butch that acts mean to everyone but me. butch who isn’t as scary as they pretend to be around me. serious butch who’s charmed by my theatrics. untrusting butch who melts at my touch. butch with serious/hard job that wants to hear about my event planning. butch who wears all black and dark colors while I wear pink and sparkles. unimpressed butch that laughs at my lame jokes bc they think I’m cute. butch that struggles to open up feeling safe enough with me to be soft. butch who drinks straight liquor but still wants to sip my pina colada. provider butch that lets me fuss over and cook for and dote on them!!!!! WHEN!!!!!!!!!!
❛ i’ve been in love with her for ages, and i can’t seem to get it right. ❜
spencer reid x reader.
summary: you’ve always assumed spencer reid’s love language was acts of service. flowers left at your desk. notes written only to you. every tuesday, he gave you your favorite bagel from downtown. you knew he was like this with the rest of the team, too. you didn’t sweat it. you were focused on your job, and your job only. but when multiple instances occur over the course of a case, it’s hard to ignore both of your feelings for each other.
tags: grumpy fem!character x sunshine!spencer reid, friends to lovers, everyone knows but them, the bau literally bets when they’ll get together, no use of y/n, afab character, found family if you squint hard enough, spencer’s obsessed with her but won’t admit it to the public (the public is morgan), based on me & you together song by the 1975 btw, i wrote this while eating a doritos loco taco
word count: 2k
notes: i asked my best friends to give me a character and a trope. happy first post!
When you first landed the job as an agent at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, you first told yourself not to get too attached. This was a job, after all. A career. A high risk one, that could end in fatalities and wounds that might never heal, cuts that will always bleed for the rest of eternity. Once you made it clear to yourself that you were to be civil with your coworkers —close enough to be friendly, but not enough to go out for drinks on Saturday nights— and most important of all, do your job, and do it damn well, you poured yourself a glass of wine and watched the rest of the season of the sitcom you’ve been meaning to finish.
However, with all of the ups and downs your job gave you, it could not have allowed for you to expect the boisterous chaos that were your coworkers. They welcomed you in not only with open arms, but open minds. They respected your boundaries, your ideas, everything about you. Your attempt at remaining just civil became useless after months, but looking back, how could you have tried any longer? Penelope gave you a big kiss on the cheek every week, exclaiming that she loved your outfits and needed to go shopping with you right that minute. Morgan ruffled your hair whenever he brought you coffee (despite your incessant dismay that now you needed to brush it again). Hotch, though not a fan of public displays, would murmur a reassuring, you’re doing well every time he returned a file back to you. And then there was Reid.
Spencer Reid.
Well, what was there to say about him?
Over time, you’ve assumed that his love language must be acts of service. He brought you a bagel every week, sometimes more, from your favorite bagel shop downtown. Every Tuesday, a poppy seed bagel with extra plain cream cheese, extra toasted, cut in half so you could eat the middle dollop of cream cheese first. He made you mugs of tea whenever it grew past five pm because you told him that you had trouble falling asleep once months ago. Sometimes, small bouquets of wild grown flowers were left on your desk. At first, you thought it was Penelope being extra kind to you, or even Morgan playing a small joke on you. Both denied, but still giggled as you walked away. Whatever that meant. Behind your back, they secretly slipped each other five dollar bills.
You were sure he did the same for the rest of his coworkers, too. You’ve seen him refill coffee pots whenever Emily mentioned starting a new brew, and work extra hard on his reports in his free time to make sure Hotch or JJ didn’t stay too late. You were on the same page, anyway. Friends. Civil. It didn’t matter.
You huffed as you walked into the BAU, which was deemed more of a half jog, half marathon sprint. You hadn’t bothered to check the weather before leaving, and on the walk from the subway station to the office, it had started downpouring. The sudden drops of cold from the sky had caused you to drop your half empty cup of coffee, and you had forgotten to grab the breakfast you made yourself the night before in the fridge. Not even Harry Styles’ album blaring in your ears could have stopped you from turning the morning around. You grumbled simple good morning’s to everyone as you shook off your coat. Expecting to see your desk surrounded with papers that you were too tired to file in their intended drawers yesterday, you instead found a clean one; the papers were stashed in their designated places (in alphabetical order), the pens were compiled in the pouch you bought at Daiso years ago and cherished, even the trash under your desk was taken out. The only thing left to be seen on the wooden desk was a small brown bag that smelled of heaven and happiness and a folded piece of paper. You reached inside to find your usual poppy seed bagel the same as it always was. To make your Tuesday better. For you, always, the note read. You didn’t need to decipher whose scribbles those belonged to. You forgot it was Tuesday.
“Where’s my bagel, lover boy?” Morgan’s voice boomed as the man sat on top of your desk, snatching the bag with a grin. Spencer only swiftly passed by the desk with ease, choosing to make eye contact with the carpet.
“Good morning, Dr. Reid. Happy Tuesday.” Spencer’s eyes divert to yours quickly. He only nods, responding with the same greeting. Happy Tuesday, honey.
Morgan’s laugh carried throughout the room, swinging his legs as he spoke. “You two make me sick, that’s for sure. Can I have some of your bagel?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You furrowed your brow in annoyance, which only made Morgan smile widely.
“Do you need to get your glasses checked again? You know, there’s an optometrist across the street—”
As you started to speak, Hotch walked from his office, announcing a new case and to meet in the room immediately. You got up swiftly, grabbing your bagel from Morgan’s hands with a muttered asshole falling from your lips. It only made Morgan cackle loudly. You remind yourself to write a psych evaluation on Morgan after the case is over with.
On the first day of the case, you realized it was going to be a more difficult one than usual. You didn’t panic. You never do. The second day, you worked harder than ever only to see little to no result. You continued not to sleep. It was like clockwork. Work, coffee, repeat. After three days, the case was far from settled. In fact, it seemed to only be getting worse with no ending in sight. Everyone was continuing to work in hopes that they would be home for the weekend. The fourth day, though, seemed to be the worst. The killer was getting more spontaneous with their kills, and the team seemed to keep showing up minutes after the kill had occurred. You were running on little to no sleep and were getting more frustrated with each move the killer made in silence. Near the end of the day, as you stared aimlessly at the wall in front of you, hoping it would make some sort of answer appear in front of your eyes, Hotch put a hand on your shoulder, You jumped slightly, trance be gone, when he told you to get back to the hotel immediately.
