—the small furrow between his brows when he cross-references the manual, the way his jaw sets with quiet concentration, the particular stillness of his hands when he's lining something up. He moves through the assembly like he's listening to it, fitting each piece to the next the way you'd fit words to a feeling: carefully, with attention. Each panel clicks into place and the bookshelf rises incrementally from the floor, assembling itself into something upright and real and permanent.
"You're very calm about this," you say.
"It's a bookshelf," he says, not looking up. "Not a crime scene."
"You treat both the same way."
He pauses to glance at you. "How's that?"
"Methodically. Like there's a correct answer and you're going to find it."
Something flickers in his expression—pleased, you think, or something close to it—and he turns back to the frame. "There usually is a correct answer," he says. "You just gotta read the room."
"Or the manual."
"Or the manual," he agrees, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Garcia would say the same thing about you, you know. That you're methodical."
"Garcia says a lot of things about me."
"Most of them complimentary."
"Most," he agrees, dry, and you laugh, and the sound of it fills the space between you warmly, a bright thing dissolving into the quiet. He glances at you with that look he gets—fond, easy, like he's glad you're here even when you're here on the floor handing him components and achieving, objectively, very little.
You hand him the next piece without being asked, and he takes it without looking, and neither of you say anything about that small synchronisation, but you feel it anyway, warm and quiet in your chest. The afternoon light has shifted by the time the frame is fully standing—gone from the bright wash of early afternoon to something softer, more amber, lying flat across the floorboards and catching the edge of the packaging like it's trying to make even the flat-pack debris look considered. You've contributed more than you expected to. Derek has noticed more than he's said. And the bookshelf is, against all early evidence, going to be fine.
Derek feeds the last screw in with the kind of focused care he gives to the final step of everything, and then it's done. He sits back. Wipes his hands on his jeans. Looks at the bookshelf—standing, straight, solidly itself—with the particular quiet satisfaction of a finished thing.
Then he looks at you.
"See?" he says. "Teamwork."
You roll your eyes, which he has long since learnt to read correctly.
"You did basically all of it," you tell him.
"You handed me pieces."
"Enthusiastically."
"Enthusiastically," he agrees, nodding like this is a serious point. "Crucial contribution."
"Don't patronise me."
"I'm not patronising you, I'm crediting you. Big difference." He wraps an arm around you—easy and certain, the same way he does everything—and pulls you into his side. You go without resistance. You always do, in the end. "We make a good team, baby. I don't care who put in how many screws."
"That's very diplomatic of you."
"I'm a very diplomatic man."
"You literally argued with me about the word adventure for ten minutes."
"That was a principled discussion." He tilts his head down to look at you, amusement bright in his eyes. "There's a difference."
You laugh—a real one this time, unguarded—and the sound of it dissolves into the warm quiet of the room. He squeezes your shoulder. His thumb moves in a slow arc against your arm, back and forth, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
"It does look good," you admit, looking at the bookshelf. "Objectively."
"Objectively," he confirms.
"For something that nearly defeated us."
"Nearly defeated you."
"Derek."
"I'm just saying." But he's grinning, and the grin softens into something warmer when he looks down at you, something that bypasses amusement entirely and lands somewhere deeper. "It looks good because you picked it out. That was all you."
"I also nearly put a shelf in backwards."
"Details."
You shake your head, but you're smiling, and the smile feels easy—the kind that doesn't require effort, that just arrives and stays. You think about all the books that'll go on it. The way the corner of the room has needed something there for months and you'd been putting off buying anything because flat-pack seemed like a project and projects seemed like a lot and it was easier to just leave the corner empty. And then Derek had shown up today with coffee and no agenda and said what do you need doing? and here you are now, two hours later, with a finished bookshelf and packaging foam on the carpet and his arm around you like it was always going to end up here.
It sort of always was.
You don't say anything for a while.
The room settles around you both, the way rooms do when the work is done and the light is going golden and there's nowhere to be. The scattered packaging stirs faintly when the heating clicks on. The bookshelf stands in the corner, plain and complete, looking like it's been there for years. Derek's arm is solid and warm across your shoulders, his heartbeat steady under your cheek where you've tucked against him. Outside, the sky is doing that thing it does in late afternoon—going pale at the edges, bluing in the middle, the kind of light that makes everything look a little more significant than it is.
Or maybe exactly as significant as it is.
You think about the past couple of hours. The chaos of the unboxing. The manifestly useless arrow in Step 4. The way he'd kissed your temple like the bookshelf wasn't even there. The way he'd fixed the backwards piece without turning it into a moment. The quiet rhythm you'd found—asking and handing and holding—the particular comfort of working alongside someone who doesn't need everything explained.
You've been building something, and it isn't just the bookshelf.
The warmth in your chest has settled into something slow and deep now, the kind that doesn't have an edge to it. Not the quick bright flare of being teased, not the sweetness of a joke landing just right, but something older and quieter beneath both of those—the particular heat of being known. Of being with someone who reads the room and reads the manual and reads you, who makes room without announcing it, who says good in a way that means more than the word.
"You know," you say, your voice soft in the quiet, "I actually had fun."
He makes a sound low in his chest. "Told you it was an adventure."
"I said I had fun. Not that you were right."
"Those are the same thing."
"They're really not."
"They really are, baby." His lips press to the top of your head, warm and unhurried, and you feel him smile against your hair. "You just don't want to admit it."
You don't answer that. You let the quiet come back in and fill the space, and it doesn't feel like concession. It feels like comfort. The bookshelf stands in the corner. The light keeps going golden. Derek's arm stays exactly where it is, solid and certain, a steady weight you've stopped noticing and started relying on in the way you rely on things that have become part of the landscape—quietly, completely, without fanfare.
"Yeah," you say eventually, so quietly it's almost just breath. "We're a pretty good team."
He doesn't say anything else, and neither do you, and the afternoon holds you both the way it holds the light—slowly, without grip, in the particular gentle way of things that don't need to hold on to stay.
Prompt: What's better than a bathtub with your two girlfriends? Nothing, except that you've worked twelve hours and tend to have low blood pressure.
TW: fainting, sex (is that a TW?), absence seizure
Trinity Santos x Baran Al-Hashimi x reader
You don’t think you’ve ever been this tired in your entire life. You feel your limbs grow heavier with every step, the phone in your right pocket weighs more than usual, and every step of the three flights of stairs you’re forced to climb every day — before finally crossing the threshold of home — feels like a gym workout your body never asked for and flatly refuses.
Your fingers struggle to find your keys, rummaging blindly through the bag hanging from your shoulder. They protest too; you feel your knuckles crack like an old door as you finally close your hand around the keys. You tremble slightly, from exhaustion, and what should take a few seconds stretches into a full minute.
You open the apartment door with the same joy of a pirate finally getting their hands on the One Piece. You quickly rid yourself of your shoes and every unnecessary layer of clothing. Your jacket, your bag, your hospital badge… you throw it all on the floor, and a small smile tugs at your lips at the thought of your older girlfriend seeing the mess you’ve left behind and regretting getting involved with “two teenagers” — her words. You’ll clean it up later, you swear. (You won’t)
You realize Baran is already home from the pleasant smell of chicken and pomegranate that floods your nostrils the moment you step into your apartment. How much you can love that woman, you truly don’t know. Fesenjan is one of the traditional dishes from her home country, and also the one you and Trinity fell hopelessly in love with the first time you tried it. Baran always makes it for special occasions, and your heart skips a beat at the thought that you’ve forgotten some anniversary of yours that you weren’t aware of.
As you mentally run through every important date in your relationship, your gaze falls on the shoe rack beneath the entryway mirror, and another smile tugs at your lips, pushing away the worry from a moment ago.
Trinity is home too; her sneakers are tossed carelessly in the rack, right next to the ones you just set down. Maybe Baran is right — you really are two teenagers.
“We Fell in Love in October” plays in your ears as you walk toward the kitchen. You cross the entryway in a few steps and trail your fingers along the back of the couch as you pass through the living room.
The moment you slide open the kitchen door, you have absolutely no doubt about what your oldest girlfriend has been cooking.
Baran is at the stove; Trinity, meanwhile, is pretending to help, scrolling through her phone — probably a Spotify playlist — while she follows Baran around with the same devotion of a duckling trailing its mother. Although you doubt a duckling slaps its mother’s butt every chance it gets.
They haven’t noticed you yet, so you take the opportunity to watch them. You lean your shoulder against the door frame in a precarious position that Baran would call dangerous. Boomer.
If someone had told you that after ten years of grinding through textbooks you’d find not one, but two incredible women — both doctors, no less — well, you would have asked them to share whatever they’d been smoking. Altruism is fundamental in a doctor, after all.
They’re stunning.
It’s a stupid thought — you’ve known them for years, loved them for years — and yet every time you watch them without them knowing, you’re overtaken by the same feeling as when you kissed for the first time, and then, on days like the one you’ve just gotten through, you look at what you have with the same delicacy you’d handle something made of glass. As if it could break.
Baran stirs something in the pan with that absolute focus she brings to everything she does, from medical reports to the embroidered edges of the throw pillows she sewed herself — the ones you and Trinity regularly flatten by throwing yourselves onto the couch with the enthusiasm of two wrestlers. Her dark hair is pulled up in a soft updo that’s loosened over the course of the day, a few strands falling against her neck, and she’s wearing that burgundy sweatshirt that Trinity constantly steals from her, three sizes too big, yet she wears it with a dignity that borders on unjust. The marks from her protective goggles are still pressed around her nose — you can see them from here — two thin reddish lines on her olive skin, which tells you today wasn’t a walk in the park for her either.
Trinity is completely different — in posture, in energy, in everything. She stands next to the stovetop with that distracted grace she always carries, her chin tilted up slightly as she looks at her phone screen, one foot tapping rhythmically on the floor in time with the playlist playing through the kitchen. She’s wearing her university sweatsuit, her hair up in a messy bun with a few rebellious strands that have broken free and settled against her face. On her neck, just below her left ear, you can see the small purple mark Baran left there a week ago — the one Trinity covers every morning with a flesh-colored bandage when she goes to work, with the air of someone who is absolutely not doing anything suspicious.
You love them in an embarrassing way. It’s a fact. You stopped fighting it the day Trinity showed up at your night shift with two coffees and a ham sandwich at three in the morning, saying “Baran told me you don’t eat when you’re stressed, so—” as if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if bringing food to the girl your girlfriend won’t stop talking about, at three in the morning, wasn’t already a declaration of love in and of itself.
You’re lost in this thought when Trinity looks up from her phone and sees you.
“Well, look who finally made it home… hey, baby.”
The way she says it warms your heart like a hot drink. She moves toward you with that energy that seems inexhaustible even after twelve hours in the ER — only when she’s around you two, for the record — and stops halfway to set her phone down on the counter, then closes the distance in three steps and hugs you with the strength of someone who’s needed to do this for hours.
She wraps around you completely. Her chin rests on your shoulder, her arms circle your waist, and for a moment you let yourself go entirely — the weight of your body against hers, your breathing slowing, your eyes closing.
“Jesus, are you okay? You look like shit,” she murmurs against your neck. It’s not a rhetorical question; she needs to make sure you won’t become one of the people she treats every day in the ER for a physical breakdown from work.
“I’m just tired,” you answer. Your voice comes out rougher than expected. “Really tired.”
“Me too,” she says, and then she pulls back just enough to look at your face, her hands sliding down to your elbows as if to hold you still, to study you better. It’s a professional habit she can’t turn off even outside the hospital — that clinical gaze, the quick assessment that is really just concern dressed up as medicine. “Did you eat today?”
You’re about to answer when Baran speaks up, without even turning from the stove.
“She had half a sandwich at one and probably nothing else.”
You turn toward her. “How do you know that?”
Baran turns around. The wooden spoon is still in her hand, her expression that of someone who has answered this question too many times to find a way to make it interesting anymore.
“Because I know you,” she says simply, and then adds, with a half-smile that manages to be simultaneously affectionate and slightly accusatory: “And maybe also because I saw your tray in the cafeteria when I stopped in for a coffee around two. Half a tuna sandwich and an empty cracker wrapper.”
Trinity looks at you like this confirms something.
“Babe.”
“It was a rough day,” you defend yourself, your voice carrying the exact tone of someone who knows they’re wrong but has no intention of fully admitting it. “I couldn’t stop for more than five minutes.”
Baran sets down the spoon, steps closer, and takes your face in her hands with a gentleness that is almost surgical. She turns your head slightly, studies you — pupils, color, the tension around your eyes — and then kisses you, brief, on the lips. You don’t know how you manage it, but you hold back the groan you feel rising in your throat.
“Sit down,” she says. “Dinner’s ready in ten minutes.”
It’s not a request.
You sit at three sides of the round table you chose together at a flea market a year ago; Trinity had called it “perfect” and it became the table in your apartment without further discussion.
Baran serves the Fesenjan with that quiet care she puts into every domestic gesture — the basmati rice on one side, the pomegranate and walnut sauce on the other — and for a few minutes, you eat in silence.
It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s the silence of three people who know each other well enough to know when someone needs quiet.
It’s Trinity who speaks first, and she does so with her mouth still half-full, in exactly the way that horrifies Baran every single time.
“Okay, I have to tell you guys something or I’m going to explode.”
“Please finish chewing. I don’t want to perform emergency procedures at home too. At least at work they pay me for it,” says Baran, with total resignation.
