We Should Change That
Summary: Reacher has a point that he intends to make you understand. Pairing: Jack Reacher (TV Series) x Female Reader Warnings: Fluff; A teeny bit of angst; Implied sex; Dysfunctional family dynamics Word Count: 3,644 Author’s Notes: A collab between @princessmisery666 and @deanwinchesterswitch inspired by a single phrase and a dream.
"Are you ashamed of me?"
Staring at the slightly arched brow and stoic features, your pulse hitches. "What are you talking about?"
"When we exited the hotel and ran into your parents, they assumed we were a couple. You misled them and introduced me as a colleague." Crossing his arms over that massive chest, he waits.
"I-" Blinking to refocus, you straighten your posture, crossing your own arms. "I didn't want to blow our cover," adding feebly in defense, "We were in public, and we are still on a case."
"I am aware. We are not in public now."
"Reacher."
"Mom. Dad. Reacher and I are sleeping together." Easing his stance, he drops his hands to his hips. "See how easy that was?" Though his face is as unreadable as always, there is a slight twinkle in his eyes. "Now, go ahead. You try."
Eyes narrowing, you blow a breath through your nose as you try to read him. Is he serious? His unflinching gaze tells you that, of course, he is. Stunned, you ask, “You want me to practice?”
"Yes." Reacher gives a single nod, like this is tactical, and he’s running you through firearm drills or self-defense techniques.
"My parents are horrible. You saw their reaction. They don't need to know about my life."
He waits, silent and still—a beautiful work of art—captivating and evocative. A soft sigh passes your lips as you admire his form, thoughts hazing. He clears his throat, and you blink, catching the barely there smirk now present on his lips.
“You’re enjoying this,” you tauntingly accuse.
“No.” A single beat passes. “Maybe.”
The stare off continues, but it doesn't take long for you to fold. He always wins. It's embedded in his nature, how he's been trained—to give away nothing. Pride has you puffing your chest and tightening your arms to try to hold out just a bit longer. The action pushes your breasts up, straining against your t-shirt, granting you a small bit of satisfaction when his eyes briefly drop before locking on your face once again.
“Fine.” Dropping your arms, you adjust your stance like you’re about to address a courtroom. “Mom. Dad.”
Reacher’s mouth tightens, the closest thing to a smile he’ll give without being legally compelled.
Pointing at him like he’s evidence, you smile with saccharine sweetness. “This is my …boyfriend." It feels wrong, almost childish. An overwhelmingly inadequate word to describe this complex, mountain of a man. Telling your parents that you are, in fact, fucking, Reacher would be crude, but extremely entertaining to watch their faces pinch prudishly with outrage. Reacher arches a brow, nudging you to continue, and you grudgingly let go of those thoughts. Rolling your eyes, you frustratedly huff, "Boyfriend is so …just …ugh.”
He remains quiet, but you know that brain of his is far from being silent. Several minutes pass, and you're a split second from annoyedly walking away, when he states, “It could be something else."
"Like what? Gentleman friend? Significant other? Main squeeze?" Throwing your hands in the air, you quip, "Boy toy."
The last one finally elicits a response, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly before settling back into their semi-permanent furrowed state. You tilt your head, unable to hide your smirk, "What? I am older than you."
"I do not think five months and twenty-seven days constitutes a large enough gap for you to call me your boy toy."
He repeats the words with a grimace, as if they physically assaulted him, and you can't help but chuckle, then quickly compose yourself to continue. "Well, how about …This is Reacher, he’s very tall, as you can see,” while gesturing uselessly at all of him. “He's quite intelligent. Strong, too. I mean, look at those muscles. He's more powerful than a locomotive and can leap a tall building in a single bound."
"That's incorrect."
"What? Tall? Intelligent? Strong?"
"The Superman reference."
"Aw, c'mon! It was funny." You don't even get so much as an eye twitch. "Whatever." Waving a hand, you snark. “He’s from the ...Department of Reacher."
“That's not a real place.”
“I’m improvising.” With a wink, you offer him a little pout.
His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second. “Continue.”
The heat in that cursory glance causes your nervous system to momentarily short-circuit before your brain kicks back in. “He's annoying, blunt, and has no sense of humor.”
“Not true. I have a sense of humor. You don't always understand it." Then affirms, "If being correct and direct with my responses is, as you said, blunt, then that is accurate.”
By ignoring the comment about being annoying, he proves your point, at least to you, but your heart decides to step in. “He's protective. He cares about me. More than he’ll admit even to himself.”