Immediately, you persisted. “I’m fine. I’ve almost got something. I’m sure of something.”
“I’m not asking you.”
“Hotch—”
“I’m ordering you, not only as your boss, but mostly as your friend. Your dark circles are getting concerning.” You tried to budge once more, but as Hotch gave one of his stern glares, you knew you were done with work for the day. “I’ll get someone to drive you back. Wait here.”
Within seconds, Spencer appeared, replacing the previous figure of Hotch. Gently tapping your shoulder, he signaled for you to get up. With a flick of a wrist and a soft grin, he spun around a set of keys around his fingers. “Hotch is letting me drive.”
You smiled. “Don’t want Morgan to ‘vibe it?’”
“His definition of ‘vibing it’ is just turning on the sirens when he doesn’t want to stop at a red light.” You walked side by side to the car. Your shoulders brushed ever so slightly due to Spencer’s hands in his pockets, but you didn’t mind. You welcomed the warmth.
“Your definition is turning the volume up to 13 and calling it loud.”
“I would like to be able to hear when I’m old, thank you very much. Any decibel over eighty and poof. Hearing. Out the window.”
“I really don’t think playing Queen at any volume above 13 will kill you, Spence.”
“You never know, honey.” Spencer opened the door for you, ushering you in before closing the door and getting in on the driver’s side. He pulled a cassette tape from his bag and pushed it in the radio; it started to softly play Queen while Spencer messed with the volume, setting it at 13 before driving away. It made a soft smile appear on your lips as your head leaned against the cool glass. Between the constant, soothing movement of the car or the way Spencer’s lips mouthed the lyrics of Good Old Fashioned Boy, it was hard to tell when the lines blurred and sleep drifted you away. The only thing you recognized before falling asleep were the unmistakable words that left Spencer’s mouth.
“Good night, honey. Love you.”
You woke up with a start the next morning. You had no idea how you got back into your hotel room, or how you were wearing your favorite sports shirt that you find comfort in sleeping in all of these years, though your mind directed each question back to the same person, of course. Your mind wandered to the night before; it was the most relaxed you had been all week, even if it was just the simple act of driving with Spencer. You had done it before in past cases —even driven him back to his hotel at times— but this time felt different. Maybe it was the words that left his mouth.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.” Spencer suddenly walked in, holding bags in his arms. He set them down on the table, pulling out various assortments of breakfast foods and handing them to you. “No bagel shops around here, but I did find some good pancakes if you want to eat now.”
“Spence.” You suddenly sat up straight, as if a revelation hit you.
“What? No pancakes? It came with hashbrowns, too.”
“Spencer.” You emphasized, getting him to look at you.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you do all of this for me?”
“What?” His head cocked to the side, not understanding.
“Why do you… I mean… you go out of your way to do things for me. Unnecessary things. I need to know why.”
“Unnecessary…?”
“You… you leave me flowers that are like, hand picked from a garden or the forest, or something not from the city. You clean my desk for me when I’ve left it too messy. You make me my favorite tea when I’m at the office too late. You write me notes that are alluding but you won’t say what. I mean, Spence, you get me my favorite bagel every Tuesday. Why?”
His face suddenly turned serious as he sat next to you on the bed. “You want to know why?” He repeated.
“I know you do these things for the rest of our team, but I just, I just don’t get it.”
“Because I’m in love with you.” Spencer stared at you. “I’ve been in love with you. I think I’ll always be at least a little in love with you, if I’m being honest. I thought you’d catch on by now.”
“…What?”
“Yeah, honey. I thought I was pretty obvious.”
“So you meant what you said last night, then?” You said softly.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Really. I would’ve said it better if I had known you were awake.”
“But I did.” Your face grew closer to his. “And I’m not upset about it. Because I’m in love with you, too.”
Just as your lips began to brush, Spencer began to smile. “You know what day it is, honey? It’s our day.”
You smiled, too. “Happy Tuesday.”
You both tried to be subtle about it for the rest of the case. Weeks had passed by without the team knowing, but one slip up of a kiss on the cheek from Spencer on a Tuesday morning had led to an entire office full of chaos (and a meeting on workplace romance and consent from Hotch). You two didn’t mind, though. It was bound to happen. Until Penelope turned to Morgan and yelled at him to cough up the fifty dollars he owed her, of course.
Summary: What if Emma Nolan and Brendon Park accidentally adopted the same cat? Time to co-parent!
Word Count: 2.5k
Notes: this started as a small idea i had, and then i just kept yapping. i apologize in advance.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82475646
The best part of Emma Nolan’s day was the few minutes she had free during her shifts at the ED, not for any of the usual reasons like taking a breath or trying to eat a protein bar before the chaos resumed. No, it was because of the stray cat that hung around PTMC.
The first time she’d seen the scraggly orange cat was in the middle of scolding Dana for smoking, she’d promised to stop. She had been going through her reasons on why Dana should absolutely stop smoking when she heard the small meow.
“Don’t feed it.” Dana had told her. “It’ll keep coming back.” That didn’t stop her from buying a small pack of wet food that same night.
She’d been feeding the cat since. She found out he was a boy, so she named him Cheddar. Not exactly original, but she’d never had a pet before. She didn’t know the proper etiquette for naming one.
She’d tried to pick him up once; he deserved a proper home, but he’d run, and she hadn’t seen him for two days. She hasn’t worked up the courage to try again.
She loved getting to see Cheddar. She’d had to blink back tears the first time she noticed him gaining weight. She might not have had any experience with cats before, but she was convinced she ended up with the best one.
Brendon “The Shark” Park was not the type of man who blinked twice at strays. They came and went. He had better things to worry about, and a feral cat was certainly not going to be one of them. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself every time he bought a new pack of cat food.
He didn’t even like cats. He found them entitled and aggravating. If he were going to have a pet, it’d be a dog, something big that he could properly train. Not some cat that looked like it came with twenty diseases.
“This is the last time I’m bringing you one of these.” He huffs at the cat as he cracks open the can. “You’re getting fat. Go find a home.”
He didn’t want to think about how he was already mentally planning to stop at the store for more before he went home. He didn’t know why he cared. He swears he doesn’t like cats. He was only giving in because it was persistent. He’d stopped feeding it once a few weeks ago, and it followed him throughout the PTMC parking lot, meowing every step of the way. He’d come back an hour later with a can of food. Not that he’d admit it to anyone.