Trinity swallows theatrically. “Done. Okay. This morning, nine-seventeen, a guy comes into the trauma bay — twenty-three years old, traumatic brain injury from a scooter fall, no helmet, obviously —”
“Obviously,” you and Baran say in unison.
”— and while me and Whitaker are working on him, the mother, who had been walked out by Dana, decides the wait is unacceptable and so —” dramatic pause — “she lets herself into the trauma bay. And not only does she come in, she starts directing things. She literally tells me to move out of the way so she can get a better look at what we’re doing to her son.”
“No,” you say.
“Yes. And then she also told me I was stitching wrong! The stitches, the ones I’ve been doing since we started first-year residency, and —”
Baran sets her fork on the edge of her plate. “What did you do? I’m not sure I want to know, Trin. You know we need to improve our patient satisfaction scores and you, babe, are really not —”
“I just dropped a few pointed remarks, telling her she should have worried about raising her son properly instead of telling me and Dennis how to do our jobs.”
Baran shakes her head theatrically, swallowing the lecture she’d technically be obligated to give, and shoots you a glance hoping for backup. She doesn’t find it — in fact, you’re barely holding back a laugh.
“Did she leave?” asks Baran.
“She left.” Trinity goes back to eating. “Whitaker looked at me like I was some kind of supernatural phenomenon.”
“Dennis still has a pretty low threshold for awe,” you say, snickering. “He hasn’t fully grasped your immunity to human nonsense yet.”
“Does the immunity develop?” asks Trinity.
“In some cases it becomes cynicism,” says Baran, smiling. “Try not to get there.”
You laugh — the first real laugh of the day — and feel something loosen in your chest. This. This is what you needed: sitting here, eating food Baran cooked, listening to Trinity tell her stories, watching Baran try to be serious and failing because one corner of her mouth always gives away a smile she hasn’t authorized, when it comes to the two of you.
“So I,” you begin, planting your elbows on the table in the way that makes Baran despair but that she’s long since accepted as part of the package, “had an organizational breakdown of biblical proportions this morning because someone — I’m not naming names, but they work in this ER — had restocked the supply room following a logic that was neither alphabetical, nor by category, nor by frequency of use, but apparently by” — you pause — “aesthetics.”
“Aesthetics,” repeats Baran, flat.
“Aesthetics. The tourniquets were next to the colorful band-aids because, and I quote, ‘they went well together.’”
Trinity bursts out laughing. Another thing you love about her: she laughs with her whole body, leaning slightly forward, eyes falling half-closed, and the sound is genuine and a little unruly and absolutely irresistible.
“Who was it? Javadi? Please tell me it was Crash.”
“One of the new residents. Samira already handled it, though. With that principal energy she has — understands everything, judges everything, never raises her voice.”
“Samira is terrifying,” says Trinity, admiringly.
“Mohan is efficient,” corrects Baran. “There’s a difference.”
“She can be both.”
Baran considers this. “Yes,” she concedes. “She can.”
You spend the rest of dinner talking about your afternoon — four coded patients in three hours, an ambulance arrival with missing paperwork that required twenty minutes of phone calls, an elderly woman who kept you for half an hour talking about her grandchildren while she waited for her test results and who was, somehow, the best part of your day — and you listen to Baran describe hers, her voice dropping toward the end the way it always does when she’s talking about something that stressed her, a pediatric case that hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped but that had ultimately resolved well — ultimately, ultimately — but that interval between “not how she’d hoped” and “well” you hear in the way she pronounces the words.
Under the table, you reach for her foot with yours. She doesn’t say anything, but the pressure that answers back is unmistakable.
After dinner you wash the dishes the only way that works in this kitchen: Trinity washes, you dry, and Baran puts everything away, because neither you nor Trinity have ever learned exactly where each thing goes, and she stopped trying to teach you after the seventeenth attempt.
“It’s pointless,” she’d said six months ago, with the serenity of someone who has reached acceptance. “I’ll do it myself. It’s faster.”
“You’re depriving us of the opportunity to learn,” Trinity had said.
“I’m depriving you of the opportunity to put the glasses in the wrong spot for the eighteenth time.”
No response had seemed adequate.
You’re drying the last dish when you feel Baran’s arms wrap around you from behind. She’s a few inches taller than you, enough to rest her chin on top of your head, and she does. Her breath is warm against your hair.
“How are you, really?” she says, softly.
It’s not the same question as before. Before it was an assessment. This is something else.
“Tired,” you answer, honestly. You set the dish on the counter. “But better. This helped.” A pause. “You two helped.”
You feel her smile against your head even though you can’t see it.
“Good,” she says.
Trinity, who had been draining the sink, looks at the two of you with that expression of pure love you’ve learned to recognize over the years, and then says:
“Bath?”
There’s a story behind the tub.
Two years ago you came home after your shift and found the bathroom transformed. Not literally — but almost. Baran had arranged, during those ten hours while you and Trinity were at work on her day off, for a tub to be installed. Not the small, slightly sad one that had been there before — the one you only used in emergencies because it looked like a relic from the eighties — but an enormous tub, deep, with antique-white claw feet, taking up nearly a third of the bathroom, and clearly chosen with the same care Baran brings to everything.
You’d looked at the tub. You’d looked at Baran. And “I love you” had left your lips before you could stop it.
“As an anniversary gift,” Trinity had added, standing beside you, who seemed far less surprised and was therefore clearly in on it.
“You knew?! You didn’t say anything?”
“Trinity is hard to surprise,” Baran had said, with what was unmistakably affection disguised as criticism. “I needed someone to keep an eye on the bathroom dimensions while I was at my appointment with the tile guy.”
It had taken you a few seconds. Then you’d hugged Baran, your face against her neck, and she’d held you back with that quiet naturalness that is her mother tongue for things that matter.
Two teenagers, she still calls you. But she’d picked that tub with claw feet because she knew Trinity had always loved claw feet. And she’d made it big enough for all three.
The bathroom fills slowly with steam.
Trinity has connected her phone to the small speaker on the shelf beside the sink — Mitski, “My Love Mine All Mine,” begins playing through the bathroom — and she’s adding something to the water, one of the bath salts Baran buys from a perfumery near the hospital, the kind that fill the bathroom with a scent that’s halfway between lavender and something warmer, spicier, hard to define but immediately recognizable as home.
Baran stands by the tub, checks the water temperature with her wrist, then straightens, satisfied.
You undress slowly, with that ease that only comes with people around whom you feel completely safe. You don’t think about it anymore — you never thought about taking your clothes off in front of them, or rather, you did think about it the first few times, that first summer together when everything was still new and beautiful and slightly terrifying, but now it’s simply part of this, of you all. As a teenager you were embarrassed by even the thought of undressing, but with them you weren’t afraid. You didn’t feel judged.
Baran pulls off the burgundy sweatshirt and Trinity, who has already dropped everything on the floor, watches you as you pull off your shirt.
“You’ve got a bruise on your side.”
You already know. You got it this morning against the corner of the supply cart during a dash down the hallway. It’s nothing.
“I know.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Cart.”
Trinity makes that face she makes when she wants to say you’re a disaster but chooses not to say it out loud, because she knows she’d hear the same thing back and the conversation would never end.
“In you go,” says Baran instead, with that voice that is always both an invitation and a directive.
The water is perfect.
You get in first; Baran holds your hand as you step over the edge — an automatic gesture, unrequested — one that makes you feel simultaneously cared for and, briefly, like you’re eighty-two years old, but then you sit down in the warm water and every objection dissolves immediately.
The heat wraps around you like something physical, real — a gentle pressure on every muscle you’ve kept tensed for the last twelve hours. You feel your shoulders drop. Your back surrenders. Your breathing expands.
“Oh,” you say, in the voice of someone who is reconsidering their life’s priorities.
“Right,” says Trinity, climbing in after you with the ease of someone who’s done this enough times not to care how it looks, settling on the other side of the tub, her knees bent, her feet brushing yours. “Every time I forget how good this tub is and every time I remember.”
“It’s a bathtub, not a spiritual experience,” says Baran, who gets in last with that quiet composure she brings to everything.
“With you two it becomes one,” Trinity answers, whispering. You stroke her knee with one hand, sending a not-insignificant wave through the water, while Baran leaves a kiss on her forehead before settling in beside you.
For a few minutes you simply stay in the water. Mitski sings something sweet and slightly melancholy, the steam makes everything at the edges softly indistinct, and you have your head resting on Baran’s shoulder with your eyes half-closed, and you feel Trinity find your foot with hers beneath the water and stay there.
This, you think again. This is everything.
You’re not sure exactly who moves first.
Maybe it’s you, turning your head toward Baran and finding her already looking at you — those dark, attentive eyes that never stop studying everything but that, when they land on you, on Trinity, finally stop being on guard. Maybe it’s Trinity, who somewhere in the warm water finds your ankle and slowly moves upward. Maybe it’s the music, or the exhaustion loosening every pointless resistance, or simply the fact that you’re all here, all three of you, alive and whole after a day that could have been worse than it turned out to be.
The kiss with Baran starts slow; she never rushes things, she has a patience that is almost an art form and a form of torture, in those moments when you just want her to — well. Her fingers come up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before she even leans in, as if she needs to clear away every distraction first. Her mouth is warm and tastes like tea — she had tea after dinner, she always does — and she kisses you with that absolute focus she puts into everything, as if you’re the only thing that exists right now, as if everything else can wait.
Trinity reaches you from the other side, her hands in the water, then on your shoulders, then in your hair, and the way the three of you move together has become as familiar as choreography learned by heart. You’ve figured out how to share this space without elbowing each other in the face.
The water stirs slightly. The steam grows thicker. The music plays on. You lose yourself in this — in the warmth, in the contact, in the absolute familiarity of the two of them: Baran’s hands, always precise even when they’re not precise at all; Trinity’s short laugh that breaks off against your shoulder; the way you hear your name sometimes, in one of their voices.
The bathroom is warm. Too warm, maybe, but you don’t feel it yet, not really — you’ll feel it later, when your body decides to present the bill.
Trinity pulls Baran into a hungry kiss that makes desire pulse through you and the heat in the room feels suffocating. Your hands caress the oldest woman’s breasts, drawing a moan from her. Trinity’s lips quickly find your neck, biting and sucking while you gasp for more, desperate for more than what they’re giving you.
Baran’s fingers slide down your body and dip beneath the water, reaching your clit with a confidence that only comes from years of experience.
You lose the thread of every coherent thought.
There is only the heat — of the water, of them, of the steam thickening in the air — and between your legs those fingers of Baran’s, those goddamn magic fingers that always know exactly what they’re doing, with that quiet precision that has never needed to be guided. Trinity holds you still, her mouth still at your neck, her arm around your waist like an anchor as you writhe trying to get more, and you let your head fall back against her shoulder because you have no other choice, because your body has already decided for you.
“Please… baby —” you manage; more, more, faster.
You feel Baran smile against your skin and murmur something — you can’t make out the words, the steam and the pulse of blood in your ears drown everything out — a “patience, azizam, good girl,” and Trinity laughs against your neck, that small, warm laugh she has when she’s pleased about something.
The water churns. The steam rises.
Baran’s fingers don’t stop — they increase in speed and pressure — and you stop trying to keep your eyes open. Trinity’s lips find your breast, her mouth closing around your right nipple, and the peak of pleasure finds you.
It happens without warning.
Or rather, there had been a warning — you’ll understand this afterward, retrospectively, with the frustrating clarity that hindsight provides: the accumulated exhaustion, twelve hours on your feet, not having eaten enough, the warmth of the tub that had dilated the peripheral blood vessels, the blood pressure dropping silently and progressively while you weren’t paying attention, and the orgasm.
The warning had been that faint ringing in your ears, a few minutes earlier. You’d attributed it to the hot water. You’d noticed your vision make a microscopic shift, as if someone had slightly adjusted the brightness on a screen, dimming it, and you’d thought I’m just tired.
Then the orgasm takes you — warm and long and already different from the others in a way you can’t quite identify in the moment it’s happening — and right after that, the world does something strange.
It tilts.
Not metaphorically. And your body decides, unilaterally and without consulting you, to stop being a problem you have to manage.
You feel Baran’s arms before you even understand what’s happening.
“Y/N.”
Baran’s voice is close, too close, and it has a tone you’ve never heard before, or that you’ve heard very few times.
“Babe, answer me.”
You blink. The bathroom ceiling is above you. You’re still in the water, but your head is out — someone is holding it out — and your back is against something warm and solid that takes you a few seconds to identify as Baran’s chest. Her arms are under yours, holding you up.
“I’m here,” you say. Your voice comes out strange — hoarse and slightly distant, as if it’s coming from a few inches further away than usual, as if it isn’t yours but an echo.
You sense Trinity before you see her. Her fingers find your wrist beneath the water — three fingers on the radial side — and then you notice the small concentrated silence that falls when someone is counting.
You look up. Trinity is kneeling on the edge of the tub, the top half of her body leaning forward, her hair falling to one side, looking at you with those eyes that at work are the most reassuring thing you know, and that now carry that same shadow but multiplied by something that isn’t professional — it’s pure, simple fear.
“You passed out,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I…” You swallow. “Yeah, I think so.”
“No ‘you think,’” says Baran, from behind you, her voice firm against your hair. “You passed out. How long, Trin?”
“Twenty seconds, maybe twenty-five.” Trinity doesn’t stop holding your wrist. “Mild tachycardia. Regular rhythm.” A pause. “Eighty-nine, ninety.”