The slight softening in his demeanor would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, so even as he tonelessly states, "Accurate," your chest tightens a little.
Not ready to give in to sentimentality, you circle back to the reason this ridiculous conversation was started. "Are you still offended?”
The silence stretches as he studies you—the kind of silence Reacher uses like a weapon. “No,” he says softly, which seems impossible for someone of his size. "You didn't ask about the something else."
"What is …the something else?" you mock, certain that it's some obscure technical term you've never heard of, and your parents will not be able to comprehend.
Stepping forward, he hooks a finger under your chin, not forcing or demanding, simply claiming your attention.
"You could tell them we are living together."
"NO!"
"No?" Dropping his hand, he takes a step back.
"They won't believe it. I can guarantee that my mother snooped around on her way to the bathroom. Nothing here belongs to you."
"We should change that."
"Ha!" you scoff, "What's to change? You don't own anything except a toothbrush."
"Maybe I should change that."
Shaking your head in disbelief, you tease, "You going to buy a second toothbrush and a pack of underwear?"
"You do not want to live with me?"
"No. Yes. I didn't mean …" Closing your eyes, you heave out a breath. When you look up, you are utterly unprepared for the hurt in the eyes that meet yours. Yet, it disappears so swiftly, you're left wondering if you imagined it. "Wait. Are you asking? For real? Or is this like a fake dating thing?"
"Telling your parents that we share a home would cause them distress, correct?"
It hits a little harder than anticipated with the confirmation that it would just be for show. Apparently, you were mistaken about his reaction. Still, you can't deny how fun it would be to agitate your parents. "Absolutely," you laugh, but-"
"Your father is wearing a Rolex GMT-Master II, white gold, oyster band. Your mother's bracelets are platinum, not plated. Her wedding rings are white gold, with three French-corner princess-cut diamonds haloed by twenty round brilliant-cut diamonds, and twenty-four cushion-cut sapphires set in the split band. Her earrings and necklace are modeled to mirror her rings—sapphires surrounded by diamonds."
"How-" You cut yourself off, remembering the jewelry heist case he helped you with, before you started sleeping together. There really is no reason to question him. The man is brilliant, and his attention to detail is meticulous. So, you nod for him to proceed and get to the point of all this.
"Their shoes are expensive, ridiculous-looking, and impractical. Their clothes are tailored, high-end wool and silk. He bought that piece of junk Tesla for the brand and the status he thought it would bring him, and he will never admit his mistake."
You can't help but snort at the assessment, but are brought up short when his subsequent observations are about you.
"You do not own a single piece of clothing that costs more than $50. Your shoes are made for comfort and functionality. Your car is nearly as old as you, but it is reliable and serves its purpose. Aside from the bed you recently purchased after we broke the other one, none of your furniture was procured brand new."
Shaking your head, you stop him. "Reacher, what does this have to do with our earlier conversation?"
"May I finish?"
Waving a hand exasperatedly in the air, you huff, "Fine."
"You don't speak of your parents unless directly asked. Your responses are vague, and you quickly redirect the conversation. The logical conclusion is that you are nothing like your parents.”
“I make a conscious effort every day not to be.”
He gives a brief nod, which you assume is approval, before continuing. “You became a private detective because you wanted to help people, but also because they would disapprove. You purposefully shun their wealth to prove to yourself that you can survive on your own terms. You want to claim your independence from them, which you have. You never ask for help. Likely because you never received any or were treated as a burden when it was requested." He pauses, directing a stern look your way, to ensure he has your attention. "Even now, you are reluctant to ask for my assistance, although I was the one to suggest it.”
His analysis, though not meant to be judgmental, makes you uncomfortable by touching on a vulnerability you don't want anyone to see. Not even him, at least not yet.
"I still don't understand what your point is."
“I wasn’t offended." Stepping closer, he brushes a thumb along your jaw. "I was checking.”
“Checking what?”
"You never answered. Are you ashamed of me?”
The faint modulation in his voice tells you what he’s not asking.
Do you only want me because it's convenient?
It's a question you've asked yourself about him more than once, because his lifestyle is the consummate definition of a nomad. Why would he choose to remain with you if a case isn't involved? He's left after others.
“Reacher ...”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
It's absurd that he could think that, but then it hits you like a lightning bolt. He's found himself in unfamiliar territory, a rare situation where he is unsure. In the time that you've known him, he's never shown insecurity, so if it's a shock to you, you can only imagine how he feels.
Hands flattened against his chest, you feel the calm, steady power he carries like it's nothing, as if he’s not the most dangerous man in any room he enters. Knowing what it's masking in this moment, you look into his eyes and find it. That tiny, almost invisible edge of uncertainty he probably thinks no one ever sees.