Emma was worried. She couldn’t find Cheddar. She’d used all her breaks in the ED to scour the parking lot for him with no luck. Her palms felt clammy. What if something happened to him? The parking lot at PTMC wasn’t safe for a cat to wander around. What if someone had run him over by accident? She didn’t think she could bear the thought of that.
She found herself exploring the parking garage, a part of the hospital she’d never had reason to go to due to her lack of a car.
“Cheddar?” She calls out, tapping the can of cat food with her nail.
Her lips pressed into a thin line when she didn’t hear his signature meow. “Cheddar?” Her tone is more desperate now. She wants to kick herself for not doing a good enough job of grabbing him to bring him to her apartment.
“What are you doing?”
She whips around at the deep voice. “Oh.” She says. “Hi.”
She recognized him. He was an Orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. Dr. Park, or as she’d heard Perlah whisper, Park the Shark. The nickname seemed fitting now that she got a proper look at him. He looked like a shark. He was still dressed in his dark purple scrubs, and his brown hair was perfectly slicked back, even though he’d obviously just finished a full shift. She almost wanted to ask what brand of gel he used. Her curls were always flying out of her braids by the end of her shift. His expression didn’t seem friendly, though. He looked irritated.
Her eyes swept over the sharp lines of his face. He was attractive but in a sort of terrifying way, like he could tear her in half if he wanted to.
“I’m Emma Nolan.” She says after a few moments of tense silence. “I’m a nurse in the ED.”
She tried not to shiver when his dark eyes raked over her. Everything about this man felt intense.
“Why are you looking under people’s cars?” He asks.
She paled. She didn’t want to imagine how strange she’d probably looked crouched down beside people’s cars.
“I’m looking for my cat.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Why would you bring your cat here?”
“Well, he’s technically a stray. I haven’t been able to grab him yet, but he’s going to be my cat. His name is Cheddar.” She’s rambling. She knows she’s rambling. She can hear her mother’s sigh in her head. “I can’t find him. He’s orange, getting a little chubby. Have you seen him?”
“Unbelievable.” She hears him huff.
“Sorry?”
“You’re the reason the little bastard has been getting fat.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “Don’t call him that. He’s not fat.”
“He is.” He replies. “He’s practically gained ten pounds since I started feeding him.”
Her eyes brighten. “You’ve been feeding him, too? Does that mean you’ve seen him today?”
He gives a stiff nod. “A few minutes ago, when he came begging.”
She smiles. “Great! I was worried. He usually hangs around the ambulance bay, but I couldn’t find him today.”
“Why haven’t you taken him home with you if you’re so worried about a stray?” He asks.
Her expression turns a bit sheepish. “I tried once and then didn’t see him for two days. I’m working on gaining his trust.”
“It’s a cat.” He states. “You’re a nurse, I’m sure you can manage to grab it.”
“It’s not that easy.” She murmurs.
“It is.”
Emma Nolan is not the type of girl who gets frustrated easily. It’s the opposite, honestly. Dana had once told her that she was too patient, that she needed to toughen up or people would take advantage of her kindness, but she felt the frustration simmering in her blood. Why was he talking to her as if she were twelve? She wasn’t an idiot.
“You don’t have to sound so condescending.” She finds her mouth saying before her brain is fully on board. She knew his reputation; they called him Shark for a reason. Getting into an argument with him in an empty parking lot wasn’t high up on her list of greatest decisions.
“Excuse me?” He replies.
“You heard me. You’re speaking to me like I’m some lost child.” She argues.
“You don’t seem much older than one. I wasn’t aware Robby started letting kids into the Pitt.” He replies with a bored expression.
What was wrong with him? She hadn’t done anything to him.
“You’re being a dick!” She snaps. She froze just as quickly as she had practically yelled the word. She never lost her temper like that. She was mentally preparing for whatever came out of his mouth next when she heard a deep laugh.
“Wow.” He chuckles, and she gets a glimpse of his razor-sharp white teeth. He really was a shark. His eyes scan her over again, somehow slower this time, as if he were making note of everything about her appearance. “So you do know how to bite back.”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times. She doesn’t know what to say.
“I can grab the cat for you if you find it that important.” He offers.
“What?” She hadn’t expected that.
“I can grab the cat for you.” He repeats with a sigh.
“Oh.” She says before flushing. “Uhm, thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
She watched his jaw clench. “You don’t want me to grab the cat for you?” He asks. “You seemed concerned about it less than two minutes ago.”
“I’m sure you’re tired. He could be anywhere right now. Your shift is over. I don’t want to hold you up.” She didn’t want to tell this man, who seemed to have his entire life together, that she didn’t have a car. She couldn’t bring the cat into the Uber or bus without a carrier.
“You held me up when I found you crouched beside my car.”
She wants the ground to open and swallow her up. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Do you want me to grab the cat or not?” He asks for the third time.
“I don’t have a car.” She murmurs. “Or a carrier to put him in right now.”
It felt like they were standing in the world’s most awkward silence for hours when she heard him clear his throat. “Where do you live?”
“What?” She asks.
She watched him suppress what looked like a groan. “Where do you live? I will grab the cat for you and give you a ride.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Really?”
“I’m not the type to offer things I don’t mean, Nolan.” Something inside her flared at the use of her last name in his mouth.
She smiles. “That would be really nice, Dr. Park. If you’re completely sure, then I’ll try and find Cheddar as fast as I can.”
“You named it Cheddar.”
“Not very original, I know.” She tilts her head. “If you were feeding him too, what do you call him?”
“I didn’t name it.”
“How’d you get him to always come to you then?” She asks.
“I didn’t. He’s just good at finding me.” He grumbles. “It’s been a nuisance.”
“You don’t have to call him it. I found out he’s a boy.” She announces before her eyes widen when she sees him bent over. Nobody could deny that he was a well-built man. Gosh, he probably spent his free time working out. She wondered if he was one of those health freaks. Her eyes scanned over the ridges of his back beneath his scrubs. Holy shit. How could someone be this hot? It didn’t seem fair to her.
“Are you looking for him?” He asks, peering at her over his shoulder. Did he catch her ogling him? She wanted to disappear. She kept embarrassing herself.
“Of course.” She stammers out, trying to hide the redness spreading across her face. “Cheddar?” She calls out. “Come here, boy.”
