Discover Top Posts Tagged with #cfcw

Dec 16, 2025

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 — aggie beever-jones

aggie beever-jones x doctor!reader

(a/n: i hope this was worth the wait, because whew writing this was a doozy, every time i opened my laptop i wrote like 100 words and almost gave up cause i had no idea where i would’ve taken it but i love a good cliffhanger soo…i hope you enjoy it xx)

word count: 4120

genre: fluff

tw: minor injuries mentioned

→ part one

summary: a doctor on the night shift. a striker chasing daylight. they share everything, except time.

You hadn’t expected your heart to be so loud in the morning. Looking down at the Pret cup sitting quietly on the kitchen counter, but all you could hear was your own pulse thrumming in your ears. The flat around you looked like it always had, silent, a little clutter of post-it notes scattered across the fridge like fallen petals. But everything felt new.

Aggie had promised coffee tomorrow. Which was today.

You stared down at your reflection in the toaster as you sipped the lukewarm liquid: dark circles, a tiny blob of toothpaste on your oversized sleep shirt. Junior doctor chic.

You reached for a sticky note and scribbled.

Panicking slightly. This is fine. It’s totally fine.

Then crumpled it before tossing it into the recycling bin. Too honest, you thought.

Aggie Beever-Jones was totally not panicking as she placed the coffee cup on the kitchen counter that morning. Definitely. Completely calm. The same Aggie Beever-Jones who tried to elongate her departure by changing her outfit five times before training, hoping that she would hear the jingle of your keys in the door.

Tracksuit? Standard but too casual.

Jeans? Too try-hard for 7am.

Peacoat? Who was she, a Victorian poet?

She eventually returned to her normal training gear, and a navy jacket unzipped just enough to seem…approachable? Athletic but not intimidating? God, why was she analysing this?

During a break period in training, Katie leaned against the doorframe of the locker room, watching her teammate who spent way too long smoothing her hair into a neat bun.

“Okay,” Katie began. “Who are they?”

“There is no they,” Aggie replied too fast, snatching her water bottle like a shield.

Katie’s gaze dropped to the shiny bun, and then to the carefully chosen jacket. Only to meet the soft, nervous look Aggie was trying, and failing, to hide.

Katie released a chuckle. “Ohh. Your flatmate. That flatmate.”

“Please leave.” Aggie groaned into her hands.

“No chance,” Katie said, practically vibrating. “Just don’t sprain anything trying to impress them.”

Aggie’s plan was simple: she would bring apple turnovers home after training. You’d finally talk more. Learn each other’s voices beyond pen and paper.

But football schedules were cursed.

In the last twenty minutes of training, Aggie rolled her ankle. Nothing too bad, but just enough to send the physio into full precautionary scan mode. By the time she hobbled into a taxi, the sun was low in the sky at 6:34. When she reached the flat, it was dark, except for the lingering haze that sat over the potted plants in the kitchen. The chair you usually dumped your bag on was empty. No laughter, no tired greeting.

Except for a note:

Night shift tonight. Wish me luck. Thank you again for the coffee! — x

Aggie pressed her lips together, disappointed in a way she didn’t want to name yet.

She wrote back:

No worries. Also, don’t fix too many people without me — A x

Days flowed into each other like spilled ink. You returned home one night with exhaustion clinging to you like fog, your shoulders tight from holding up the world. One of your patients turned violent mid-delirium, leaving you shaken and with a bruised shoulder. Common, but quietly devastating.

Shoulder looks like an aubergine. 0/10 would not recommend — x

Aggie left notes like small lifelines.

If someone hurts you again, I’ll fight them. On one leg if needed — A

You snorted into your lukewarm tea.

Medically inadvisable, but sweet — x

Aggie returned home once to find a post-it taped to the cupboard door at eye level.

Congrats on that late equaliser. Celebrated for you between patients. May have knocked over something in the storage room — x

Which left Aggie grinning all the way through her shower.

It became clear that you were both waiting for the same moment. Both terrified to force it, both terrified to miss it.

You walked through the door one early morning, clock ticking softly to 6:12am, your body sticky with sweat, adrenaline still coursing through your veins and a light headache that you didn’t feel like acknowledging. The night had been brutal, a car crash leaving the A&E busier than usual that even the consultants looked shell-shocked.

You opened the door, ready to collapse…and Aggie was there.