Voice soft, void of any annoyance you felt earlier, you profess, “I’m not ashamed of you.”
Reacher remains still, silent, like he’s waiting for the ‘but’. So, you step forward until there's barely any space between you, and he has to drop his head to look at you.
“I’m not ashamed of you.” You repeat more firmly. “I’m ashamed of them. My parents don’t approve of anything I do unless it fits into this pretty little picture they have.”
Reacher's hands drop to your waist, grip firm but not painful, protecting without thought.
“They always wanted me to marry someone with status,” you continue bitterly. “A doctor. A lawyer. Someone with a large bank account and prominent connections.” A mirthless laugh fills the air between you. “Instead, I chose a career where I carry a gun, lie for a living, and barely pay my bills. I am their biggest disappointment, and they never miss an opportunity to let me know. I didn’t want them judging you through me. Like you're another bad decision.”
"Do you think I'm a bad decision?"
"No."
"Then you should have introduced me properly."
Shaking your head, you smile. “You’re seriously hung up on this.”
“Details matter,” he states, as if it's new information for you. “I’m more than your colleague now.”
“Yeah?” you challenge, lifting your brows. “And what does more than a colleague do, exactly?”
Reacher’s gaze dips to your mouth. Your throat. Back to your eyes.
“More than a colleague, does this.” A hand glides up your side, thumb resting beneath your breast with gentle pressure. Thick fingers trace along your collarbone before lightly gripping the back of your neck, eyes never leave your face as he lowers his lips to yours.
There's no hesitation in the kiss. It’s not soft or delicate. It's not possessive or demanding. It's Reacher. Warm and unwavering. His massive arms engulf you, anchoring you to him like you’re the only real thing in a messy world.
You make a quiet sound against his mouth, and chase his lips when he pulls back.
Forehead barely touching yours, eyes dark, but shining, you feel like you're falling into a universe created specifically for you.
“Was that clear enough?”
Though spoken quietly, his question abruptly brings you crashing back to earth and your current situation. “Annoyingly clear,” you mutter, a canine catching on your bottom lip.
"There's more." It's not a question. He senses your lingering unease.
"They're cruel, and it's humiliating," you murmur, dropping your gaze to his chest. "I didn't want you to have to deal with that."
His features briefly harden, but you don't see it. Otherwise, you would know his statement is deceptively calm. “I shouldn’t have invited them for dinner.”
“It’s fine.” You wave it off with a deep exhale. “It isn’t just their judgment.”
“What else?”
“What am I to you?” Your gaze is wary as you push slightly out of his hold. “We don't have to label it or anything. It's just that what this …us." The shakiness of your breath exposes the fear you try to keep hidden. "This thing between us happened so fast. It could easily crumble just as quickly."
You've seen the look that washes over his face, protective instinct, but there's something darker edging it. Like he’s planning how to remove every threat from your orbit with his bare hands.
“You’re safe,” he says, simple as breathing.
“I know.” You're helpless to stop the slight smile, but that doesn't answer your question.
He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, warm and solid. The arm still around you, squeezes you closer, like he’s promising never to let go. The way his eyes linger, his features, soft and open, are meant to show you how he feels, but you need to hear it—just like he did.
“You should’ve introduced me,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Geezus!! Is that all you got out of this conversation?" Wriggling completely out of his grasp—and yes, you know he let you—you throw your hands in the air. "Fine, I get your point. I'll tell them. Seeing the look on their faces will actually be quite comical."
Reacher’s eyes do that thing again, that tiny twinkle when he’s pleased with himself. “Good,” he smirks.
Shaking a finger at him, you admonish, "But you need to answer my question first."
And as the universe has impeccable timing, your mother’s voice carries from the living room.
“Darling, do you need a hand with the drinks?”
Reacher has the nerve to actually chuckle when you growl, curling your fingers in the air like you want to strangle someone.
All amusement vanishes when you glare at him, though, and with a calm confidence of a man who has never feared anything in his life, he calls back, “We’re coming.”
Grabbing his arm as he walks past, you whisper, "Reacher?" And not for the first time since meeting him, you wish you were a mind reader. While not hard, the blank facade is back, eyes devoid of the tenderness you experienced only moments ago.
Shifting to face you fully, his fingers grip your jaw, guiding with soft persuasion, to give you a purposeful kiss. The tiny crook at the corner of his mouth is visible when he pulls back. "Tell your parents what you want. But for the record, I would be okay with making this a more permanent situation."