She almost let out a cry of relief a few minutes later when she heard his meow. “Cheddar!” She squeals there you are. She turns to the tall figure that had appeared by her side. “Maybe I should try to distract him while you approach-” Her words trailed off when Dr. Park simply stalked over to the cat and picked him up.
“Or you approach the cat and pick it up.” He replies with an expression that seemed entirely too smug.
She hesitated before following behind him to his car. It was nicer than anything she’d ever be able to afford. “I don’t want him to ruin your car.” She says softly.
“Just get in the car, Nolan.”
She’d tried to keep up some form of conversation after she’d given him the address to her apartment. She felt a little embarrassed. She was sure that wherever he lived was a million times nicer than the small, rundown place she tried to call her home.
“I see why you and the cat like each other.” He stated after a few minutes of awkward small talk.
“Why?’ She asks.
“You both like the sound of your voices.”
“Oh.” She faltered. “Will you be sad about not seeing him every day if he’s living with me?”
“No.” He didn’t talk much. It felt like pulling teeth to get him to give her anything to work with.
“Well, you can come over anytime if you start to miss him.” She wanted to smack herself. It sounded like she was propositioning him. “I just mean-”
“I know what you mean, Nolan.” He replies coolly.
“Right. Good. Thanks again for doing all of this. I really appreciate it.” She smiles.
“Mhm.” Great. This was all excellent. She focused her attention back to Cheddar, who had perched himself on her lap. She didn’t know how cats normally behaved in cars, but he seemed calm.
Her apartment complex looked a lot worse now that she was sitting in an expensive car next to Dr. Park. The paint was peeling off, trash was littered across the parking lot, and drunks were laughing wildly at something on the staircase.
“Thanks again.” She tells him as she grabs her purple backpack and tries to maneuver to grab Cheddar.
“I’ll walk you up.” He interjects as he grabs the cat himself.
“Oh, you don’t have to-” She starts, but he’s already out of the car. She scrambles to follow. “I’m upstairs.” She forces a smile when she maneuvers around the drunks. She’s grateful none of them are attempting to pester her today. She thinks it might have something to do with the mountain of a man behind her, glaring daggers.
She fumbles with her keys to unlock her door. She internally thanks her earlier self for cleaning up that morning. She didn’t think she could handle any more embarrassment for the day.
“Do you live alone?” He questions as he sets the cat down on her floor.
“I have a roommate. Her name is Hannah. I don’t think she’s home now, though.” She didn’t know if she imagined it, but she swore he lost a centimeter of tension when she said she didn’t live alone.
She shuffled on her feet when he glanced over her apartment. She was grateful he didn’t comment on it. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she thought. He’d gone out of his way to drive her and her cat home in his nice car; he’d completely delayed getting himself home when he was surely exhausted after his shift.
“Thank you. I really do appreciate everything you did today. I’ll feel a lot better now that Cheddar officially has somewhere to call home.”
He stared at her for a few moments before nodding. “You’re welcome.” He takes a step towards her door before pausing. “How do you usually get home after your shifts?”
“Either Uber or the bus.”
His jaw clenches. “I’ll give you a ride when our shifts align.” He wasn’t asking. He was telling her, stating it like a fact.
“You don’t have to. I’m fine with Uber and the bus. I’m saving up for a car.” She didn’t want to take advantage of someone likely pitying her.
“You’ll save faster without spending as much on transportation. Do you work tomorrow?” He asks.
“I do.”
“I park in the same spot every day. Meet me there after your shift tomorrow.” She opened her mouth to refuse when he spoke again. “It’ll let me see the cat more, too.”
“I thought you wouldn’t miss him.” She counters.
“I changed my mind.”
She doubted that, but she found herself nodding. “Okay then. If you insist.”
“I do.” His words are firm.
“Guess we’re co-parents to Cheddar then.” She says with a small smile.
Notes: hiii! you deserve an award if you made it til the end. i'm not sure what this ended up being, but i hope it's a fun read. it's mostly just two dumbasses (affectionately) standing in the ptmc parking garage arguing over a cat. anyway, i love grumpy brendon park feeling oddly protective over the nurse he barely knows, and in this case, ig cheddar too.
synopsis ; reader is a news reporter and has to report on a car pileup right outside the hospital, only thing is Dr. Jack Abbott can’t stand the press. But she’s starting to think maybe it’s just her.
warnings ; talk of traumatic occurrences, kissing, enemies to lovers, slightly suggestive
WC. 2.9k
A/N // sooooo this is my SECOND tumblr fic I’ve ever done so bareeee with me! really trying to get back into writing <3 i appreciate feedback ! :p
Saturdays were always the most hectic for you, working at CBS Pittsburgh. And although you much rather work in the mornings or cover sports. Your boss thinks your personality goes over well with the doctors at AGH.
You couldn’t disagree more.
Dr. Jack Abbot made your job 20x harder every time he saw you. The confusingly sexy DILF couldn’t stand you, despite your ongoing friendship with some of the workers.
As you put in your hot curlers you couldn’t help but prepare yourself for the dread of whatever obstacle Abbot put in front of you tonight.
It particularly annoyed you, because you swore to him and Robbie you’d always stay out the way, would never be around the bay, and only would come in if it was super duper empty (which has never happened).
But you understood some of your colleagues liked to poach and make elaborate schemes just to get the best story. You knew you made salary either way, and leaned on articles to back you up.
You walked into work wearing a fashionable butter yellow sweater and red slacks. Perfect for being recognized in the dark and serving looks while doing it.
“Hello Sunshine”, the receptionist says smiling at you. She was probably your favorite person there at all.
“Hey, is Kenny here tonight”, you say leaning over her desk.
“No, anddddd there’s a pileup on Parkway North so you’ll hear all about it”, she said rolling her eyes pointing to the office.
The office was still bustling with writers, commentators, local broadcasters and interns all over the place. The TV Walls on all sides, broadcasting a different network, traffic patterns, ect.
It’s hectic like the Pitt, minus the blood and dying; you just report the blood and dying. Interview victims of the hurt and dying, things you sometimes struggled with too.
“Lay it on me”
“10 car pile up on Parkway North, not sure who’s injured, only three ambulance have been sent out so far so if you can get ahead of them, that would be great, truck leaves in five”
“Super”, you say all too sarcastically. You didn’t even have enough time to put your bag down before you rewind to the back patio as they loaded up the camera truck.
Not before turning on your heels to chew out your lazy coworker.