Sitting against the sofa, stretching her ankle with a resistance band. Loose t-shirt, shorts, blonde hair messy from sleep—adorably human.

Aggie jerked upright. “Oh! Hi—hi.” Her voice cracked like a teenager's.

You had been rehearsing something charming to say for weeks, but instead said, “I smell awful.” You tossed your keys onto the kitchen counter.

Aggie’s laugh was soft, like she didn’t want to scare the moment away. “You smell like hard work.”

You stared at her, struck by the sincerity in the compliment. Aggie patted the sofa cushion. “Sit? If you’re not melting into a puddle yet?”

Collapsing into the sofa, your bones ached, but your heart was racing. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just heavy with possibility.

“So,” you tried. “We’re finally awake at the same time.”

Aggie nodded. “Turns out you’re not a hallucination.”

“Disappointing?”

“Terrifying,” she replied, her expression shifting to one of mock seriousness.

You chuckled.

“Can I ask something?” Aggie said softly,

“Sure.”

“Why night shifts? Doesn’t it, you know, eat your life?” The striker looked up at you.

You looked down at your hands. “A&E needs people who don’t break under pressure. And I don’t mind the dark,” you paused, “it’s quieter. People are rawer. More honest.”

Aggie nodded slowly, her gaze warming. “I get that.”

“You do?”

Aggie nodded. “Football’s loud. But the real part? It’s the quiet drills when it’s just you and whether you can live up to yesterday.”

Your eyes met and held, not like strangers, but like two people who had slowly been learning each other for months.

As you spoke, a wave of exhaustion washed over you, and you found yourself dozing off mid-sentence. With gentle hands, Aggie noticed your silence and caught you before you could tip to the side, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders to keep you warm and comfortable.

When you woke up, there was tea on the coffee table and a post-it in the loopy script you had memorised for months on end.

Sleep well, Doc. I’ll see you soon. Promise. — A x

Your heart felt full suddenly as you fiddled with the edges of the small paper.

You tried crossing paths with a kind of quiet intention you didn’t want to admit to. No longer wanting it to be an accident. And no longer wanting it to be a coincidence. Just a person circling the narrow orbit of a shared flat, timing your mornings and evenings with increasing precision, as if the universe were a clock you could gently nudge.

Purposely slowing your scramble to leave for work in the evenings, pretending that you suddenly cared deeply about the precise alignment of the kettle on its base. But your lives began to slip even more, as if the world didn’t want two roommates to interact.

One afternoon, Aggie returned home buzzing with a kind of energy she couldn’t burn off even with a full 90 minutes’ worth of sprints. She’d spent the whole drive back from Cobham arguing with herself, palms sweaty on the steering wheel as she tried to time her manoeuvres to the rhythm of her own thoughts.

Ask. Don’t ask. You’ve basically just met. Don’t be weird. You’ll say no.

But what if you say yes?

The last of the spring air painted her cheeks a vivid pink, and the chill had left a sharp sting on her nose. But beneath all of that, her nerves simmered. Warm, restless, impossible to ignore.

By the time she unlocked the flat door, she’d made the decision. She was doing it. No going back.

The kitchen felt unusually still, caught in the soft in-between time when the night-shift version of you had just left for work as London hummed faintly outside the windows. Aggie headed straight to the basket of sticky notes on the kitchen counter, the shared treasure trove of confessions, jokes, apologies, and late-night ramblings.

Her fingers hovered over the colours, soft blue, dull yellow, pale lilac, before she grabbed the brightest one you owned. Neon pink. Loud. Obvious. Exactly what she needed, because she wanted no chance—not even the tiniest sliver, that you might miss it.

Her hand trembled only a little as she uncapped the pen.

She inhaled. Writing slowly, deliberately, letters looping bigger than usual because she couldn’t help it, her heart was practically punching against her ribs.

I like our notes. I like talking in person even more.

Aggie hesitated for a moment, feeling the need just to toss the idea out the window altogether.

Can we go out sometime? A real date? A proper date? — A x

She stared at the words for a moment, as if they would disappear if she blinked too hard.

Then she pressed the sticky note onto the fridge door, smoothing the edges with her thumb. Right in the centre. Impossible to miss, even for someone stumbling home at dawn. For the rest of the evening, Aggie’s stomach churned like she was lining up to take a penalty at the Bridge. Tossing and turning in her bed as she kept imagining you finding it—faint from the fluorescent hospital lights, exhausted but alert and a mug of tea in hand. Would you smile? Frown? Laugh? Rip it off? Frame it?