“Blood pressure.”
“I can’t measure it here, but peripheral perfusion —” Trinity studies your hands, your lips, your eyelids — “is acceptable. Lips aren’t blue. She’s responsive.”
“I’m responsive,” you say, attempting a normal tone but coming out somewhere between defensive and mortified. “I just felt a little off, it was probably just —”
“Y/N.”
Baran’s tone is the same one she uses with patients who are about to do something counterproductive to their own health. You know it well. You use it too, sometimes.
“I’m fine,” you try.
“You lost consciousness for twenty-five seconds in a tub full of water,” says Baran, and her voice is absolutely flat — the kind of flat that isn’t an absence of emotion but the precise containment of one she can’t afford to let out right now. “You’re not fine.”
You consider this. You have all the tools to argue; you’re a doctor too, you know the pathophysiology, you know exactly what happened and why, you know it was probably a vasovagal episode from a combination of factors and that you feel better now — but you’re having this conversation with your bare back against Baran’s chest while she holds you up in warm water and Trinity is counting your heart rate, and there’s something about this image that makes it difficult to carry the argument with the conviction it requires.
“Orthostatic hypotension,” you say finally, as a compromise. “Probably. Accumulated fatigue, poor hydration, vasodilation from the heat, the —”
“I know what it is,” says Trinity, and her voice carries that sharp gentleness she knows how to use when someone is trying to rationalize their way out of confronting a problem. “We all know what it is. That doesn’t change what happened.”
You pause.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and you’re not entirely sure what you’re sorry for — certainly for scaring them, for not listening to your body, for not eating enough, for all of these things together.
Baran’s hold shifts; her arms no longer hold you like something to be kept from falling, but like something precious she wants to keep close.
“Now we get out of the water, and then we can talk about apologies.”
It’s Trinity who sees what’s about to happen.
Baran helps you up; her hands are on your forearms, her grip firm, the movement slow and controlled, and for a second you’re fine — or you think you’re fine — or rather, your brain is telling you you’re fine and your circulatory system hasn’t finished sharing its opinion yet.
You straighten up. The blood follows gravity at a slightly faster rate than desired. Your vision does that thing again and your left knee decides, without consulting you, to bend.
You don’t fall — or rather, you’re falling, you’re falling forward, the edge of the tub is right there beneath your eyes at a distance your brain calculates as too close and this is going to hurt a lot when Trinity’s hands catch you.
She doesn’t catch you gracefully. Her arms close around you with a snap, her body absorbs your weight by shifting sideways, a dull impact against the tiled wall that sounds like a shoulder sacrificing itself for someone’s head. The edge of the tub passes five centimeters from your forehead.
Five centimeters.
You both stay still for a full five seconds, and then Trinity says, “Okay.” Her voice is completely steady. Only someone who knows her can hear that it isn’t steady at all. “Okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“Christ,” says Baran from behind you — under her breath, in Persian — and that alone is enough to convey the level of alarm she’s reached.
“Trin, are you okay?”
You’d like to joke that you don’t weigh that much, but you’re not in a condition for that yet.
“Yeah.” Trinity doesn’t let go. Her arms are around your shoulders, your forehead is against her neck, and you can feel her heart beating faster than her tone of voice would suggest. “Let’s get out.”
You dry off in the hallway; Trinity keeps a towel around your shoulders while Baran gets the rest, and then you make it to the bedroom.
“Sit,” says Baran, and the moment you do, she disappears into the hallway.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Your head is still slightly foggy, sounds too. Your blood pressure is still coming back up.
Trinity is beside you in a second, her right hand resting on your cheek.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
“Better,” you say. And it’s true — you can feel your cardiovascular system returning to something resembling normal. “Really, I feel better.”
“Mm.” Trinity doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but she lets it go for now.
Baran comes back with two glasses of water — she brings them both to you, naturally — and then goes to get a third and fourth for herself and Trinity. But you notice she has a strange expression, an expression that is… angry. Not at you, or not only at you — she’s angry at the situation, at the fact that this happened, at the fact that you’re smiling awkwardly instead of — what, she doesn’t even know.
“Baran,” you say.
She looks at you.
“I’m okay.” A pause. “Really. The water was too hot, it was a rough day, and I didn’t eat enough. I don’t need to be admitted.”
“I didn’t say you need to be admitted.”
“But you were thinking it.”
A moment. Then: “I was thinking that out of all the ways this evening could have gone, this wasn’t high on my list of favorites.”
You want to laugh. Not because it’s funny — or maybe it’s a little funny, in the way that frightening things sometimes become laugh-or-cry situations.
“I’m sorry,” you say. And this time you say it for her, not for the situation in the abstract.
She sighs and comes to sit beside you on the bed, on the opposite side from Trinity. She takes your hand and, for a few seconds, says nothing.
“You didn’t eat enough,” she says finally. “You were already running low before you got in the water. The heat did the rest.” A pause. “That’s what you said, and you’re right.”
“So I’m a competent doctor.”
“You’re a competent doctor who passed out in the bathtub, so —”
“Technically I passed out after the orgasm, I was —”
“Y/N.”
“Okay.”
Trinity makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Can you two please get under the covers, or this night is going to be longer than it already has been.”
It takes a few minutes to settle in; you in the middle, as always — it had been one of the first things that emerged naturally in those months when you were all figuring out how to be physically together, how to occupy the same space, and you in the middle had become the arrangement, the one that worked; Baran on your right with the book she opens and then won’t actually read; Trinity on your left with her phone, scrolling Instagram for a full ten minutes before leaning her head on your shoulder.
The lamp on Baran’s nightstand is on; the bed is big and soft and the blanket is the heavy one you pulled out in October and that Baran folds every morning.
You lie back. Your muscles surrender into the mattress with the total resignation of someone who has nothing left to defend.
“Okay,” you say, to the ceiling. “This is definitely better.”
“This is where you should have been an hour ago,” says Baran, turning a page of* The Handmaid’s Tale.* Though you doubt she’s really reading about June’s struggle against Gilead right now.
“Baran.”
“I’m reading.”
Trinity looks at you, and you share that mischievous glance the two of you exchange like kids speaking in code in front of a parent. “How much she loves being right.”
“So much,” you agree.
“I can hear you. I’m older than both of you but I haven’t reached the age where I can’t hear what you’re saying,” says Baran, without lifting her eyes from the book.
A solid twenty minutes pass in which the situation seems to have settled in the most pleasant way possible; you’re in the process of deciding whether to fall asleep immediately or stay up a little longer, Trinity has put her phone down and turned on her side toward you, her hand resting on your stomach, while Baran is actually reading now, her shoulder against yours, her breathing steady.
It’s in this fragile equilibrium that your brain — always optimally timed — produces a thought.
You turn toward Trinity.
She feels the movement and opens one eye.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you say. Then: “I was just thinking that I slept for twenty-seven years without you two and I don’t understand how I did it.”
Trinity looks at you for a moment, with that half-asleep expression, and then smiles — the kind of smile you give when you’re looking at the person you love.
“I don’t know either,” she says.
Baran lowers her book an inch. Doesn’t turn. But says, softly: “Neither do I.”
And as you watch them, the warmth of the love you feel filling your chest, another idea comes to mind and you decide to act on it. After all, everyone deserves to feel relaxed in this house. Not just you. Besides — they’re goddesses. You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself even if you tried.
It’s Trinity who notices what you’re trying to do.
You’re not being particularly subtle about it, or maybe you are trying to be, but Trinity Santos has a capacity to read people’s movements — something she developed in her own adolescence — that is simply off the charts.
You’ve turned toward her. Your hands have shifted. Your intention is pretty clear.
“Babe,” says Trinity.
“I’m just —”
“No.”
On the other side, Baran sets her book on the nightstand.
“I was trying to —” you begin.
“I know what you were trying to do,” says Trinity, and she sits up slightly, her shoulders squaring. She is very serious right now. “And the answer is no.”
“It doesn’t make sense for you two to just —”
“It makes perfect sense,” says Baran, to your right, her voice soft — firm but not angry. “You passed out an hour ago.”
“I’m not —”
“Out,” she repeats, calmly. “For twenty-five seconds. In a tub full of water.”
“You’re better right now,” says Trinity, her voice gentler, her hand returning to your stomach but differently now — not that earlier distracted contact but something that sounds like a kind of boundary. “But you’re okay right now because we got out of the water and you lay down. Not because the problem disappeared.”
“The problem was the water being too hot.”
“The problem was that you hadn’t eaten enough and you’d been on your feet for twelve hours and your body had already hit its limit,” says Baran, “and we weren’t paying close enough attention.”
This stops you.
You turn toward her. Her expression is hard to read right now, but there’s something underneath — something you recognize as guilt that she’s carrying quietly.
“It’s not your fault,” you say.
“I didn’t say it was our fault.” She looks away briefly and pauses. “I said we weren’t paying close enough attention. It’s not the same thing.” She looks at you. “I should have noticed the water was too hot. I should have pushed you to eat more at dinner. I should have —”
“Babe.” You sit up slightly — Trinity doesn’t stop you but keeps her hand on your back as you do, a discreet monitoring effort that’s slightly below her usual standards. You move close enough to Baran to take her hand. “Are you okay?”
She looks at you. There’s a moment of silence and then her eyes go glassy and your stomach drops.
“Baran.”
Baran’s eyes stay open. Fixed. Pointed at a spot slightly to the left of your shoulder that doesn’t exist, that has nothing interesting about it, that is nothing. Her mouth has stayed slightly parted. Her hand is in yours but it’s no longer squeezing — it’s just there, still, like an object left on a table.
The silence lasts maybe two seconds.
You only realize you’ve been holding your breath when Trinity, from the other side of the bed, says softly: “Y/N.”
She doesn’t need to say more.
You already know. You both already know, because you’ve seen this before, because Baran explained it to you: I have epilepsy, absence seizures, they’re short, they pass on their own, they’re very rare, I get them when I’m particularly stressed or worried about something — and because since that day you’ve both learned to recognize that interruption. You don’t move.
This is the first point in the unwritten protocol you’ve built together over the years: you don’t move abruptly, you don’t shake her, you don’t put anything in her mouth, you don’t call her name out loud as if you could pull her out before it’s over on its own. You wait. You watch. You count.
Trinity is already on her knees on the bed, her hand moving toward Baran’s wrist. Count.
One. Two. Three.
Baran’s eyes don’t move. Her mouth is still slightly open.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Then Baran blinks.
Once. Twice. The third blink lets you breathe again slightly. Her hand in yours squeezes lightly. It’s not a conscious gesture — it’s the reflex of return — and then her eyes find yours.
It takes her a second.
Just a second, but it’s a second in which you see the exact moment she understands where she is, who she’s with, and what just happened.
Her expression doesn’t change dramatically. It never does. But there’s a subtle thing — a millimeter adjustment of her jaw, a breath that comes in just a little faster than usual — that says everything she won’t say out loud.
“Baran,” you say, quietly.
“Yeah,” she answers. Her voice is normal. Almost perfectly normal. Only someone who knows her hears that there is something underneath, reassembling in real time, like a house of cards that tilted and that she’s straightening piece by piece without anyone seeing the hands at work. “I’m here.”
Trinity says nothing. But the hand on her wrist stays.
“How long?” says Baran, after a moment.
It’s the question she always asks. Not what happened — she already knows that; the duration, however, is the information she can never collect on her own.
“Eleven, twelve seconds,” you say.
She nods.
“Are you okay, babe?” says Trinity, softly. Her fingers, which moments ago were measuring the older woman’s pulse, rise to her cheek. Baran lets herself be soothed by her touch, and then nods, just slightly.
“Are you okay?” you whisper, your heart still racing from the fear that, every time — no matter how many times you’ll see her like this — grips your chest and your soul.
Baran holds your gaze for a moment and then nods again.
“Yes, azizam. I was stressed, and stress lowers the threshold. You both know that —”
“We know,” you say.
“There’s no point in you worrying every time.”
“And yet…” says Trinity, with a smile.
Baran opens her mouth. She closes it.
It’s the reaction of someone who had a ready argument and walked straight into a response that leaves no room for arguments.
“We’ll worry every time anyway.” You smile, just barely. The adrenaline is crashing hard after the seizure, and your body isn’t making it easy on you.
Baran looks at you. Trinity still has her hand on her cheek and you still have her hand in yours.
“Azizam,” she murmurs, and it’s not clear who she’s saying it to.
Then her eyes shift to your face and change.
You know that look.
“Y/N.”
“I’m —”
The world turns.
Not like in the tub — not that abrupt and definitive tilt that precedes the dark — this is gentler. The lamp on the nightstand multiplies for a second and your hands find the sheets, gripping them as if that single hold could anchor you.
“Oh,” you say, in the voice of someone who is updating their assessment of the situation.
Baran is already moving before you finish saying it.
“Sit up, sit up, wait — no —” Her hands are on your shoulders, guiding you back. “Lie down. Right now.”
“It’s just a little dizziness —”
“Lie down, Y/N.”
It’s not a request. It’s a tone that doesn’t allow negotiations, so you lie down.
The ceiling stops spinning almost immediately — or at least it slows down, which isn’t the same thing but is enough to let you fix your gaze on the patch of plaster in the corner and use it as an anchor point.
Trinity already has the decorative pillow in hand. The one Baran bought — the one you two use as a projectile at the wrong moments and that is now being slid under your ankles.