“You do know either of us could go to the hospital right, that night guy, he fucking hates me”
“The main doctor?”
“Yes the fucking main doctor, will you go, please?”
“I actually would go, kinda bored. But I’m swamped on this DUI report, how do you make somebody sympathize with someone who killed three kids?”
“Yeahhh. I’m not fucking doing that. Never mind, see you later?”
“Byeeee!”, he says, wiggling in his chair waving
The drive was anything but quiet as the cameramen blasted Rod Wave out of all people.
Just what you needed before seeing the grumpy old man. That also made your insides feel something you wish they didn’t.
The camera truck pulls up right behind the Ambulance Bay, and you can see doctors, residents, and surgeons lined up. You knew he couldn’t be far.
Taking a deep breath, you walked onto your little black kitten heels, fixed your mic, checking your hair in your hand-held mirror. You spotted a figure in the reflection coming up to you.
“Great”, you mutter to yourself. Dr.Abbot comes behind you with a deep sigh.
“Not happy to see me?”, you ask slickly.
“Oh, I couldn’t be more thrilled. It’s typically disaster that follows you, I thrive in disaster.”
“Clearly”
“Well can you try your best to stay the fuck out of everybody’s way and not distract my crew princess? Think you can manage that?”
“The only one that’s distracted right now is you, I’m getting ready to do my job shouldn’t you be doing the same?” You say never once looking up from your reflection in the mirror. Only turning your body to face him.
He stands there for a second you think he just may be admiring you from how long it last. He realizes the intimidation he’s causing and you swear he hardens his smolder to become even more attractive. That son of a bitch knew he was fine.
“Dr. Abbot is there anything else I can help you with right now? Or am I good to get back to work.”
“I mean, you can do whatever you want I’m not your boss. Unless you want me to be, is that why you always are here?”, his voice gets deeper, more sultry.
“I’m always here because there’s always a good story to talk about because it always seems like your hospital is always having a complete shit show”
Before he can reply, a cascade of ambulance noises fill the air. He grunts and rubs down his face before walking back towards the ambulance bay.
“What a fucking dick”, you said cocking, your head back and turning on your heels towards the camera guys that now had everything set up.
The guys talked amongst themselves while you waited, when you heard the automatic doors open. It was Dana, the light herself, lighting a well deserved, after-shift cigarette.
“Hey blossom, it’s been a while, what you don’t find this interesting anymore” she jokes.
“I find you the most interesting, Dana. I went into sports for a little bit, but they didn’t like my coworkers work for on-site night news, so here I am. They pay me like ten dollars more though so”, you shrug and put your chin in your hands.
“Tell me about it kid, rough day? Didn’t it just start though”
“I kind of hate reporting this… trauma. It feels exploitative.. like I’m taking their trauma and writing about it and talking about it with them right behind me”
“Sweetie, sometimes I see so many people suffering. I have to take myself completely out of it. Now it’s not every time, and every nurse is different. Every doctor is different. Hell! Every reporter is different”
“Yeah, you got a point”
“If anything, I’m glad they stopped sending that son of a bitch here, he pissed off the entire Pitt”
“Yeah, well I know I’m pissing off one person, Dr. Abbot”
“Oh please, you’re joking!”
“I think a piece of him dies every time he sees the car pull up or maybe it’s just me getting out the car. But I try to be ethical but it’s my job”
“I’ve never heard him complain about you once. And I’ve heard him call that young man three different cuss words. I’ve never heard a day in my life. I don’t even think they’re English.”, Dana says rubbing my back.
You start to fix your lips to say something back when a cameraman yells to you to set up for a script read.
“You go be great, I’ll hear what’s happening down here by watching you later”
“Why can’t everybody be like you dana”
“Sweetie, that’s probably impossible”, she says, grabbing her things and blowing me a kiss.
The night was not nearly as hectic as you or Dr. Abbot had assumed which meant one cameraman going home and the other hanging around the bar down the street until something ‘exciting happens’. You’re left alone. Typical, if it wasn’t one thing it was the other.
Your perched up on the edge of the camera truck kicking your legs when you hear footsteps. You don’t lift your head up at first, but the boots meet your eye line. You know those boots from a mile away.
“What do you want Abbott, came to gloat? No bustling story? Well, I’ve got fucking news for you. I didn’t want a traumatic story”
“I haven’t even said anything yet”
“Yet. Which means it’s coming. I’m really not in the mood for this tonight. Once everybody’s been cleared, I can report and go home. No dead bodies needed”
He laughs a deep chuckle, sexier than you would’ve liked to admit. You look up through your eyelashes first to see his arms crossed, biceps poking out of his scrubs, and you can’t help but stare.
“I’m ordering subs for the night crew, I wanted to know what type of sandwich you like”, he smiles aggressively for a second before returning back to his resting bitch face.
“I don’t like subs”, you say keeping it short.
“Oh yeah?”, he teases. “Then who did I see chomping down a Philly cheesesteak at the deli last Friday?”
“Are you stalking me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Maybe I am, now tell me what you wanna eat. Or are you just gonna sulk out here by yourself all night? Not sure that’s a good idea, too pretty to be alone.”
You look up at him for a second. A part of you wanted to test the waters to see if he was flirting. But you quickly remembered how he had treated you just a few hours before.
Giving him the satisfaction of talking about how his salt and pepper hair made. You wanna rip your own hair out from how sexy it was wasn’t ideal. So you went a different way.
“What you’re gonna let me stay in there?”, you say pointing at the hospital. “Do I get my very own family bathroom? Use the diaper changing center as a table?”
“You’re really fucking annoying, do you know that? I’ll get you a club. And if you get cold, I hope you know how to use automatic doors. Your sandwich will be waiting for you.”, he says tapping your head.
You were sure this was a plot and plan he’s designing so that he can walk you in a room and we a.k.a you, won’t be able to find out whatever happened once they come out. And boom you leave without a story, and an earful from your boss coming soon.
The suspense started to eat you alive as the minute went by to the point where you hosted yourself up and stormed into the hospital. Possibly walking into a trap you were aware of.
The receptionist at the front desk starts to say something, but you cut her off asking to speak to Dr. Abbot immediately.
“May I ask what this is about”, she says in a bitchy tone, which understood because you did just cut her off.
“A sandwich”, you say bluntly. She furrowed her eyebrows at you.
“He’ll understand”
And sure enough he did. You watched as he walked towards you in his scrubs. His stethoscope propped up on his puffed up abs.