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

You found the note nearly twelve hours later.

Coming home in the late morning, worn down in that particular way that only emergency medicine could carve into a person. The heaviness of knowing you’d saved one life and lost another all within the same hour. Your hoodie smelled faintly of antiseptic; your shoulders ached; your feet felt like anvils.

You tossed your keys into the bowl by muscle memory alone and made straight for the kitchen, craving nothing more than a cup of tea and the grounding comfort of something mundane.

But then you saw it.

A square of neon pink shouting from the fridge. Right in the middle, as Aggie had pushed all the other sticky notes out of the way.

Your pulse thudded once. Then again, faster. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stepped closer to the fridge, tired eyes sharpening as you read every line once, twice, three times, the words rearranging your whole night, your whole week, and your whole chest.

Aggie wanted to meet. Properly.

Aggie wanted a date.

Your breath caught, feeling something uncoil in your ribcage.

You didn’t sit. Didn’t take off your coat or put your bag down. Instead, you reached straight for the pad of sticky notes, choosing a pale blue one. Calm, steady, the kind of colour that said exactly what you felt: yes, yes, yes, with every part of me that still has energy left.

You wrote, handwriting neat but soft with relief:

Yes. A real one. With you. — x

You pressed it gently beneath Aggie’s note, aligning the corners like you were setting something precious in place. For the first time in hours—maybe days—you smiled.

Aggie saw the blue note the moment she stepped inside that evening. She didn’t even bother dropping her gym bag first. Her eyes locked onto the fridge, and then she was stumbling forward, heart ricocheting off her ribs.

Yes. With you.

She sucked in a breath, one hand flying to her mouth, the other clamping over the first because she could feel the grin breaking across her face, and it was too big, too wild, too much like she had just broken the equaliser in stoppage time.

Her knees went a little wobbly as she pressed her forehead lightly to the fridge door, laughing under her breath because she suddenly had too much happiness and nowhere to put it.

Somewhere in London, you were closing someone’s sutures.

Somewhere in her chest, Aggie felt something bright, hopeful, but terrifying.

And suddenly the world felt new.

The universe, however, had jokes. And not decent ones.

Just when Aggie felt like things were finally aligning, just when a pale blue yes was hanging on the fridge like a tiny beacon of hope. The world decided that it was time to throw its entire weight onto the two of you.

The A&E collapsed into chaos. Allergy season, short staffing, and the last of an odd flu strain nobody had warned them about, a train accident and a weekend crowd of truly baffling injuries—all at once. You barely had time to eat, let alone think. Your days blurred into nights, your nights into something even murkier. You moved through shifts with the exhausted precision of someone who’d forgotten what rest even felt like.

More than once, you caught yourself standing in a corridor, completely still, trying and failing to remember if you had already checked on the patient in bed four or if you’d only thought about it.

Your journey home each morning was the strangest part. You often didn’t remember it. One moment, you found yourself stepping out of the hospital’s side door; the next, you’d be in the lift of your building, wondering how many red lights you’d stopped at or whether you had driven the long way or not.

Your post-its to Aggie reflected the blur inside your brain, tired loops of handwriting, uneven lines, and ink smudged from where the ink hadn’t fully dried.

Sorry, late again — x Sorry, maybe tomorrow — x Sorry, I promise I want to — x

Little fragments of apology shaped like ink. Tiny attempts to say, Please don’t think I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t. I just need sleep more than oxygen right now.

Aggie read every note. Twice. Sometimes, with her fingers lightly tracing the smudged edges, she would imagine you half-asleep while writing them, leaning against the counter for support.

She tried—honestly tried—not to take any of it as discouragement. This wasn’t a rom-com misunderstanding. This was real life. You saved lives for a living, and real life had terrible timing.

So Aggie compensated in the only ways she knew how: small, practical kindnesses she hoped didn’t cross into smothering.

She cancelled the dinner reservation she’d made the day after she asked, a quiet Italian place she scouted on a rare free afternoon. She’d been nervous making the booking; she was even more nervous about cancelling it, and hoped the restaurant didn’t remember her name next time.

Instead, she cooked. Left food in labelled containers with sticky notes:

Heat 4mins Eat sitting down. Preferably with eyes open — A x

Every morning before she left for training, the blonde filled mugs with tea leaves and covered them with cling film so you could just pour hot water. She would leave pre-chopped fruit in the fridge, ensuring that there was a blanket on the sofa, neatly folded, hoping you might someday sit there long enough to use it.

