To Be The One. (Deacon, SWAT)
Summary: the one where no one can admit their feelings and you apparently dont know how to use a butter knife.
TW: i cuss a lot, mentions of blood, knives, also finger wounds.
“Fucking shit,” The skin of your finger flayed open, the knife slipping from your hand with a curse as you clutched your hand haphazardly to your chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You chanted, shoving the cut under the sink in the SWAT break room, rinsing the blood from the fragile flesh just to see the damage.
“You okay?” Deacon’s voice startled you, a low timber over the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your cursing. “Woah, what did you do?” He dropped his bottle of water back in the fridge, leaving the door swinging open in his haste to reach you.
Strong fingers didn’t flinch at the blood as he reached into the steady stream to cradle your hands with his. You tensed against the contact, leaning slightly away from him as he invaded your space but welcomed it nonetheless. He was muttering to himself, something about how you could handle a sniper rifle but not a butter knife and you resented the statement but couldn’t disagree with him.
You had joined the team a little over a year ago, only a few months after Deacon’s sudden divorce from the wife everyone thought would be his happily ever after. You hated him.
Perhaps it was his stuck-up manner, his prudish demeanor so opposite to yours that it made your hairs stand on end. You constantly felt his eyes on you, evaluating you with an icy cold gaze that made it impossible to feel comfortable in your own skin. It was four months in that you realized he wasn’t watching you because he thought you couldn’t do your job but rather because he was intrigued by your natural talent, how you’d fallen in with the team so easily.
You guess that was the night you fell in love with him. Your father had always said there was a thin line between love and hate.
It’d been a hard day, probably the hardest you’d had since joining the team and your nerves were shot to shit. When he walked up behind you in the locker room, you weren’t exactly proud of the way you yelped, falling off the bench and cracking your lower back against said seat hard enough to leave a bruise for the next six days.
“Sorry!” He was quick to apologize, wrapping his deft hands under your biceps to lift you into a standing position and you yelped again. It wasn’t everyday a grown ass man lifted you into the air, at least not since you were fourteen. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s alright,” You acquiesced, finally turning to face him and you’d recognize that look on his face anywhere. “I’m okay.”
“I didn’t even ask you anything yet.” His lips tilted in a half amused smirk.
“I know pity when I see it.” You huffed, throwing your duffle onto the bench and continued to throw the days items in it. This time he let out a laugh, settling heavy beside your bag and looked up at you with cerulean eyes.
“Concern, never pity.” And when he patted the seat next to him, you took it. “It was a tough case today.”
“And you’re okay?” He didn’t respond when you nodded. Actually he stayed fully silent, not even a sigh leaving his lips, until you looked up and made eye contact with him. He just stared at you, long enough to let your thoughts take over and tears well in your eyes.
He moved without hesitation, one hand hooking behind your neck as the other ghosted the curve of your back and pulled you ever closer to him. Your resolve broke the moment your head hit his collarbone. He didn’t shush you, still didn’t speak as he rubbed soothing circles into your spine as you let out the days frustrations. Frustrations for the ones you couldn’t save, for the problems you couldn’t fix.
It wasn’t until you had stopped crying, unbeknownst to how much time had passed in his comfort, that he spoke.
“You okay?” And when you told him no, he stayed there and spoke to you until you were.
And that was it, that was the night you knew there was no one else in the world who would ever understand you like him.
He must have felt the same, both of you being attached at the hip so much that a bet had begun between the other team members on how long it would take for you both to get your heads out of your asses. Completely without your knowledge, of course.
“I’m okay,” you assured your best friend, utterly confused on why he was freaking out like that.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that bullshit before.” He teased, using his own fingers to rinse the cut out despite your continued protest that you were fine and whatever the fuck he was doing hurt a shit ton more than the cut.
“I have to irrigate the wound, you know that.”
“Yeah, you might’ve mentioned that.”
So you let him be a macho man. It was not like you personally wanted to clean out the gaping wound, not when you could lean forward and rest your forehead against his shoulder while he worked away and rest your tired eyes a little. You’d both stayed up late last night, him crashing on your couch once again and definitely didn’t get enough sleep for a shift this lackluster.