“Legs up,” says Trinity, unnecessarily, given that she’s already lifting them.
“I got it.”
“Good.”
Baran is sitting on the edge of the bed at your side. Her fingers find your wrist.
Outside the window, Pittsburgh makes its nighttime sounds. Inside there’s only your breathing, still a little too shallow, and the weight of Baran’s fingers on your wrist, and Trinity who has knelt on the mattress beside you and is watching you with that sixty-percent-calm expression you can now read all the way down to its depths.
“Ninety-one,” says Baran, after a few seconds. Her voice is flat and precise. “It’s coming down.”
“I told you it was coming down,” you say, to the ceiling.
“It was going in the wrong direction,” she says.
You don’t have an adequate response to that.
“Breathe,” says Baran.
“I am breath —”
“Consciously.”
You breathe consciously. Four seconds in, six seconds out — and the ceiling stops spinning for good. The calcium deposit in the corner stays right where it should be.
“Better?” says Trinity.
“Yeah.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” says Trinity.
“For —” You make a vague gesture that encompasses more or less everything: the tub, the dizziness, the legs propped up on the decorative pillow, the fact that it’s eleven at night and none of the three of you can manage to stay still even when your bodies stop doing you the courtesy of functioning correctly. “This.”
Baran doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers are still on your wrist — no longer counting at this point, but not going anywhere either.
“You could eat lunch,” says Trinity.
“You could,” Baran agrees.
You’re about to respond when the ringing in your ears drops another notch and you realize you’ve had your eyes slightly half-closed for the last few minutes without having made that decision.
“How long do I have to stay like this?” you say.
Baran checks your pulse one more time. “Until I’m satisfied,” she says.
“Parameters?”
“When you stop asking me about parameters.”
Trinity laughs, and you close your eyes completely.
It takes a few minutes.
Baran doesn’t move from the edge of the bed, her fingers staying on your wrist. Trinity has settled in beside you, her head on the pillow next to your shoulder, and every once in a while you feel her breathing shift slightly.
“Eighty-four,” says Baran, at some point.
“Better.”
“Better.”
You open your eyes; the ceiling is still and the nightstand lamp is just one.
“Can I —”
“No,” they both say, simultaneously.
A moment.
“I didn’t even say what I wanted to do.”
“No,” they repeat, with the same implacable synchrony.
You spent ten years studying medicine and you have a specialization in emergency medicine and you cannot convince two doctors that you’re well enough to sit up. There is something deeply, specifically humiliating about this, and also something you can’t call by any other name but love — even if you would not say that out loud right now.
Baran slowly lowers your legs and then holds her hands on your ankles for a few seconds, as if she’s waiting for a response your body needs to give.
“Sit up slowly,” she says.
You do.
Baran looks at you for a long moment, then smiles, nodding just slightly, and lets her fingers trail over your ankles.
“Good.”
Trinity wraps an arm around your shoulders and leaves a kiss on your temple.
“The day was rough,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“Yours was too.”
“I know.”
“And we’re all three of us in bed at eleven at night with low blood pressure and absence seizures and we didn’t eat enough.” You pause. “We’re a disaster.”
A moment of silence.
Then Trinity, from the other side of the bed, says: “We’re three doctors who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”
“Doctors are the worst patients,” says Baran.
“You tell us that at least once a week.”
“Because it’s true at least once a week.”
You want to laugh and you hear Trinity laugh against the pillow; Baran smiles and make that sound she makes: the half-sigh that contains a laugh she didn’t authorize but that came out anyway.
Baran picks her book back up but holds it lower than before, at an angle that lets her look up soundlessly. Trinity resettles with her head on your chest, in the exact spot she nestled into the first time you all slept together and which has been hers ever since — without negotiations, by right of discovery. You feel her breathing slow against your shoulder within a few minutes.
Baran’s hand finds yours in the dark, beneath the covers.
You stroke Trinity’s hair absently, whispering an “I love you” into her strands as you hold her close. Her ability to fall asleep will always be the envy of you.
“Tomorrow you stay home if your blood pressure is still low,” Baran whispers, with a glance that says “I’m your attending and I have no intention of watching you pass out again.”
“My pressure won’t be —”
“Y/N.”
A pause.
“Okay,” you say.
“I love you,” Baran murmurs, and you lean toward her — without shifting Trinity on top of you — to leave a kiss on her lips.
“I love you too, so much,” you whisper, letting your noses touch before finally laying your head on the pillow and closing your eyes.
You’re grateful every single day for these two.
Heyyy, thanks for reading! I know, I know — I’m terrible at the spicy parts, I know. Let’s not talk about it, okay? Anyway, it took me two weeks to write this so I hope you appreciate it (lol), I have more ideas in mind and I love the dynamic between these three in my head way too much so… there will be more. Thanks again for reading, you all know requests are very welcome, and have a great day! Ko-fi link if you want to and can support me. Otherwise a like and a comment are more than enough!
Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 4.2K
Warnings: chronic pain flare, disability, mobility/health struggles, nausea, medication mention, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, past relationship trauma, argument/miscommunication, jealousy, self-worth issues, implied sex/casual hookup dynamic, hurt/comfort.
Authors note: This kind of started out as an idea for my The Pitt OC, but I really wanted to write about these two so here it is in x reader format!
You'd already been awake a few hours when Trinity woke up in your bed. You were over in the kitchen area of your studio apartment. Typing away on your laptop. Updating some of your documents for work tomorrow.
"Oh you're awake." Trinity spoke. Normally she'd have slipped out before you were up.
"I was in a lot of pain. It woke me up so I decided to get some work done." You told her, not really looking up.
"Oh...well then I guess I'm gonna get dressed and go. I have to meet with someone." She says getting up from the bed.
"That was fast." You deadpanned.
"Not like that. Baran asked to meet up to discuss some things about the ED." Your eye physically twitched. You had stopped typing for a moment.
"Okay."
"Is it?" Trinity asks, walking over in nothing but one of your old band shirts.
"I said it is." Her arms wrapped around you from behind.
"Its okay of its not...or if it makes you jealous." She spoke softly, sending a shiver through you.
"Im not going to repeat myself Trinity." There was a bite to your voice. Your walls are going up and she knew it.
Trinity’s smile faltered just slightly at the tone.
Not enough that most people would notice it.
But she’d spent enough mornings tangled in your sheets by now to recognize the difference between your sharp edges and your hurt ones.
Her chin rested against your shoulder anyway, stubborn about it.
“You get this wrinkle right here when you’re pissed,” she murmured, brushing her thumb between your brows. “Usually means I should start apologizing.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.
You stared at the spreadsheet on your screen without actually reading it anymore. The cursor blinked accusingly in the middle of a half-finished sentence.
Behind you, Trinity shifted carefully, mindful of your body in that instinctive way she’d gotten lately. One hand stayed light against your waist instead of squeezing. The other rubbed slowly over your shoulder.
“You know,” she said softly, “most people would just say ‘yeah okay have fun.’”
“Most people aren’t me.”
“That’s true.” A tiny grin ghosted across her voice. “You’re meaner.”
That got the barest twitch at the corner of your mouth.
Trinity caught it immediately.
“There she is.”
You sighed through your nose, shoulders tight. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Manage me.”
Her arms loosened instantly.
Not offended. Not dramatic. Just enough space to show you she heard the boundary.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
You swallowed.
Your ex-wife used to talk to you like this too near the end. Gentle voice. Careful hands. Like every emotion you had needed to be diffused before it became inconvenient.
You hated how fast your mind went there.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that this is casual. And casual means I don’t get jealous when the girl I’m sleeping with runs off to see someone else in the morning.”
Trinity went quiet behind you. She stepped away from the chair and started gathering her clothes from around the apartment.
You tried to go back to typing, but you couldn’t focus. Your pain had settled deep into your joints overnight, leaving you exhausted and raw. Usually you were better at keeping the walls up when you felt like this.
Usually people didn’t stay long enough to notice the cracks.
Trinity disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, then came back dressed in yesterday’s clothes. She walked over to the kitchenette quietly, opening cabinets like she already knew where things were.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Making coffee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The coffee pot clicked on.
You watched her move around your tiny apartment with annoying familiarity. Pulling down mugs. Finding the coffee grounds. Opening the fridge without asking.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking back.
“I’m trying to figure out why you’re still here.”
That finally made her turn.
There was something unexpectedly open in her expression now. Softer than her usual smirk.
“Because,” she said simply, “you were hurting before I even said Baran’s name.”
Your throat tightened. Trinity walked back over slowly until she stood beside your chair again.
“You don’t have to date me,” she said. “You don’t have to promise me anything. But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care about you just because someone else taught you that caring always comes with conditions.”
You looked away first.
“You know Baran’s divorced.”
“I know.”
“You could go for her. I’ve seen how she looks at you and how you light up at her praise.”
“And she’s like fifteen years older than me.”
“And I’m almost ten years older,” you reminded her, finally looking up from your laptop with a raised eyebrow.
Trinity blinked.
Then huffed out a laugh.
“Okay, first of all, you are way hotter than Baran.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It was a point.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, but Trinity caught the way your mouth threatened to turn upward.
“There,” she said immediately, pointing at you. “That face. I’m winning.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet you keep letting me stay over.”
Your lips pressed together again, trying not to react to that one.
Trinity softened a little after a second.
“For real though,” she said more quietly, “you know I don’t care about the age difference, right?”
Something vulnerable flickered across your expression before you could stop it. Because it wasn’t really about the number. It was about history. About being left behind for someone easier. Healthier. Less complicated. Less tired.
“You don’t need someone with so much baggage, Trinity.”
Trinity seemed to read enough of that off your face that her teasing faded completely.
“You know what I actually think this is?”
"Tell me oh wise one. What do you think this actually is?"
Trinity’s grin came back immediately at the oh wise one.
“There she is,” she murmured. “Mean and sarcastic. My favorite version of you.”
You snorted softly and leaned back in your chair just enough to look at her properly.
“Well? Enlighten me.”
Trinity shifted her weight against the counter, arms folding loosely over her chest. For once, she didn’t immediately go for a joke.
“I think,” she said slowly, “you decided a long time ago that needing people is humiliating.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
Your expression flattened automatically.
Trinity noticed.
“And I think,” she continued carefully, “that every time someone gets close enough to matter, you start looking for proof they’re gonna leave anyway.”
“That’s psychobabble.”
“You literally just got jealous over me getting coffee with my boss and you’re a psychiatrist!”
“She’s not your boss.”
“She signs my evaluations,” Trinity deadpanned.
That dragged a reluctant breath of laughter out of you.
Trinity smiled a little at the sound before stepping closer again, slower this time, giving you plenty of room to shut her out.
“You know what else I think?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think a lot for someone who just woke up.”
“I’m serious.”
That softened something in your chest despite yourself.
Trinity rested a hand lightly on the back of your chair.
“I think you’re used to people seeing your disability before they see you.” Her voice had gone quieter now. “And when they finally realize pain doesn’t magically go away? When things get hard? They leave.”
You went very still.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Not completely.
Your ex-wife had loved you when you were still “manageable.” Back when the bad days were occasional instead of constant. Before mobility aids became normal. Before exhaustion started carving pieces out of you.
Trinity’s eyes searched your face carefully.
“So now you keep everything casual because if nobody’s allowed to matter,” she said softly, “then nobody gets the chance to abandon you.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
You stared at her for a long moment before looking away first.
“You can leave now, Trinity.”
The softness vanished from your voice completely.
Cold.
Sharp enough to cut.
Trinity blinked at the sudden shift. “Hey I didn’t-”
“I mean it.”
She straightened slowly from where she’d crouched beside your chair, confusion flickering across her face before frustration started creeping in around the edges.
“You’re seriously kicking me out because I said something true?”
Your jaw clenched.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you know me.”
Trinity scoffed softly, incredulous. “I am getting to know you, that’s literally the problem.”
“I said leave.” Your voice cracked like a whip this time. “Now.”
That finally shut the room up.
Trinity stared at you for a few long seconds.
You could actually watch the moment her expression closed off.
Not completely.
But enough.
She grabbed her jacket off the back of the couch harder than necessary.
“Whatever,” she muttered, anger bleeding into her voice now because hurt and anger always looked a little similar on her. “You’re pissed because I’m right.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because if you opened your mouth right now, something ugly and vulnerable would probably crawl out of it.
Trinity shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.
“I’m still gonna be around though Y/N,” she said tightly. “I’m not disappearing, so just…” She laughed once without humor. “Text me when you wanna hook up again, I guess.”
The words landed like a punch. Because suddenly she sounded exactly like what you’d been trying to make this. Casual, easy, nothing important.And for some reason hearing her say it made you feel sick. Trinity hesitated at the door for half a second like she was waiting for you to stop her.
You didn’t.
So she left.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap frames on your wall.
Silence flooded the apartment afterward.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Your breathing felt uneven suddenly.
“Fuck,” you whispered, your hands came up to cover your face as your elbows rested on the desk.
Pain still burned through your body, hot and relentless beneath your skin, but it barely registered now over the ache opening up in your chest.
Because Trinity had been right.That was the worst part, it wasn’t the jealousy or the argument. It’s the fact she’d seen straight through you in a way nobody had in a very long time.
And instead of letting her or letting someone care about you without conditions…you’d shoved her out the second it got real. Your fingers curled against your forehead.
“Good job,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Really fucking nailed that one.”
The apartment still smelled like her shampoo.