She also resisted the urge to be a little late to training every time she heard the faintest shift of movement behind the front door.

Don’t be selfish, she thought, she needs rest more than you.

Aggie repeated those words like a mantra.

The morning storm felt more like dusk. Thick grey clouds smothered the sky, and the rain fell in relentless sheets, turning London’s streets into blurred, reflective rivers. The sprint from your car to the building had you half-drenched despite your hood, feeling your underlayer sticking cold and clammy against your skin. Every step felt heavy, the downpour soaking you straight into your bones.

You were too tired to be annoyed. Too tired to feel anything except the ache behind your eyes, the kind that warned of barely contained tears.

You fumbled your keys into the lock of the flat, vision blurring from the sudden warmth of being inside. The living room was dim, the lamps casting soft golden pools across the furniture. A different world from fluorescent lights and alarms.

As soon as you stepped in, you stripped off your jacket with a shaky breath. Then you froze.

Aggie was curled on the sofa, ankle elevated on a cushion with an ice pack melting into a towel. Her hair was slightly messy, and her training gear was swapped for a hoodie several sizes too big. Even from across the room, you could see the faint tightness around her eyes—pain that she was trying to hide.

Aggie’s face lit up the moment she saw you, a beam of startled brightness, warm and open, then softened instantly into concern. “Oh my god, you’re soaked,” she said, pushing herself upright. “And you look—”

“Hurt,” you cut in, dropping your bag with a damp thud as you hurried closer.

Aggie shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. Just twisted it a bit—” A sharp wince betrayed her as she shuffled.

You didn’t hesitate. The exhaustion fell away instantly, replaced by instinct, training, muscle memory, the part of you that always rose when someone needed you. You knelt beside the sofa before you even had registered moving, your knees hit the rug softly. You reached for the ice pack, lifting it with careful fingers. The cold had numbed some of the swelling, but your touch made Aggie inhale sharply, not in pain, but in startled awareness.

Aggie watched you examine her ankle, her heart palpitating at the sudden connection. You were gentle, but thorough, your fingertips featherlight as they pressed along the joint. Your hair dripped quietly onto your shoulders, but Aggie paid no mind to it as she felt the warmth from your steady hands.

“You’re very good at that,’ Aggie whispered, voice suddenly low, almost reverent. She felt like she was practically cradling the space between professional care and something more fragile.

Your lips tugged upwards, a small, tired curve. “Well, I’ve been licensed.”

Aggie small huff with a soft, breathy sound that skated warm down your spine.

Your voice, when it came, was small and unguarded in a way only exhaustion could make it.

“I’m basically a human warning label at the moment.” You admitted, eyes fixed stubbornly on Aggie’s ankle because looking up felt too much.

Aggie softly smiled immediately, but didn't interrupt.

You swallowed. “Which means I might have to push our very glamorous date again.” You finally risked a glance up, mouth tilting crookedly. “I promise you I'm not ghosting you. I'm just being actively consumed by the NHS.”

Aggie didn't sigh or flinch or look disappointed, she just let out a quiet laugh and shifted slightly on the sofa, wincing as her ankle protested. “Perfect timing,” she said easily. “I won't be going far for the next couple of days anyway,” her grin turned playful, “you couldn't escape me even if you tried.”

The tension in your shoulders loosened a fraction, the repeated disappointment still sat in your chest, and your hand still sitting delicately on Aggie’s ankle. The blonde in front of you reached out, placing her hand on top of yours, her fingertips wrapping around the back of your hand. Solid. Anchoring.

“You’re doing well,” she reassured. “You do almost too well. Even when you’re running on fumes.”

Something inside you cracked like a shell, finally giving way after months spent holding everything in place.

“Promise?” you whispered, the word fragile and hopeful all at once.

Aggie nodded—small, certain, unshakable. “Promise.”

You exhaled a shaky breath you hadn't realised you had been holding. The weight in your chest eased, just a little, enough to breathe around it. Aggie squeezed your fingers gently, barely a squeeze at all.

“Go to bed, doctor,” she added softly. “Before you fall asleep sitting on the floor, and I have to explain to a very confused ambulance crew why you’re here.”

You let out a tired laugh. “Bossy,” you murmured, pushing yourself to your feet.