He moves with a quickness that would be oafish for most men his size, effortlessly lifting the tray of drinks and walking out of the room, while leaving you to stare dumbfounded at his broad back and thick thighs, nearly choking with the effort it takes to speak.
"Wait!"
You catch up with him just as he sets the tray on the coffee table and punch him in the arm. "You can't drop a bomb like that and then walk away!"
“It wasn’t a bomb, it was a statement,” Reacher corrects.
Poking a finger in his chest, you scowl. "It was more than a ‘statement’, and you know it!”
It's difficult to ignore your mother's exaggerated sigh, but you have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.
"What are you talking about, Sprout?"
However, your father's words make you bristle. Reacher reacts to your shift in demeanor, face stern and muscles taut, as you both turn to face the man brushing nonexistent dirt from the chair's armrest, as if it might infect him.
His glib tone and demeaning actions send you over the edge, and you angrily shout, "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT?"
Standing behind your father, one hand resting on his shoulder, your mother brings her hand to her chest, like she's been morally offended. "How dare you speak to your father in that way!"
If you still weren't riding the shock of Reacher's words, you probably would have backed down to avoid an embarrassing argument. But the impact of their potential meaning is still very much burning through your system, so you look your mother dead in the eye and gleefully confess, "Reacher and I are sleeping together.”
Your mother gasps, fanning herself, very poorly acting, as if she might faint. Yet, she still manages to indignantly proclaim, "I told you, Bradley! Another loser to add to her collection."
"He is not a loser! He cares more about me than you ever have. HE TOOK A LITERAL BULLET FOR ME. YOU'RE SO SMALL-MINDED THAT ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS HOW MUCH MONEY IS IN HIS BANK ACCOUNT. YOU HAVE NO- " Reacher rests a hand on the small of your back, as your father cuts you off.
"Young lady, watch your tone." The words are cold, meant to control. Shaking his head, he waves a hand in dismissal. "As always, such a disa-"
His low growl is felt before you hear it, resonating from his body to yours, and the air around him crackles with electric tension. The first thought that enters your head when you look up to see Reacher's expression is that you should probably warn your parents, but then you decide that popcorn would be a better option.
“You should leave …Now.”
Each word is stated with cold precision, making you actually shiver. Reacher squeezes your hip, pulling you a little closer, causing a small, quiet gasp to escape when you feel the restraint emanating from his taut, muscular frame.
"Young man," standing, your father squares his shoulders, broadening his chest, "you have no right to tell us what to do. This is my daughter's house."
You want to laugh at the absurdity of his attempt to assert authority. Your father would be nothing more than an annoying gnat for Reacher to bat away. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek, eagerly anticipating the outcome of this standoff.
"Sir, respectfully …" You do scoff at that. In no world does your father deserve Reacher's respect. He gives your hip another squeeze, this time in warning. "I am about to fuck your daughter on every available surface in this room. So, unless you want to watch, I suggest you exit quickly."
The sound that leaves you is almost inhuman, and you bury your face in his side to hide your expression.
"NOW, YOU LISTEN HERE, SON!"
"I am not your son. If I were, it would be highly inappropriate for me to fuck your daughter."
The burst of laughter snags in your throat, altering itself into an awkward wheeze as you try to catch your breath. After a sharp inhale, you turn your head to peek at your parents. Your father's face is beet red, while your mother looks like she might genuinely faint this time.
Catching your eye, your dad angrily wags a finger at you. "WE ARE DONE!"
You didn't think he could turn any redder, but when you smile sweetly and give him a little wave, you'd swear he became brighter than a boiled lobster.
"Elizabeth, let's go!" Gripping your mother's elbow, he practically drags her across the room. The forceful slam of the door echoes throughout the space.
"Well, that was something." You look up to find Reacher smiling—an actual, full-on smile. Hiding your own glee, you purse your lips. "Proud of yourself, are you?" The rare and beautiful smile falters, and you almost regret teasing him—almost.
"I did not like the way they were speaking to you. I'm sorry if I overstepped. I-"
"Shut up." Fisting his shirt in your hand, you pull him toward you. "Thank you." The smile returns, and you place a firm kiss on those welcoming lips.
Lifting you, he urges you to wrap your legs around him, warm breath fanning your ear, "Where do you want to start?"
Arms draped over his shoulders, you lean back to look him in the eye. "Hold on. Just so we're on the same page, you're moving in, right?"
Spinning, he takes two long strides to your desk in the corner, gently depositing you on the surface. "Yes."
Holding his face when he drops to his knees, you wink. "Good."