“You okay?”, he says semi confused with a dash of concern.
“Are you”, you say slightly louder than you would’ve wanted to as heads turn in the waiting room. He lightly grabs a wrist and pulls you into the ER down the hallway.
You hear small murmurs of people asking if that’s the reporter and remarks like ‘damn I hope he doesn’t yell at her. I kinda liked her’. Which on the walk to nowhere, did make you smile.
“Whyyy are you dragging me”, you say through gridded teeth , starting to wiggle your arm to get out of his driving grip when he pulls you into an on-call room , locking the door behind him. You gulp a tiny bit.
“I am at work Dr. Abbot and you better not fucking lock me in here because I swear to God I will call the police. This is 100% abduction”
“Be quiet”, he almost orders.
“What? No. What the hell has gotten into you one minute you’re telling me to stay the fuck out of your way the next minute you’re literally pulling me into a r-“, you start another tangent when he begins walking you into a wall.
Your back hit it softly and Dr. Abbot put his arm above your head onto the wall, hovering over you but you’re not necessarily trapped in.
“Dana says you think I hate you, I just wanted another chance to prove you wrong”, his voice is low, sickeningly low.
The only sound between the two of you is the noise of your breath, becoming more shallow. His breath becoming more rough, and ragged.
He leans in, and subconsciously you do too. Yet, your lips don’t quite touch yet. Brushing across one another. You close your eyes and he takes the softest nibble of your bottom lip.
“Dr.Abbo-“
“Jack”, he corrects. Your hands have found their way up his shoulders, and around his neck. You can’t find any logical reason that you’re doing this, seeing that you’re supposed to hate him. But you certainly don’t hate the way he looks.
“We are-“, you start, but can barely finish your sentence as he begins to kiss up your neck, putting his hands on your waist, under your sweater, where your pant line meets.
“It’s been a long night, there’s obviously tension that you have, that.. we have”, he says hooking his fingers onto your waistband and pulling it like a slingshot so that it snaps back onto your skin with just a slight sting.
You bite your lip, to withhold giving him the satisfaction quite yet.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to”, he says, pulling away to look you deep into your eyes. You begin to melt without notice onto the wall where he holds you up.
“But you want to don’t you”, his hand grips your chin, tilting it to look up to him.
You nod. You nod a lot.
“Hmm?”, he hums running his hand down your leg.
“Usually you have so much to say, hours worth of material, really”, he whispers going in for a kiss.
You almost too eagerly kiss back. Both of your lips fighting for dominance over the other. You nibble on his bottom lip like he did before, but bite down just a little bit harder as payback. He’s shocked, but quick, grabbing onto a lock of your curls and giving it a firm tug.
You let out a quiet moan and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.
Before things can escalate any further, his pager goes off. But he doesn’t stop abruptly, you have to push him off.
“Jack”, you say slightly out of breath. He looks up at you surprised you used his first name and smiles.
“What time are you off?”, he says also beginning to pant. He begins to undressed you with his eyes, or at least that’s what it feels like in your body and you melt all over again.
“I don’t really know probably go home soon. It’s like 5 AM and nothings happend”, you say a little defeated. He kisses your lips once more, quickly as his pager continues.
“Well I wouldn’t say nothing’s happened just yet, wait here I’ll get your sandwich”, he says holding the ringing pager, jogging to the exit door.
“Are they paging you because the sandwiches are here”, you say a little confused with a dash of flustered creeping on your cheeks.
“No someone’s definitely dying, but if you don’t get your sandwich, they’ll wonder what I was doing, and I don’t want people to wonder”, he says smiling at you before tapping the door twice and shutting it behind him.
Synopsis: After finding Helen’s old recipe book, you decide to surprise John with breakfast for Father’s Day, but of course, surprising an ex-assassin isn’t the easiest thing to accomplish. And unfortunately for you, he’s not particularly pleased with the result.
WC: 3479
Category: Heavy Fluff, Slight Angst, John!POV, Found Family, Grumpy + Sunshine Trope, Reader Is Around 14-15 Years Old, John Being A Dad {TW: Drugging (Not Out Of Malicious Intent), Mentions of Murder/Death}
I know Father’s Day isn’t for another month, but John gives me such girl dad vibes, and I just had to write about it.
『••✎••』
The house was quiet in the way old houses are when they think no one's listening—creaks swallowed by thick walls, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen below like distant breathing. John Wick woke to none of it at first. Just the headache. A slow, insistent hammer behind his left eye, spreading like spilled ink across his skull. Not the sharp crack of a concussion, not the burn of a hangover. Something duller, chemical. Familiar in a way that made the hair on his forearms stand up before his mind caught up.
He didn't move. Not yet.
The bedroom smelled the same as always: faint gun oil from the night before, clean linen, and something else. Something sweet and burnt, like toast pushed too far. His gun was on the nightstand, right where he remembered leaving it, but the carelessness of it—unsecured, while he slept like a stone—was a warning bell clanging in the silence that only he could hear. Years of conditioning screamed at him. He never slept this deep. Never.
His hands went to his neck, feeling for puncture marks, but all he found was skin, clammy with a sweat that wasn't from exertion. The last thing he remembered... nothing. A book, maybe? The lamplight on the page, the weight of it in his hands. Then this. This void. This unnatural, forced stillness in his limbs, the heaviness in his head that made even lifting it a chore.
A different fear began to creep in, colder than the thought of intruders. He pushed himself up, the room tilting slightly before settling. He ignored it. He moved with a grim efficiency, checking the magazine in the pistol—a full clip, untouched—and chambering a round with a soft, lethal click that was the only real sound in the room. He padded across the hardwood, bare feet silent, checking corners, the empty bathroom, the shadowed space behind the door. Clear.
His next thought was you. Your room. He was at your door in three long strides, the gun now tucked into the waistband of his pants from habit as much as necessity. He didn't knock, only eased it open a fraction, then wider when he saw the empty bed, sheets thrown back in a tangle. You were an immovable object on weekend mornings, a lump beneath the covers until well past noon. Even as late as he’d apparently slept, you should still be there. This wrongness was piling up.
Then came the noise.
A clatter from downstairs. Loud. Metallic. The unmistakable sound of a pan hitting the tile floor, followed by a muttered curse that was definitely yours.