Her coffee sat untouched on the counter.
And somewhere beneath all the anger and panic and instinctive self-protection was a horrible creeping realization that you might’ve just blown up the only genuinely good thing you’d let yourself have in years.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
It took you a week to text her. A full week of typing messages out and deleting them. A full week of staring at your phone after shifts, wondering if Trinity was angry enough to ignore you now. Wondering if maybe she should.
In the end, the message you finally sent was painfully simple.
you busy tonight?
Trinity responded four minutes later.
depends. you gonna kick me out again?
You stared at that one for a long time before replying.
No. I promise.
Another pause.
Then:
okay. i’ll come by after shift
And somehow that almost made you throw your phone across the room from nerves alone.
By the time evening rolled around though, your body had other plans. One minute you’d been trying to clean your apartment, the next your joints felt like someone had poured molten glass into them. Nausea rolled through you hard enough you barely made it to the bathroom the first time.
You got yourself set up in bed, barely made it really.
You took your meds, hoping they’d help soon enough to still be able to do things with Trinity. You crawled into bed in one of your oversized sleep shirts, and told yourself you’d rest for twenty minutes before texting Trinity not to come. Instead, you passed out completely.
The knock at the door never woke you, but the sound of it opening did. Your eyes cracked open blearily to the sound of footsteps moving through your apartment. For one disoriented second panic flashed through you before your brain caught up.
Trinity.
“...shit,” you croaked. Your throat felt dry. You pushed yourself up slightly, immediately regretting it as pain flared through your spine, the room spinning a bit.
From the other room, Trinity froze. Then she appeared in the doorway a second later.
The tension that had been sitting between you both all week was obvious immediately. You could see it in the way she stopped short instead of walking in fully.
She looked exhausted from her shift. Backpack still slung over one shoulder. Hair down from the way she’d keep it up at work. Hoodie half unzipped.
But the second she actually saw you, her expression changed.
“Oh.” Not annoyance, concern; real, immediate concern. “You’re not feeling well.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled automatically.
Trinity’s eyebrows shot up.
“You look like death warmed over.”
“Wow. Charming.”
“You invited me over and then I had to sneak in.”
“How?”
“You gave me the code like three months ago.”
Right.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Forgot.”
Trinity stood there another second, watching you carefully. You hated that she could probably already tell.
The heating pad cord sticking out and keeping your lower back in a pleasant state. The untouched water on the nightstand. The trash can beside the bed just in case the nausea came back.
A flare up, a bad one. Suddenly embarrassment burned hotter than the pain did.
Because this,this was exactly why you kept people at arm’s length. You looked away from her. “You don’t have to stay.” The words came out quieter this time. Your voice almost cracking. Like you were expecting her to leave just like your ex. You were just hurt and tired. You’d been through this song and dance before.
Trinity didn’t answer immediately.
You heard the soft thud of her bag hitting the floor instead. Then her footsteps crossed the apartment toward the bed. When the mattress dipped beside you, you still couldn’t look. You knew she was studying your face with that same frustratingly perceptive expression. Then a hand under your chin, soft, helping guide you to meet her gaze.
“You took meds already?”
You nodded once.
“Nausea?”
Another nod.
“Pain scale.”
You gave her a flat look. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, humor me.”
“Trinity.”
She reached over and brushed your hair carefully back from your forehead anyway. The touch was gentle enough it made your chest ache.
“Baby,” she said softly, “what number?”
Your breath caught a little at the word. Not because she seemed to notice she’d said it, but because she didn’t. Like it had just slipped out naturally.
“…Eight,” you admitted finally.
Trinity exhaled quietly through her nose.
“Okay.” She glanced around the room once before looking back at you. “Did you eat anything?”
You hesitated too long.
“Oh my god.”
“I was gonna…”
“You invited me over while actively dying.”
“I wasn’t dying when I invited you.”
“Debatable.”
Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped you.
Trinity’s face softened instantly at the sound, like she’d been waiting for proof you were still in there underneath the pain and pride and shame.
“I’m gonna make you toast,” she said, already standing again.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” She paused halfway to the kitchenette. Then looked back at you.
“I know.” Her voice was very quiet now. “I’m doing it anyway.”
You watched Trinity move around your tiny kitchenette in a strange sort of silence. Opening cabinets, finding the bread, filling a glass with fresh water like she already knew your routines.
It felt…weird…not bad. Just unfamiliar in a way that made your skin feel too tight.
Your ex-wife used to sigh when your flares got bad. Not always intentionally cruel about it. Sometimes just tired. Frustrated. Burnt out from the repetition of it all.
Another appointment. Another medication. Another ruined plan. Eventually she’d stopped asking what you needed altogether.
But Trinity had already asked three times in under ten minutes.
You swallowed hard and looked away when she glanced back toward the bed.
“You don’t have to hover.”
“I’m literally making toast.”
“You’re hovering emotionally.” You point out, tilting your head slightly.
That snorted a laugh out of her.
“God, you are impossible when you feel like shit.”
“I’m impossible all of the time.” You pulled the blanket higher over your stomach. “You worked all day.”
“So?”
“So now you’re here stuck playing doctor with me.”
The words came out sharper than you intended. Trinity slowed and took in your expression.
“My ex used to hate this part,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself. “The flares. The meds. Me cancelling things.” Your jaw tightened. “Said she already spent enough time taking care of people at work. She didn’t wanna come home and do it too.”
The apartment went still. Trinity set the butter knife down carefully. Then turned toward you fully. For once, there wasn’t a trace of teasing in her face.
“That’s what you think this is?” she asked softly.
You immediately regretted saying anything at all.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
You looked away stubbornly, but Trinity crossed the room anyway, carrying the plate over before sitting carefully on the edge of the bed again.
“You think I’m here because I have to be.”
“I think you’ve already spent twelve hours getting puked on and yelled at by patients,” you muttered. “I don’t exactly make a great after-work activity.” You mumbled out, looking down and playing with the edge of the blanket.
Something flickered across Trinity’s expression then.
Hurt.
Not offended hurt. The kind that came from hearing someone talk about themselves like they were fundamentally difficult to love.
She handed you the plate.
Your hands shook a little while taking it.
“Look at me for a second.”
You didn’t want to.
Which was exactly why she waited instead of pushing.
Eventually your eyes lifted to hers.
“I am here,” Trinity said carefully, “because I wanted to come here.”
Your throat tightened.
“I answered your text in four minutes,” she continued. “I spent the whole week wondering if you were gonna talk to me again.” A tiny huff of laughter escaped her. “I almost didn’t come tonight because I thought maybe you changed your mind.”
Guilt twisted low in your stomach.
Trinity leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe.
“You know what I see right now?” she asked quietly.
You stared down at the toast in your lap. “A disaster?”
“I see someone who’s hurting.” Her voice softened. “And who’s so used to handling it alone that being cared for feels embarrassing.”
Your eyes burned suddenly. You looked away before she could notice. Except of course she noticed.
“You don’t have to perform being okay around me,” she said. “You don’t have to earn softness.”
A shaky breath left you.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” she said gently. “It’s easy for you to believe you’re only worth loving when you’re easy.”
Silence settled between you after that.
Trinity reached over eventually and tugged the blanket a little higher around your legs when she noticed you shiver.
The movement was so absentmindedly caring it almost hurt worse than the flare itself.
And for the first time in a very long time, you let someone take care of you without immediately pushing them away.
You managed a few bites before your hands started betraying you.
Tiny tremors.
The kind that got worse when your pain spiked or when you had forgotten to eat all day. You tried to hide it at first by adjusting your grip on the plate, but Trinity noticed immediately because apparently nothing escaped her attention when it came to you.
“Here,” she murmured softly. Her hand settled against your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. It was so soft, so gentle. It was as if she wanted to do something, anything to make it better.
You swallowed hard around the strange tightness in your throat and kept eating while she sat beside you, warm and steady against the mattress. Every so often she’d help in small ways without making a thing out of it. Moving the water closer when your reach faltered. Taking the plate before it became too heavy for your wrists. Adjusting the heating pad on your back.
Tiny acts of care so casual they almost undid you. The meds were finally taking the sharpest edge off the pain by the time you spoke again.
“We can’t do our usual, so…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the blanket in your lap. “You don’t have to stay late.”
The room went silent for half a second. Then Trinity turned toward you fully.
“You trying to get rid of me just because we can’t have sex?” she asked incredulously. “You think that’s why I stay around?”
Your face heated immediately. “I didn’t mean…I just…”
She paused suddenly, considering.
“Well,” she admitted, “that thing you do with your tongue is incredible.”
You let out a horrified noise while she burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, your face right now.”
“Trinity.”
“I’m being honest!”
“You’re the worst.”
“Mm. And yet you invited me back.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Trinity’s expression softened almost immediately at the sight of it. Then she leaned over and bumped her shoulder gently against yours.
“But seriously,” she said quieter now, “I love spending time with you. I like being here.” Her fingers brushed lightly against your arm. “We can just lay here and veg out. I don’t care.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled low in your chest at the words. Because she sounded sincere. Not trapped or obligated. Like she genuinely wanted this. Wanted you.
“H…” You cleared your throat softly. “How about a movie?”
Trinity brightened instantly.
“Okay. But it has to be your all-time favorite.”
You groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“You’ll judge me.” You whined out.
“I already sleep with you. The judgment stage has passed.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat behind it anymore. Trinity shifted closer while you reached shakily for the remote, until her thigh pressed warm against yours beneath the blankets.
Comfortable. Easy. The kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with sex at all and somehow that scared you more than anything else. The movie had barely been on ten minutes before you realized Trinity had slowly migrated closer. At first it was small things. Her knee brushing yours beneath the blankets. Her shoulder bumping against your arm whenever she laughed quietly at something onscreen. Then somewhere along the way she’d ended up fully pressed against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You became acutely aware of it all at once. The warmth of her. The steady rise and fall of her breathing. The way one of her hands rested lazily against your stomach beneath the blanket, absentmindedly tracing tiny patterns through the fabric of your shirt.
Your chest tightened strangely. Not panic…not exactly. Just…awareness.
You shifted slightly against the pillows and immediately regretted it when pain tugged through your hips.
Trinity noticed instantly.
“Sorry,” she murmured, already trying to pull away. “Am I squishing you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
You hesitated a second too long.
Trinity started moving anyway, but before she could fully pull back, your arm was around her, tugging her back against you. It hurt a little, but it didn’t matter to you. The movement surprised both of you.
You swallowed hard.
“I just…” Your voice came out quieter than intended. “You’re okay. I promise”
Trinity went very still beside you.
Then softer than before, “Yeah?”
You nodded once, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV instead of her face.
Because admitting you liked this felt weirdly intimate. More intimate than sex had ever been between you two. Trinity settled back carefully after a second, slower this time, making sure not to put weight on the parts of you that hurt. Her head ended up tucked near your shoulder.
You could feel the faint brush of her hair against your jaw.
Neither of you spoke for a little while after that.
The movie played quietly in the background while the rain tapped softly against your apartment windows.
And somewhere in the middle of all that warmth and exhaustion and lingering ache, you realized something deeply unsettling: you couldn’t remember the last time another person’s presence made you feel better instead of trapped.
Trinity’s thumb brushed once across your stomach absentmindedly.
“You literally attached yourself to me like a barnacle.”
“Mm.” You could hear the grin in her voice without looking. “And yet you pulled me back in.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. Because she was right.
Again.
Instead of answering, you let your head tilt carefully until it rested against hers. The smile Trinity gave at that was small.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Your body always feels the storm before it arrives. But Aaron never lets you face it alone.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, arthritis flare, weather-related pain, quiet kind of agony, reader can't hold the book, heating pad and tea as coping mechanisms, aaron being the most gentle and intentional caretaker, chronic illness doesn't need to be loud to be real, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft intimacy, no use of y/n, reader's pain is not hidden, he sees it all and stays anyway, background jack mentioned, aaron reads to you, touch as language, simple acts of love
Word count: 2.7k words
The air has that telltale weight to it—pregnant with the promise of rain, humming thick with static, pressing against your skin like an unspoken warning. You felt it before the clouds rolled in. Before the sky greyed. Before thunder even thought to rumble. The pain always comes before the storm, as though your body is its own barometer, a silent prophet with bones for instruments. It coils low and slow, heralding the shift like clockwork, dragging its claws through every joint before the first drop dares to fall.
It starts in your knees. Always your knees. That dull, grinding ache that builds beneath the kneecaps like bone grinding against bone, as though the weather is peeling you open joint by joint. Then it moves to your hands. Your wrists. Your spine. It pools in the curve of your neck and at the base of your skull, pulsing in slow, cruel rhythm. The pressure builds like a tide that never recedes. It rises with a kind of menace that demands surrender, not defiance. By the time the first low growl of thunder sounds in the distance, you're already curled into the armchair like something wounded, limbs swaddled in the thick knit quilt Aaron brought home from a case in Vermont, the heating pad tucked close to your lower back like a secret. You'd laughed when he gave it to you, the colours loud and mismatched, like something out of a 70s catalogue. But today it feels like armour. Like protection.
You hold your book, but you're not really reading it. Your fingers tremble too much to turn the pages easily, and your eyes keep drifting out the rain-dusted window where the sky is darkening by degrees. The ache is marrow-deep now. Slow. Biting. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight for your body, your breath catch on each shift of weight. It's a quiet sort of agony, cruel in its patience. There are layers to it—sharp flashes when you move the wrong way, dull throbs that never let up, a sort of humming burn just beneath the surface like your nerves are vibrating. Like your whole body is caught in a low, constant hum that only you can hear.