“Occupational hazard,” Aggie teased, “I'll be right here.”

Between you, your hands lingered for a moment longer. Not quite holding. Not quite letting go.

Two days later, after a hellish shift, sunlight finally pried you from sleep, not the sharp, insistent kind that followed alarms, but the slow, patient warmth of early afternoon easing through the curtains. For a moment, you didn't recognise where you were. Then the flat came back to you in familiar pieces. The low hum of London traffic, the faint smell of coffee drifting down the hall, and the comforting weight of rest settled deep in your bones.

Your body ached, muscles rested, and your thoughts were slower, softer around the edges. Meaning you had finally slept enough for your mind to stop racing.

You lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening. No sirens. No alarms. Just the quiet clink of a mug being set down somewhere beyond your door. The smell of toasted bread urged you out of your bed as you padded into the kitchen.

Aggie was there, barefoot, moving carefully around the counter with a slight hitch to her step. Two mugs sat steaming between her hands. Sunlight spilled in through the window and caught in her hair, turning the loose strands into spun gold.

Aggie turned when she heard you enter, surprise flashing briefly across her face.

“Hi,” she breathed, like she’d been waiting to say it.

“Hi,” you exhaled back, the word slipping out easier than you expected, your cheeks warming instantly.

Aggie held out one of the mugs. “I made it mild. Doctor-approved caffeine levels.”

You smiled as you took the mug. Your fingertips accidentally brushing, sending a spark through you. You both stood there for a second too long, neither quite moving away.

“Today?” Aggie asked finally, voice low, anticipation threaded carefully through it.

You met her gaze, steady now, something settled and sure inside your chest. “Today.”

Aggie’s shoulders dropped with visible relief. “Good,” she said, a crooked grin tugging at her mouth. “Because I’ve been practising how to ask you out verbally, and I only embarrassed myself…a lot.”

You let out a soft giggle that felt like it came from somewhere untouched by exhaustion. “How did practice go?” you asked, turning to her.

“Terribly,” Aggie replied earnestly. “I like you. A ridiculous, inconvenient amount.” The striker felt her ears turn pink. You stepped closer without thinking, the warmth of Aggie’s presence pulling you in.

“Good,” you said quietly, smirking. “Because I like you too.”

The space between you tightened, the air warm and magnetic, charged with everything you hadn't yet dared to say. Aggie’s voice dipped, fragile in a way that made your heart fond.

“Can I…hug you?” her eyebrows upturned nervously.

You didn't answer with words. You simply closed the distance and stepped into Aggie’s arms.

Aggie wrapped you up carefully and securely. The way she shielded the ball on the pitch, instinctive and protective, like you were something precious she had been trusted with. You melted into her, your chin resting against her shoulder, your hands fisting gently in the back of her shirt, anchoring yourself.

You felt Aggie’s smile in your hair, almost in disbelief. “You’re actually like, real.” She almost squealed in your ear.

“You keep saying that,” you chuckled, quiet and warm against her chest.

“I keep not believing my luck.” She squeezed you a little tighter.

You stayed like that for a little while longer, unhurried and unafraid as the sunlight pooled around your feet.

Later that evening, reluctantly apart but still glowing from shared warmth, Aggie reached for the stack of sticky notes, fingers humming with nervous energy. She chose a neon green, bright and decisive, and wrote carefully, making each word deliberate, impossible to misunderstand.

Dinner tonight. No rescheduling, Wear whatever makes you feel like you —A x

She pressed it squarely onto the fridge. You watched her for a moment, smiling to yourself for a moment. You then picked up the pen and added your own post-it beneath it, the green paper steady in your hand.

If I wear scrubs, don't judge me — x

Aggie released an unguarded laugh, and the grin that spread across her face could have powered the entire building. “I wouldn't dream of it,” she said softly, leaning close enough that you had to look away or risk doing something impulsive.

You stood together in the quiet kitchen, elbows brushing as breaths fell into an easy rhythm, both staring at the fridge that had somehow become your meeting place and your confession booth.

Tiny squares layered over months of waiting.

Tonight, the notes would become touch. Words would become voice. And promises would become something real.

And you both were terrifyingly ready to step fully into each other’s daylight.

#aggie beever jones #aggie beever jones imagine #chelsea women #chelsea fcw #cfcw #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso one shot #woso fluff #woso fanfics #seulgisqt writes

seulgisqt