He was moving before the echo even died, fluid and silent despite the fog in his head. He took the stairs two at a time, gun back in his hand, every nerve humming. He cleared the living room, the dining nook, every shadow a potential threat. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, ready for anything—
—and then he saw you.
You were on your hands and knees, muttering under your breath as you swiped at something on the floor with a dishrag. Your back was to him, your movements clumsy, rushed. In front of you, the stovetop was a disaster zone. A pan sat askew, egg sputtering messily over the sides. A bowl was tipped over, spilling what looked like shredded cheese onto the counter. The air was thick with the smell of burnt butter and cooking eggs.
He saw you, unharmed, completely absorbed in your chaotic mission, and the tension drained out of him so fast it left him dizzy. The gun was holstered in his waistband, the motion so fluid and practiced you wouldn't have even registered he'd been holding it.
You wouldn’t have noticed his presence either if it wasn’t for the sudden jolt of pain that flared in his head, causing him to lean against the doorframe with a quiet groan. You froze, spinning around, the rag dropping from your hand.
You looked like a deer caught in headlights, and when your eyes met his, you didn't have to say a word. He saw it. The guilt. The panic. The plan that had gone spectacularly, obviously wrong.
That wrongness from before snapped into focus with crystal clarity, because now he remembered something from the night before, a fleeting image of you handing him a glass of water, your smile a little too bright as you’d wished him a good night. He never took anything from anyone, not even water, without checking it first. Except you. He trusted you.
He straightened up, ignoring the throb behind his eye, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of it press down on you. If he wasn’t so wrung out, he might have even managed to look angry, but the drug had leeched that away. He had to settle for something far more dangerous: disappointment.
“What did you do?” His voice was rough, low. Not a question. An indictment.
You flinched, picking at a loose thread on your apron. “I... I made you breakfast?” It came out as a squeak. A weak offering.
“The headache,” he continued, stepping further into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the mess, then landing back on your face. “The sleep. What was it?”
“Just... something to help you sleep,” you mumbled, your gaze fixed on your shoes. “You're a light sleeper. And I'm... well, this.” You gestured vaguely at the culinary crime scene surrounding you. “I didn't want a gun in my face the second I dropped a spoon.”
The logic was infuriatingly, endearingly stupid. And he was about to tell you so, to lecture you on the hundred different ways that could have gone wrong, on the fact that he sleeps light for a reason, on the sheer, unmitigated danger of rendering yourself defenseless like that, of rendering him defenseless. But then he saw it. On the counter, peeking out from under a flour-dusted towel. A small, worn notebook, its pages yellowed with age.
He moved toward it slowly, and you didn't stop him. He picked it up. The cover was blank, but inside, in a looping, elegant script he hadn't seen in years, was a list. A recipe. And at the top, written in the same graceful hand, were the words: “John's Favorite.”
Helen's handwriting.
The breath he didn't know he was holding escaped him in a long, silent rush. He looked from the book to the disaster on the stove, and then to you, who was watching him now with wide, apprehensive eyes. And he understood. Every burnt piece of toast, every spilled ingredient, the whole insane, desperate plan. It wasn't about the noise. It was about this. About this book you'd found, about the recipe you'd tried to recreate.
“I...” he started, and had to clear his throat. He looked back down at the book, at the recipe for a mushroom and cheese omelette that Helen had perfected, that he hadn't tasted in... God. Years. He hadn't even known this book existed. “You found this.”
You nodded, your lower lip trembling slightly. “In a box in the attic. I just... I wanted to... I know it's not the same.”
He looked at the omelette sizzling in the pan. It was lopsided, slightly brown on one side, cheese leaking out like a wound. It was a mess. It was nothing like hers.
But it was there.
He put the book down carefully, reverently, on a clean patch of counter. He turned back to you, and when he spoke again, the anger was gone, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with the drug in his system. “Why? Why go to all this trouble?”
You looked down at your feet, then back up at him, and for the first time, you looked less like a criminal and more like a child who was desperately hoping they hadn't broken something irreplaceable.
“It's Father's Day,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
The words hit him harder than any bullet. Father's Day. A day that had never existed in his world. It could’ve, maybe. If things had been different. If she'd still been here, if they'd had a chance... but that path had been closed off long ago. He'd locked it himself, buried it under so much death and violence he'd forgotten the key. It was just another date on the calendar, another ghost to ignore.
But in that moment, as he stood in a kitchen that smelled of burnt butter and a desperate attempt at normalcy, he realized that for you, it wasn't. It was still real. And in your world, he was the closest thing you had.
The day he saved you, the day he took you in, he hadn't been thinking about fatherhood. He'd been thinking about debt. About a promise. About a life that needed protecting from the one he'd made for himself. He was a weapon, a tool, a ghost. Not a parent.
Clearly he wasn’t a very good one, either, if you thought drugging him was an acceptable solution to a problem.
He gestured towards the stove with a slow, deliberate movement. “Turn it off.”
You scrambled to obey, twisting the knob with a clatter. The sizzling died down, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken words.
“Sit,” he said, not unkindly, pointing to a stool at the kitchen island.
You sat, your hands folded in your lap, looking like you were awaiting sentencing. He leaned against the counter opposite you, the ache in his head a dull thrumming now. He had to get this through your head. He had to make you understand.
“Do you have any idea what you did?” he began, his voice low and even. “What could have happened?”
You started to speak, but he held up a hand, and you closed your mouth.
“Whatever you gave me, it put me out. Completely. Someone could have come through that door,” he nodded towards the front of the house, “and I wouldn't have known. Not until it was too late.” He paused, letting that sink in. “You seen the news lately? You know the kind of people who are still looking for me? They don't knock. They don't care if there's a child in the house. All they care about is settling a score. And in that state, I couldn't have protected you. I couldn't have protected anyone.”
He could see the shame in your eyes, the way you were shrinking into yourself. Good. You needed to feel it. But then he saw something else. Defiance. A spark of it, buried under the guilt.
“We were safe,” you mumbled, so quietly he almost didn't hear it. “I made sure of it. I locked the doors. I was awake.”
“That's not the point!” The words came out sharper than he intended, a crack of thunder in the quiet kitchen. He took a breath, reining it in. “You can't. You can't ever do that again. You hear me?”
You looked up at him, your chin jutting out just a little. That spark flaring brighter. “You slept for eight hours.”
He stared at you. The non-sequitur threw him. “What?”