You try not to think about it. Try to focus on the words on the page, but they blur, bleed into one another until they become nothing more than meaningless shapes. Your jaw aches from how tightly you've been clenching it. The muscles along your back twitch with effort, trying to hold you upright despite the heaviness that drags at every limb. Even blinking feels slow. Your breath comes shallow, quiet, like you're trying not to disturb the pain. As if movement, even the smallest, might tip everything over into something worse. Something unbearable.
The house is still. Jack's laughter and footsteps vanished with the closing of the front door an hour ago. You heard them leave, the soft thud of his trainers and Aaron's calm, low voice saying something about lunchboxes. The keys jingling. The door swinging shut. Now there's only silence. And yet the quiet doesn't soothe you. It only makes the pain louder. It fills the space left behind, expanding in your chest, your spine, the soft tissue between your ribs.
Even the familiar things—the clock ticking faintly in the kitchen, the rustle of trees against the windows, the soft hum of the refrigerator—feel far away. Distant. Like you're underwater. And the deeper the ache goes, the further away the world seems. You want to float up toward it, reach for something solid, but the weight of it all holds you here. Trapped. Still.
You don't cry. You're too used to this. Too familiar with the rhythm of your body's betrayals. But there's a tightness in your throat that feels close to it. A breath caught and held too long. A sting behind your eyes that you refuse to blink away. Crying would hurt more. And for what? There's no release in it. No end.
You don't hear Aaron come back in.
But you feel it—the way the energy shifts, how the calm becomes a little warmer, a little more aware. His footsteps are soft, familiar, steady. The kind of steady you cling to without knowing you're doing it. You don't look up. You're not sure you could, even if you wanted to. Your neck protests even the thought of movement. The weight of your head feels unnatural, wrong.
He finds you anyway.
A moment of pause stretches between you. You know what he sees—the set of your jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the book you haven't turned a page in for nearly half an hour, the way your shoulders are hunched protectively, guarding the fragile hurt beneath. He knows the signs. He's memorised them. The pain lives with both of you, in a way. There's no point in pretending. Not with him.
He doesn't ask how bad it is.
You don't offer a number. Or a smile. Or a joke to mask the tension coiled at the base of your spine. You don't try to make it easier. He wouldn't believe you if you did. And worse—he would see right through it. He always does.
Instead, Aaron leans down without a word, his hand brushing your temple as he presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, reverent, warm in a way the heating pad never manages to be. His lips linger, just for a second. Just long enough for you to close your eyes. Just long enough to make you feel seen. Not fixed. Not pitied. Just held, briefly, in the quiet truth of it.
His voice is soft against your skin. "Give me five minutes."
You hear him moving through the kitchen. The kettle clicks on with a familiar hum, water beginning to bubble just beneath a boil. There's the gentle rattle of porcelain as he opens the cabinet, selects your favourite mug without hesitation—the wide one with the chip on the handle and the faded constellation print—and sets it on the counter. His footsteps are soft but sure, a quiet shuffle of socked feet over tile. You know the rhythm of them like you know your own heartbeat—measured, certain, never rushed. Even the silence he carries with him is comforting. It's not just stillness; it's intention. A kind of peace only he brings with him. The kind that settles into your bones, roots you gently to the present, when everything else feels like it might drift away.
He opens the tin with the good tea. The one you keep tucked at the back of the pantry, behind the boxes of bland grocery blends and half-forgotten coffee beans. It smells like honey and citrus and something herbal you've never quite placed, and it's saved for the days when your body feels like it might fracture under its own weight. For the days when you need more than just heat. When you need something sacred. He knows without asking. Always knows. It's not a question anymore—it's instinct. Reflex. Love, shaped into motion. There is a reverence in how he prepares it, as though the making of tea is a kind of prayer.
The sound of boiling water, of spoon against ceramic, of the lid settling back onto the tin. Each movement is deliberate. Practiced. This is not a morning routine or a casual kindness. It's a ritual. A promise. A quiet act of devotion, carved out in moments and muscle memory. The intimacy of it is overwhelming, in the best way. You imagine his hands cradling the mug, his brow creased in thought as he waits for the water to steep just long enough. You can see him there, leaning slightly against the counter, reading the label on the tea out of habit even though he already knows what it says. There's comfort in the repetition, in the care he brings to the smallest things.
When he returns, the mug is nestled between both hands, steam curling gently into the space between you. He doesn't speak at first. He just holds it out to you like an offering, fingers brushing yours as you take it. The warmth seeps into your palms immediately, chasing up your wrists in small waves. You wrap your hands around it as if it were a lifeline. It kind of is. You inhale the scent, let it curl through your senses, soothe you from the inside out.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Still hot."
You offer the smallest smile. "So am I," you whisper, voice scratchy with pain and affection both.
He huffs a soft laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest more than it leaves his mouth. "That's true. But the tea won't pretend it's fine when it's clearly not."
You shoot him a look—half-exhausted, half-playful. "I wasn't pretending."
Aaron just arches a brow. "You were holding the book upside down."
You glance down at your lap and groan, letting your head fall back against the cushion. "Betrayed by my own hands."
"Traitors," he agrees solemnly. "We should stage a coup."
You snort. "You're going to lead a rebellion against my fingers?"
"I'm going to support the queen when she's in distress." He leans forward a little. "I'm versatile like that."
You laugh under your breath, the sound breathless and real. "You're ridiculous."
"I prefer reliable. And charming."
"And very humble."
"Humility is overrated." He grins.
Aaron eases down onto the arm of the chair beside you, careful not to jostle your body or displace the quilt. His presence is a gravity all its own. Quiet. Constant. He brushes your hair back gently, fingers skimming along your temple, then down, over the curve of your jaw. His touch lingers for a moment at your cheek before he pulls away. He doesn't say anything else, not right away. Just reaches for your hand—the one not curled around the mug—and guides it into his lap. His palm is open, steady. He tangles his fingers with yours slowly, deliberately, until they fit. Until it feels like breath. Until your whole body seems to exhale.
He strokes his thumb lightly over your knuckles, back and forth, over the joints that ache and swell when the weather turns. "You don't have to say it hurts," he says quietly. "I already know."
"I didn't want it to ruin the morning."
"You didn't ruin anything," he says, tone low, firm. "It's just a storm. It'll pass. And I'm here until it does."
Your throat tightens. "You make it easier."
Aaron lifts your hand to his mouth, kisses your knuckles softly. "That's the idea."
You fall quiet, sipping your tea while he holds your hand. The warmth sinks deep, spreading outward like sunlight through water. And even when the pain claws higher, you stay still. Safe.
"Can I ask you something?" you say after a pause.
"Anything."
"Do you ever get tired of this? Taking care of me like this?"
He looks at you like you've just said the sky is green. "Never. You think this is work?"
"I think it's a lot."
"You're not a burden," he says simply. "You're my heart. You're the reason I breathe easier. Let me be here."
Outside, the storm builds. Wind coils around the corners of the house, making the gutters creak and groan. Rain ticks against the windows, soft and insistent at first, then growing heavier, more erratic. Lightning flashes in the distance, painting everything in momentary relief. Thunder answers in a low, grumbling roll. The weather shifts with a kind of wildness, like something waking. But inside, it's soft. Dim. Safe.
Your mug rests warm in your hand. Aaron's body is a steady line of heat against your side. The ache is still there, coiled deep in your joints, but it feels quieter now. Contained. Less cruel, somehow. You lean into him instinctively, your body drawn to the comfort of his presence. The heat of him. The certainty. He grounds you more deeply than any cushion, any quilt. Just knowing he's here is its own kind of balm.
You try to lift your book again, but your fingers falter. The cramp is subtle at first—a slow tightening, a stiffness creeping into your knuckles and wrists. It gets harder to hold it open. Harder to pretend you're not struggling. The book slips slightly, your grip faltering with a barely-there wince.
Aaron doesn't wait for you to say anything. He never makes you ask.
"Give it here," he says softly.
You sigh, passing it over. "I swear I used to have functional joints."
He chuckles, settling the book in his hand. "I believe you. But I'm not complaining. I like reading to you."
"I like hearing you," you admit. "It's nice. Makes the words softer."
"You make it easy," he says. "When I read to you, it feels like the rest of the world fades out."
"Maybe we should live in books," you mumble, shifting to get more comfortable. "Less pain in fiction."
"More dragons, though," he says. "Risky trade-off."
"Depends on the dragon."
"Exactly. Some of them might be useful. Like therapy dragons."
You snort. "You're getting dangerously close to writing children's books."
"I've seen worse careers."
He adjusts the lamp so the page catches the light and starts to read.
His voice is low and even, a cadence you could sink into. He doesn't rush. He gives every sentence weight, every character a slight shift in tone. It isn't performative. It's intimate. Meant for you alone. The warmth in his voice softens the edges of the story, turns prose into something lullaby-smooth. You could listen to him forever, like this.
He reads with the patience of someone who knows how much you need the quiet. The familiarity. The anchor. His voice doesn't demand attention—it invites it. Coaxes you to settle deeper, to rest without guilt. Every word is a thread stitching you back together, bit by bit.
You lean your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn't shift. Doesn't fidget. He just rests his cheek gently on top of your head, breath warm against your hair, and keeps reading. His free hand never leaves yours. His fingers are slightly calloused, his thumb still tracing lazy circles over the back of your hand. He shifts his knee just slightly so you can lean more comfortably. It's seamless. Thoughtful.
"…and the path curved through the trees like a secret, quiet and green and barely wide enough for one…"
You hum softly. "Sounds peaceful."
"Reminds me of that park outside Quantico. The trail by the lake," he says.
You nod against his shoulder. "The one with the foxgloves."
"That's the one." His voice drops a little lower. "We'll go back when it warms up. I'll pack a blanket. You'll bring a better book."
You smile into his shirt. "You'll read it to me either way."
"I'll read to you every day, if you want," he says simply. "Even if it's the same story over and over."
You turn your face a little, resting your cheek against his chest. "Even when I fall asleep halfway through the first page?"
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "Especially then."
"Maybe we'll find a new trail," you murmur.
"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe we'll just walk the old one slower. Together."
The storm rages outside. Rain lashes the glass. Wind howls through the trees, shaking loose leaves and bending branches against the house. The thunder has grown bold now, cracking overhead in bursts that rattle the walls. It could tear the sky apart and you still wouldn't flinch.
But here, in the curve of his body and the steady warmth of his voice, the world doesn't touch you. There's only the heat of your tea, the soft pressure of his fingers around yours, and the comfort of a voice that has become your anchor. The ache isn't gone, but it's held. Seen. Answered. Loved.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: Aaron holds you through a flare, quiet and steady in all the ways your body can't be.
Tags: disabled!reader, chronic fatigue syndrome, depictions of chronic pain, severe fatigue symptoms, reader too tired to speak, reader struggling to move, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, soft domesticity, aaron being in tune with your needs, reader can't lift their head, bad day kind of fic, aaron knows before you do, shower care scene, quiet intimacy, no pressure no expectations just love, fluff, emotionally protective aaron, slow kisses like worship, reader held and carried, chronic illness as part of daily life, safe space vibes, extreme tenderness written like a prayer
Word count: 3.4k words
Aaron knows before you say a word.
He doesn't need the sound of your voice, or the soft hum you usually offer him when the morning finds you curled at his side. He doesn't even need the way you pull the duvet up over your nose like a shield against the rising sun. All he needs is the silence—the weight of it, thick and unnatural, clinging to the air like humidity before a storm, draping over the bed in a hush that feels wrong in its stillness.
You're quieter than usual when you stir awake, blinking slow and heavy-lidded beneath the golden spill of morning light that filters through the curtains. It's the sort of light that makes the world seem gentle—warm and slow and honey-slick—but none of it seems to touch you. Not really. Not the way it usually does, not the way it used to before the fatigue took hold of your bones like chains, before it started living beneath your skin like an unwelcome ghost, whispering exhaustion into your blood and fog into your thoughts.
Aaron watches from his side of the bed, propped up on one elbow, his eyes already trained on you. He's been awake for a while, long enough to watch the light crawl across the wall, to hear the birds shift from their dawn chorus to the quieter chatter of morning. He knows every one of your movements, every breath, every silence. But he hasn't moved. Not until you try to.
Your brow furrows. You breathe in sharply through your nose and attempt to lift your head, but it's clear—instantly, painfully clear—that it's too much. Your neck trembles with the effort. Your arm shifts beneath the covers like it's moving through wet sand, fingers twitching as though unsure what to reach for. The whole of your body seems to resist itself, your muscles unwilling, your joints aching as if rusted shut. You manage to lift your head maybe an inch, maybe two, before it drops back to the pillow with a sigh you don't have the energy to fully release. Even your lashes seem to weigh more than they should, dragging your eyelids back down.
"Nope," Aaron murmurs, voice low and soft and close, already shifting the sheets to wrap you up and pull you into the cradle of his chest. "None of that. Not today."
You let out a faint sound—half frustration, half surrender—and don't resist when he draws you in. Your cheek presses to the space just above his heart, and you feel it there, the steady rhythm, strong and slow. His arms curve around your back. Protective. Sure. He always knows what you need before you do. Sometimes you think he knows it better than you ever could. It's as though he's attuned to the unspoken language of your pain.