“I think you need stitches.” You must have dozed off, his words jolting you. His smirk was evidence that he knew not only that you were sleeping but that you hadn’t heard him. “You need stitches.
“Okay - wait, what?” You demanded, drawing the cut finger into your view and gagging a little at the flayed wound. You groaned throatily, throwing your head against his broad chest as you complained. “I hate stitches.”
His fingers threaded through your hair, tangling and untangling with ease. He’d had enough practice the last few months. You knew you should stop him, that you were nothing more than friends and this would only make it harder when he finally did find someone. It would ruin every other man for you, that no one would ever understand you or care for you or be as kind to you as this man right here. But you couldn’t, not when you could pretend for just a few moments that this was real.
“I know you do, but I’ll be right there with you the whole time, okay?” Your head snapped up, face inches from his but you didn’t pull away, both of you used to being this in each others space.
“You don’t have to take me.” You chuffed, fingers still cradled between your chests as he cocked his eyebrow nearly up into his hairline.
“Well you’re not going to drive yourself, especially after they give you pain meds.”
“No, but I can get an Uber.” His face turned stern, something deep within those baby blues that made you sit up a little more straight, pull back just an inch.
“You absolutely are not getting an Uber while you’re incapacitated.” You opened your mouth to argue but paused mid sentence. That was your greatest fear, being unable to defend yourself in a common situation despite knowing exactly how to. “Exactly, let me take you.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I can ask Hondo.” If one could win awards for amount of expressions in under a minute, he’d take first prize as irritation clouded his handsome features.
“Why won’t you just let me take care of you?” He sucked in a harsh breath the moment the words left his lips, eyes widening like saucers as you furrowed your eyebrows.
“It’s just a cut finger, relax.” Take care of you? You hadn’t so much as had a cold in the last year, you hadn’t needed any care.
He stared at you for a long moment, long enough for you to get uncomfortable and slowly pull your fingers from his grasp. He was making you uneasy now, a feeling you hadn’t had towards him since you’d joined the team. The feeling only grew when he grabbed your face with both hands, your mouth falling open to protest but he didn’t let you get that far.
“I want to take care of you.”
“If it’s that big of a deal to you then you can take me.” You were more than a little offended when he rolled his eyes at you.
“No, you’re not listening to me. I want to take care of you.” Had he hit his head?
“Deac, I’m gonna need a few more adjectives, maybe some nouns. A verb or two might be nice.” Your words fell like lead in the room, no reaction from the man in front of you and it took all you're might not to worm out of his grip. He had something to say, clearly, you just needed to let him find the words.
“I want to be the one to take care of you. I want to be the one to hold you when you cry, the one you call when something good happens, when something bad happens. I want to be the one that you come home to, the one who makes you smile and the one who makes you laugh. I want to be the one you make memories with, the one who talks you out of those stupid ideas you have running through your head. I want to be the one to go to the hospital at 2 pm on a Tuesday with you because you’re so adorably clumsy that it kills me. I want to be the one to kiss you goodnight, the one who wakes up to your messy bedhead and debates laying in bed all day just to keep you in my arms. I want to be the one to take care of you, everyday and always.”
Heartbeats pounded in your ears, you couldn’t even tell if they were yours at the weight of his words. He wanted you? Deacon, the man you’d been in love with for months who you had finally accepted would never love you back, wanted you?
You were unable to speak as your eyes followed his as he traced your features with his gaze. His eyes lingered on your lips before flickering back up to your eyes, holding your gaze in a heart stopping moment. He smiled, small and shy as he admitted what he’d been working up the courage to say since he met you.
“I want to be the one you love.” Your smile could’ve lit the stars in the sky, his own breaking through his nervous mask as you laughed into the quiet room.
“Oh Deac,” You whispered, going onto your toes to press your nose to his. “Don’t you know? You’ve always been the one.”
i still dont know how to finish stories without cliffhangers and who knows if you ever get your finger stitched but we’re at 1800 words and i need to relax lol but yay! i finally watched swat and i need everyone to know that i would marry shemar moore right now, that is all