"Today, you're mine," he tells you. His lips brush the top of your head. "No arguments."
You try, briefly, to muster the strength to roll your eyes. Maybe even to protest with some half-hearted joke. But your body knows him by now. It knows the rise and fall of his breathing like the lull of the tide. It knows the shape of his arms, the warmth of his chest, the gentleness in those broad hands even when everything inside you feels frayed. And today—today, your limbs are leaden. Your thoughts thick. Each breath feels like a climb, each heartbeat a distant drum, echoing somewhere behind your ribs. Your mouth is dry, your chest tight, like you've run a marathon just by opening your eyes.
So you melt.
It's instinct, really. Survival. Comfort. His body offers gravity where yours has none. He is warmth, and you are all shiver and ache. You breathe him in. The scent of him—clean skin, subtle cologne, the faintest note of coffee and cotton—grounds you, gives you something solid to hold on to when your muscles feel like they're slipping out from under you. Your face presses into the soft cotton of his shirt, and you close your eyes again, letting the haze take you for a few more seconds. Minutes. However long he'll let you. You want to tell him that you're grateful, that this—his presence, his steadiness—is everything, but even gratitude feels too exhausting to hold. Words are mountains you can't climb.
His hand moves in slow, lazy circles over your back, stroking down your spine in a rhythm that asks for nothing, that offers everything. He traces your vertebrae like he's memorising you again, each one a whispered prayer. His other hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Every touch of his is reverent. Gentle. He treats you like you're made of something precious. Something worth protecting. And to him, you know, you are.
"Does it feel like a bad one?" he asks after a few minutes, voice a low rumble that vibrates beneath your ear, deep and steady and safe.
You nod against his chest, or try to. It's more of a nudge, really. Barely a motion, but he catches it like it's a shout. His hands still briefly, just to squeeze you a little closer, a little tighter, before they resume their careful movements. His touch is constant, like the ticking of a clock, the turn of the tide.
"Thought so," he says, exhaling through his nose. "You didn't even twitch when my alarm went off."
There's no judgment in his tone. Just quiet observation. Steady love. He doesn't ask if you want to get up. He doesn't mention work or chores or anything that might remind you of the world waiting outside the walls of the bedroom. None of it matters to him right now. Only you do. Only this moment.
He kisses your shoulder, then the back of your neck—barely-there touches that whisper over your skin, soft as silk. You shiver, not from cold, but from the heat of it, the press of his lips like a benediction. Reverent. Like you're something sacred. His mouth lingers just long enough to make you feel seen, held, wanted. And he doesn't stop there.
He murmurs your name softly, then shifts his kisses upward, trailing them along the curve of your neck, to the sensitive skin behind your ear, the place that always makes your breath catch. Not because he wants anything more—he never takes when you're like this—but because he knows how it makes you feel. Grounded. Real. Loved. You can feel the care in every press of his mouth, every slow exhale against your skin.
"You don't have to do anything today," he whispers, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt. "No pressure. No expectations. Just this."
Another kiss, this time to the corner of your mouth. His stubble scrapes your cheek, rough and tender all at once. Familiar. Comforting. You tilt your face ever so slightly into the contact, silently asking for another. And he gives it. Of course he does. His kisses are soft punctuation to everything he doesn't say aloud.
"Just stay in my arms," he murmurs. "Let me remind you how loved you are."
You hum—quiet, low, a sound born of comfort more than agreement. Your fingers find the edge of his t-shirt and curl there, anchoring yourself. Holding on. It's all you can do right now, and he makes you feel like that's more than enough. His presence is balm, a salve to the raw edges inside you.
Aaron shifts, adjusting both of you so he can settle more fully around you. One leg slides between yours, your body tucked completely into his now, surrounded. Sheltered. His presence wraps around you like a weighted blanket, easing the tension from your spine, making it easier to breathe. He holds you like he has nowhere else to be, like time doesn't exist outside this room. And maybe, for now, it doesn't.
His fingertips slip beneath your shirt, warm against your chilled skin, tracing lazy circles over your hips. The motion is soothing. No rush, no demand. Just presence. Just love, distilled into touch. He murmurs sweet nothings into your hair, things that don't need to make sense or be remembered. Just soft sounds. Just him. The room smells like warmth and fabric softener and morning.
"You're doing enough just by being here," he says. "Even when you feel like this. Especially when you feel like this."
His voice doesn't falter. It doesn't change. There's no pity in it. Only fierce tenderness, only the deep, unwavering kind of love that refuses to fade, even when the worst days come. He means every word like a vow. Like a promise he's made to himself again and again. And he'll keep making it, every time you need it.
You want to speak—to tell him thank you, to tell him you love him, to say anything at all—but the words feel too heavy on your tongue. Like your voice is buried somewhere too deep to reach. He must sense it, because he doesn't wait for a reply.
"I know," he whispers. "You don't have to say it. I already know."
He kisses your temple. Then your jaw. Then just rests his cheek against your head and holds you. Nothing more. Nothing less. And still—it's everything.
Later, he carries you to the couch like a bridal lift isn't ridiculous at all—like it's the only thing that makes sense. There's no teasing smirk, no roll of his eyes. Just his arms, solid and unwavering, lifting you like you're lighter than the robe you're wrapped in, like you're the most precious thing he's ever held. You're bundled in soft fabric, his robe swallowing you whole, the collar bunched around your neck and still warm from his body. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, your arms curled against your chest, and he doesn't hesitate—not once. Not when he lifts you, not when he lowers both of you down onto the cushions, not when he settles you between his thighs like you belong there, because to him, you always do.
He handles you like you're weightless, though you feel anything but. You're heavy with fatigue, with the pull of a body that doesn't quite respond the way you want it to, with the ache that never quite sleeps. And yet, in his arms, it feels easier. Possible. Safe. You rest your head against his chest and listen to the strong, slow cadence of his heart as it beats beneath your cheek, steady and sure like the tick of a clock you trust. He smells like home. Like warmth and breath and steady things that don't shift when you need them to stay.
The robe smells like him. That perfect mix of cedar and clean cotton and something inherently Aaron—something you've never been able to name, exactly, but that always settles deep in your lungs when you breathe him in. You burrow into it, letting your cheek rest against his chest as he leans back, propping his feet on the coffee table, his arms bracketing you in. Your legs rest over his, and one of his hands finds your knee, absently rubbing small circles through the fabric. You swear he could calm a thunderstorm with just the way his thumb moves—soothing, slow, present. His other hand holds his mug, fingers wrapped around the ceramic like it's second nature, like your presence is the only warmth he needs.
He's made coffee. You hadn't even noticed until you smell it, rich and dark and grounding, the steam curling around your faces as he lifts his mug for a sip. Then he's pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, and another, and another, like it's second nature. Like he needs the reassurance of your presence just as much as you need his. He does it with such casual reverence, like he's incapable of being near you without touching, without reminding both of you that you're not alone. You think maybe this is how he says "I love you" most often—through contact, through presence, through quiet things that don't demand a response.
"You comfortable?" he asks against your hair, his voice a little rough from the heat of the mug and the early hour.
You nod. It's barely perceptible, but he feels it. His hand squeezes your knee, thumb brushing slow lines into the fabric.
"Good." He breathes the word like it's a spell. As if that alone might anchor you.
You doze, half-aware, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you. It's not sleep exactly, but it's rest. And it's enough for now. Every now and then, you stir enough to hear him shift, to feel another kiss placed softly against your scalp. He doesn't speak unless you need him to. Just stays with you. Holds you. Exists around you like your own personal gravity. A constant in a world that spins far too fast. When your fingers twitch or your head shifts, his arms instinctively adjust, always in tune with you, always right there.
When your energy flickers—just enough—you lift your chin. It's slow. Careful. Measured. But he notices. His eyes drop to yours immediately, like he's been waiting for it. You blink at him, heavy-lidded still, your body sore and sluggish, but your gaze is clearer now. Present. You're still here, even when it doesn't feel like it. Even when you're swimming through molasses just to hold your head upright.
He sets the mug aside without looking. His focus is wholly on you. You lean in—just a little, just enough.
He meets you halfway.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. His lips move over yours like he's mapping the shape of you, relearning every curve and sigh and shift. His hand lifts to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. He kisses you like it's still the best part of his day. Like he's never once taken it for granted. Like you're something precious and fleeting and he's determined to hold you with reverence. It's soft and deep all at once, like a shared breath, like a wordless conversation only the two of you understand. The kind of kiss that asks nothing but offers everything.
You pull back first—not because you want to, but because you need to—and he lets you, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still warm on your face. You feel the smile in the corner of his mouth before you hear it in his voice.
"Hi," you murmur, and your voice is hoarse, faint, but it earns you the smallest smile.
"Hi." He presses a kiss to your brow. "Missed you."
"I didn't go anywhere."
He hums. "Still missed you."
You stay like that until your muscles protest the angle, until your ribs ache from the weight of the day. When you shift, he doesn't make you say it. He adjusts you gently, wordlessly, hands sliding beneath your knees and back again. Always lifting, always anchoring. He strokes his thumb down your spine as he shifts your weight, murmuring quiet things under his breath—just your name, a soft reassurance, nothing meant to be heard but everything meant to be felt.
Later still, the sun higher now, the light through the windows turned pale and sharp, he helps you to the shower.
He doesn't ask if you want help. He offers it quietly, holding out his hand while you sit on the edge of the bed, dizzy and aching and unsure. You take it. He doesn't pull—he steadies. He waits until you're ready to stand, and when your knees nearly buckle, he's already there, holding you upright with a soft sound of concern that he doesn't turn into a question.
He leads you to the bathroom slowly, step by step, steady and patient as ever. When you wobble, he's there. When your breath catches from the effort of standing, he waits. Not one single motion is rushed. Not a single word pushes you. Even his silence feels like support. He keeps a hand lightly at your back, not guiding, just present.
The water is already running when you arrive. Steam curls in the air, clinging to the mirror and softening the sharp corners of the room. He undresses you carefully, folding each layer and setting it aside. There is no shame in it. No hurry. Just him, and you, and the reverent way his fingers brush against your skin. His eyes never drift from your face, always watching for discomfort, always ready to pause. He takes his time, letting you breathe, letting you lean when you need to. Every inch of movement is an act of devotion.
He helps you step in, staying outside the curtain for now. He passes you your body wash, your shampoo, all the little things you never realised he'd memorised. When your hands tremble, he notices. When your shoulders sag, he steps in.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. He runs his hands gently over your skin, tender and unhurried, smoothing the soap in lazy strokes. He lifts your arms for you when you can't. He tilts your chin up when your eyes close. The water runs down your back in rivulets, but it's his hands you feel more than anything. The strength of them. The care. The way he moves like he's afraid to hurt you, like he wants every part of you to feel cherished. His touch is worship, and you are the altar. Every inch of you is known. And adored.
He rinses your hair slowly, fingers massaging your scalp, easing the tension from your brow. His knuckles brush your temples. His palm cups the back of your neck. And in the warmth of the water and the rhythm of his touch, you forget the weight for a little while. You forget the pain. You just are. And that, somehow, is enough. You're allowed to take up space here. Allowed to fall apart and be held.
It's not about sex. It never is, not when you're like this. It's about intimacy. It's about trust. And Aaron gives it to you like it's sacred. Like this is church, and your body, your breath, your presence is the sermon. His touch never wanders, never lingers where it shouldn't. It's reverent. Devoted.
He wraps you in a towel when you're done, pulling it tight around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your damp hair. He doesn't rush to dry you off, not until your legs start to tremble again. Then he's kneeling, patting down your shins, your feet, steady and quiet and focused like it's the only thing that matters. His movements are clinical and tender all at once, efficient but never cold. He presses your foot to his thigh as he dries it, as if anchoring you with each careful motion. And when your hand finds his shoulder, when your fingers curl into his shirt like a tether, he holds that, too, like it's sacred.
By the time he's dressing you again—one of his old shirts, a soft pair of sweats—you're too tired to speak. But he doesn't ask anything of you. Just eases you back into his arms and carries you back to the couch, your head lolling softly against his shoulder. He shifts pillows and blankets with one hand, making a nest for you before sinking down again, holding you like the weight of you is what keeps him steady. You tuck into him instinctively, the way you always do.
And when he sits again, with you bundled in his lap and the weight of the world pushed somewhere far, far away, he kisses your forehead and whispers, "I've got you."
Like a prayer. Like a vow.
And you believe him.
Because with Aaron, you don't have to be strong. You don't have to pretend. You just have to be. And that's enough. Always, always enough. And even in the silence that follows, wrapped in the warmth of his robe and the smell of his skin, you feel it—his love like a blanket, his arms like a shield, his breath a lullaby that sings you gently, quietly, back into yourself.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You push yourself past your limits again—but Aaron won't let you fall alone.
Tags: disabled!reader, chronic fatigue syndrome symptoms, collapsing from exhaustion, depictions of chronic pain, reader's body giving out, reader's internalised ableism, comfort through stillness, quiet but intense emotional intimacy, no use of y/n, aaron being unwavering in his care, some hurt/comfort, soft!aaron hotchner, letting someone care for you is the bravest thing, fluff but make it about survival
Word count: 3k words
You've been on your feet too long.
You feel it coming, but you're always hoping maybe this time it'll pass. Maybe this time your body won't betray you. Maybe this time you'll push through and not pay for it after. But it always does. And the toll is always exacted.
You know it the way you know the tides, the way a sailor knows the sea by scent alone—the shift in the air, the warning behind your ribs. A tingling in your spine. A tightness in your chest that isn't pain, exactly, but something foreboding. A murmur beneath your skin that speaks of incoming collapse. It creeps up slowly, cloaked in normalcy, wearing the mask of everyday exertion, until it doesn't. Until it pounces. And you always curse yourself for not sitting sooner.
You're rinsing a plate, fingertips pruned from warm water, steam curling around your knuckles and rising into your face. The scent of lemon soap is suddenly too sharp, cloying in the back of your throat. The kitchen light seems brighter, harsher, buzzing somewhere just behind your eyes. You squint against it, the shadows growing longer, edges fuzzing. And then it hits.
Your limbs turn to lead. Not just tired. Not just sore. But hollowed out and then filled with wet sand. Every part of you drags. Your knees sag. Your stomach swoops like a floor has dropped out. Your fingers tighten around the ceramic instinctively, out of sheer panic. Thoughts begin to slip sideways, like ice melting down the edges of a tilted glass. You blink hard, trying to anchor yourself to the mundane—to the clatter of cutlery in the sink, the steady hum of the fridge, the warmth of the water. But it doesn't work. It never does. Not when the fatigue lands like this. Fast. Merciless. Familiar.
You sway. Just a little. Just enough to know you won't last much longer on your own.
You don't even have time to brace your hands on the counter before Aaron is there.
Strong arms circle your waist, catching you just before your legs give out, steadying you like a tidewall holding back the sea. His chest is warm and solid against your back, his breath brushing your temple. He's always so quiet when he comes to you like this. No sudden movements. No questions. Just certainty. Like he knows your body's signals as well as you do, maybe better.
"Hey. No," he murmurs into your hair, voice low, close, and soft. "You're done now. Let me."
He doesn't wait for the protest. Just gently, so gently, lifts your wrists from the sink, his fingers cool and firm against the back of your hands. They brush the lingering water from your skin, his thumbs circling your wrists like he's checking to make sure you're still tethered. He reaches past you to shut the tap with a soft click. The sound feels final. Like permission. Like relief.
Then he kisses your shoulder through your shirt, slow and lingering, like he needs you to feel it in your skin, in your bones. A grounding weight. A reminder that you're not doing this alone. That you're never doing it alone again.
"I've got you."
You don't mean to sag into him. You don't want to. You hate that your body folds so easily under the weight of something no one can see. But your muscles are trembling now, and the ache has spread into your ribs. It's like your body is slowly being swallowed by itself. Sinking backward into him feels inevitable.
Aaron holds you tighter, one hand splayed protectively across your belly, the other anchoring you at your hip. You feel surrounded. Caught. Safe. The kind of safe that makes the edges of your vision soften. The kind of safe you can let go in.
"I'm okay," you whisper, though your voice is thinner than you'd like, soft and worn like overwashed fabric. The words feel like muscle memory. Automatic. A reflex to reassure him. To protect him from your truth.
"I know," he says, and it's not dismissal. It's understanding. It's the gentlest way of saying: you don't have to be.
He guides you out of the kitchen with a patience that breaks you open. Like you're something rare and irreplaceable. His arm stays firmly around your waist, his other hand catching yours, his thumb rubbing soft circles into your palm. You hate how grateful you feel for the way he walks slower than usual, matching your uncertain steps without making a thing of it. Like it's just how he always moves when you're near.
The hallway feels longer than it should. Each step is a negotiation. The lights seem too bright, but his presence dulls the worst of it. And when you pass the mirror on the wall, you catch a glimpse of the two of you—his height curved protectively over you, his gaze fixed on your face like you're the only thing that exists. And maybe, for him, you are.
The living room feels cooler. Dimmer. Quieter. Your ears are ringing faintly now, a soft static behind your thoughts, but his touch cuts through it. He leads you toward the couch like it's a shared destination. Like you're arriving home.
When you reach it, you expect him to lower you onto the cushions, to settle beside you and keep holding your hand. That would be enough. More than enough. You'd take his presence in any form, even at arm's length.
But Aaron never does the bare minimum when it comes to you.
He sits first, tugging you gently down with him, and pulls you straight into his lap. He rearranges you effortlessly, one arm sliding under your legs, the other curling around your shoulders. You land against his chest with a startled exhale, breath catching as the warmth of him seeps into your bones.
"Aaron," you say weakly, "I can sit—"
"Hush," he breathes, his nose brushing behind your ear. "Let me hold you."
You hesitate. Just for a second. That stubborn thread of independence tugging hard. But then his fingers are in your hair, slow and tender, brushing the strands back to press a kiss to your temple. It's a soft kiss, sure, but you feel it like a vow. Like a promise. Like an anchor thrown into stormy waters.
"I missed holding you."
His voice is a murmur but carries weight, like something he's been holding in all day. There's longing in it. A faint ache. He doesn't say I worry when I'm away or I hate not being here when it gets bad, but it's all there, tucked between the words. His body says it louder than anything.
"I didn't go anywhere," you say, even though you know what he means. Even though you feel the space you drift into during flares. The unreachable quiet. The dim.
Aaron hums against your skin. "You do, though. When it gets bad. You go somewhere I can't follow. I hate that."
You curl into him more, cheek against his collarbone. He smells like the evening—warm, faintly spiced, the clean scent of his shirt mingling with the comfort of home. You breathe him in like he's the only thing keeping your lungs steady.
His hands move again, tracing your body with the sort of reverence you didn't know you could deserve. One strokes slowly up and down the length of your thigh, grounding you with every pass. The other traces your back, over the shape of your spine, up to the nape of your neck. He cradles you like you might slip through the cracks if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
It's not sexual. Not at all. But it's intimate in every way that matters. There's love in every breath he takes beside you, in every stroke of his hands. He doesn't just hold you. He keeps you. He chooses you, even when your body can't.
"You're allowed to relax," he murmurs again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You don't have to be strong for me. Not here."
And you do.
You let the weight settle. Let your body slump against his, your head tucked beneath his chin, your limbs boneless with surrender. It's the only place you've ever felt comfortable falling apart. The only place where you don't feel broken. Only human. Only loved.
He murmurs to you in the quiet—soft, nonsense words, gentle affirmations. Things like "You did enough today," and "You don't have to do more," and "I've got you. I've always got you." It unravels something in you, something tight and hidden. Every word sinks deep, like threads weaving you back together.
His breathing is slow, even. You match him without thinking, borrowing his rhythm. His presence has a gravity of its own—warm, patient, unshakable.
At some point, your eyes close. Your breath evens out. Your heartbeat slows. You melt into him fully. You don't know how long you stay there, wrapped up in the arms of a man who treats you like you're sacred.
You don't realise you've drifted until your body is no longer trembling, until your muscles have gone soft and heavy with something close to rest. Real rest. The kind that wraps around your bones like silk. The kind you almost forgot how to reach.
Aaron is still beneath you. Still holding you. One hand is now tucked beneath your shirt, his palm warm and firm against your stomach. His thumb strokes slow, gentle arcs across your skin. Back and forth. Back and forth. You wonder if he even realises he's doing it. Or if it's just his instinct now.
His other hand brushes your spine, then cradles the back of your neck. Protective. Reverent. Like he's afraid to let you go even for a second.
He's still murmuring, voice soft and low and close. Like he's whispering secrets to your bones. Like he's speaking to the very heart of you.
"You're everything to me, you know that?"
You make a sleepy sound of assent, not quite awake enough to respond properly. But your hand curls around his wrist where it rests on your belly, and that's answer enough.
When you wake, the light is golden and low, the kind of light that spills like honey across the floor, stretching long and warm through the slats of the blinds. It bathes the room in amber, softens the angles of furniture, warms the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. It's the kind of light that belongs to quiet moments, to held breaths and hushed reverence. And everything about this moment feels like that—suspended, sacred.
You blink slowly, trying to orient yourself, to grasp the edges of waking. The world feels far away, like you're surfacing from somewhere deep and warm. Your limbs are too heavy to move, your thoughts cotton-wrapped and slow. But none of it feels wrong. It just feels still. Like the moment has wrapped itself around you and won't let go. Like the universe decided to pause for your sake.
The blanket on your legs has shifted, half-draped, the fabric bunched slightly between you and Aaron. It's warm where it touches your skin. A physical reminder that someone took the time to tuck you in while you slept. That someone stayed. Not just nearby—but here, this close, unmoving.
There's quiet all around you—real, soul-deep quiet. The kind you feel more than hear. No TV humming. No phones buzzing. No footsteps echoing down the hallway or distant traffic humming outside. Just the faint tick of the clock on the mantle, the slow rhythm of the ceiling fan overhead, the soft whisper of wind through the slightly open window. The air smells like early evening—faintly sweet, a little dusty, touched by the cooling sun. And beneath it all, constant and steady, the heartbeat you've come to trust more than your own.
Aaron.
You're still in his lap.
Still wrapped in the safety of his arms, still cradled in the stillness he's held for you like a prayer. His hand hasn't moved from where it settled under your shirt, warm and splayed over your stomach like he's trying to hold the very centre of you still. Protective. Anchoring. His other arm remains curled around your shoulders, his body curved around yours like instinct, like home. You feel the weight of his cheek against the crown of your head, his breath stirring your hair, his chest rising and falling beneath your own.
He hasn't moved. Not a muscle.
Maybe he didn't dare. Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he simply couldn't, not when you'd gone still in his arms, your breathing slow and shallow and exhausted. You know what it must have looked like. How your sleep sometimes mimics unconsciousness. How it steals the colour from your skin and leaves you limp and boneless and quiet. And you wonder—how long did he sit here like this? Holding you, counting your breaths, afraid to shift in case he disrupted whatever fragile peace you'd managed to find.
You shift just slightly, enough to lift your face, enough to blink the haze of sleep from your eyes. Your body protests—stiff and heavy and sore—but it's a softer ache now, dulled by rest and the warmth of being held. A kind of ache that feels manageable, cradled inside the comfort of him.
Aaron is already watching you.
He looks at you like he always does when he thinks you're not looking. Like you're the most impossible thing. Like he still can't believe you're real. There's nothing guarded in his expression. Nothing cautious. Just open, unflinching tenderness. That quiet, endless affection that he wears only for you, that no one else ever gets to see.
"Hey," he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers ghosting behind your ear with a touch so careful it almost doesn't register. His voice is rough with disuse, warm with sleep and something softer—relief, maybe. Love. "You're awake."
You nod, cheek brushing his chest. You hum softly in answer, your eyes half-lidded, still heavy with sleep. Your limbs feel too long and too loose, like your body's forgotten how to be upright. But you don't mind. Not here. Not in his arms. You feel like something ancient and fragile being pieced back together with each breath.
"I didn't mean to sleep so long," you whisper, the words slipping out without thought, low and apologetic, worn with habit.
Aaron doesn't let you finish.
"You needed it," he says, gently. Firmly. Like it's law. Like it's the only thing that matters. He leans forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, careful not to jostle you. The gesture is boyish in its softness, but there's nothing immature about the way he does it—like he's been holding back all this tenderness and now finally gets to give it a place to land.
"You don't have to be anything for me," he murmurs. "Not strong. Not brave. Not okay. Not anything but exactly what you are."
The words crack something open in you.
You swallow around the tightness in your throat, eyes stinging with the threat of fresh tears. It shouldn't catch you off guard, not coming from him. But it always does. That refusal to demand anything. That complete, unwavering acceptance. Like your worst days don't scare him. Like your broken pieces don't make you harder to love—they just make him love you more fiercely.
He leans back a little, just enough to really see you, to tilt your face gently with his hand—the same one that had been tucked beneath your shirt. His palm is warm against your cheek, thumb stroking a slow arc along your skin like he's memorising the feel of you again. His eyes hold yours, steady and open, and it's almost too much.
"Just let me love you like this," he says. Not a question. Not a plea. A simple truth. A promise he's already keeping.
And you do.
You always do.
Because with him, it's never a performance. There's never shame in your softness, never judgement in your quiet. Only gentleness. Only patience. Only that unshakable, soul-deep love that expects nothing but your presence, your breath, your existence. And you offer it freely, without hesitation, because here—curled into him, held like something sacred—you don't have to pretend.
You nod, unable to form words, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of being loved like this. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then the tip of your nose again, then your cheekbone. One after the other. Soft. Slow. Devotions whispered through skin.
He doesn't speak again. He doesn't need to. Everything he could possibly say is there—in the way he holds you, in the way his hands never wander but always comfort, in the way he shields you from the world with nothing but stillness and warmth. There's nothing performative about it. It's just him. It's just love.
His hands settle around you again, arms wrapping you tight to his chest like he's pulling all the pieces of you back in. He tucks your head beneath his chin, presses his mouth to your hair, and exhales like he's been holding his breath this whole time.
His fingers begin to move again—just barely. One hand makes slow, steady circles along your spine, the other returns to its place beneath your shirt, rubbing gentle warmth over the dip of your waist. Not out of need. Just comfort. Reassurance. Familiarity. Like the body beneath his hands is the only language he wants to speak.
"I've got you," he says, his voice quiet but certain. "Always."
And you believe him.
Because you always have.
And in the hush of that golden room, in the silence held between heartbeats, you let yourself rest all over again.
You drift without falling. Breathe without trying. Love without fear. Because here, in the centre of his arms, you are finally allowed to just be. And it's enough. More than enough. It's everything.
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