“Eight hours,” you repeated, a little louder this time. “I checked. You haven't slept for eight hours since I've known you. Probably longer.” You looked him straight in the eye, and your words were a direct hit. “You probably had the best sleep you've had in a long time.”
The silence stretched again. He had no answer for that. Because you were right. He hadn't realized it until you said it, but it was true. The drug had forced a level of unconsciousness on him that was a foreign country. A stolen moment of peace he hadn't even known he was desperate for. He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up without a phantom pain in his shoulder, without the echo of a gunshot in his memory. This morning, all he had was the headache. And even that was fading.
He looked at the omelette sitting cold in its pan. A mess. A failure by any culinary standard. An insult to Helen's memory.
And yet.
He thought of the hours you must have spent, poring over that book, deciphering her handwriting, trying to mimic a love you could only know secondhand. He thought of the courage it must have taken to spike the water of a man like him, to risk his anger for the sake of a surprise. He thought of the quiet desperation in your voice when you'd said, “Father's Day.”
He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of every life he'd ever taken. He pushed himself away from the counter and walked over to the stove. He picked up the pan, looked at the sad, lopsided creation within. And then he did something that surprised you as much as it surprised him.
He grabbed a fork from the drawer, stabbed a piece of the omelette, and put it in his mouth.
It was… fine. A little bland. The cheese was clumpy. The mushrooms were slightly undercooked. It tasted of effort and burnt butter and a clumsy, unwavering affection that he hadn't realized he was starving for.
He chewed slowly, swallowed. He looked over at you. You were watching him, your whole body tensed, waiting for a verdict.
“We're going to have a talk about boundaries,” he said, his voice still serious. “A long one. You're going to promise me, on your life, that you will never do anything like that again.”
You nodded, your eyes wide, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. “I promise.”
"Good," he said. He took another bite. He wasn't hungry, not really, but he ate it anyway. He ate it because it was the only way he knew how to say what he couldn't bring himself to say. That he saw you. That he understood. That in the middle of all the darkness, all the blood, all the grief, this ridiculous, burnt omelette was the realest thing he'd touched in years.
Dog finally trotted into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of food and the strange quiet. He looked at John, then at you, then back at the floor, where a small pile of shredded cheese still lay. He sniffed at it, looked up at John for permission.
John gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. Dog promptly began to clean up your mess with quiet enthusiasm.
It broke the tension. You let out a watery laugh, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “He's a better cook than I am.”
“He has lower standards,” John said, finishing the last of the omelette. He put the empty pan in the sink. The silence that followed was different now. Softer. Less like a void and more like a space. A place where something could be built.
He leaned against the sink, watching the way you'd finally relaxed your shoulders, the way you were now trying to subtly wipe down the counter with your sleeve. It reminded him of the day you met.
Aurelio had called him in for a favor. And given everything that he did for him, it was the least John could do. Aurelio never did ask for much.
Of course, John had assumed it was going to be about a body. It was always about a body. A clean-up, a disposal, a message sent.
Instead, he had found you. Huddled in the back office, knees pulled to your chest, not crying, just… staring at the wall with a vacant expression that was far more unsettling than tears. Turns out, you were the lone witness to a deal gone sour. A child in the wrong place at the wrong time. You were a loose end.
And in their world, loose ends get cut.
Aurelio found you in the aftermath, huddled behind a stack of tires. He’d hidden you, kept you safe while he figured out what to do. And what he did was call John. Because John understood loose ends. And because John, for all the lives he had taken, was the one person Aurelio knew if he asked to protect a life, he’d do it. No questions asked.
Granted, you weren’t in immediate danger anymore. The ones who had been there were taken care of, thanks to John. But in this life, any day could be the wrong day, in the wrong place.
Aurelio had told him he'd find you a new life, a safe house somewhere, far away from all of this. He told John he didn't have to make it personal.
But John had looked at you then, at the sheer, stubborn refusal to break, and he'd seen something he hadn't seen in a very long time. A spark. A future that hadn't been extinguished. And he knew he couldn't just drop you off and walk away. He’d already given up one future. He couldn't bear to stand by and watch another be snuffed out.
So he took you home.
He had no idea what to do with you. The quiet, empty house that had been a mausoleum of memories was suddenly filled with the small, living sounds of another person. The creak of a floorboard at two in the morning when you got a glass of water. The thud of a book being dropped. The quiet murmur of you talking to yourself as you did your homework.
He'd given you a room, a key, a set of rules. He'd taught you basic self-defense. How to fire a pistol, though he hoped to God you'd never have to. How to be aware of your surroundings. How to look like you belonged, even when you felt like you didn't.
He thought he was preparing you for the world. But in reality, you were remaking his. Slowly, piece by piece. Daisy would’ve been the first, he supposed. But she was gone before she could truly teach him. Then Dog, a silent, loyal anchor. Then you. You, with your ridiculous television shows, your constant questions about the mechanics of a car, your insistence on leaving the lights on in every room you entered. You, who saw a semi-retired assassin and somehow saw a dad.
He looked at you now, scrubbing at a stain on the counter with a ferocity that suggested it had personally offended you. And he felt something shift inside him, a tectonic plate of grief settling, revealing a new, unfamiliar landscape beneath.
“It needs salt,” he said.
You stopped scrubbing and looked up at him, your brow furrowed. “What?”
“The omelette,” he said, gesturing with his thumb towards the now-empty pan in the sink. “Helen always used a little more salt. And a pinch of paprika.”
A slow smile spread across your face, tentative at first, then brilliant. It was the first real smile he'd seen from you all morning. “I knew I forgot something,” you said, your voice light with relief.
He watched you for a moment longer, the smile still playing on your lips, the way your shoulders were no longer hunched around your ears. The headache was gone, replaced by a feeling he couldn't name. It was close to peace. Close to contentment.
He pushed himself away from the sink. “I'm going for a walk,” he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. A walk. For no reason other than to walk. He hadn't done that in years.
You nodded, your smile softening. “Okay. I'll... I'll clean up in here.”
He turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. He didn't look back at you. He kept his gaze fixed on the hallway, on the sliver of morning light cutting across the floor.
“Next year,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “Wake me up. Normally.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He just walked away, the sound of Dog's claws clicking on the hardwood floor as the dog trotted after him. He didn't need to look back to know you were smiling. He could feel it all the way down the hall.
You were still getting grounded. For a week. Minimum. But right now, as he stepped out into the cool morning air, the sun on his face, he felt lighter than he had in a very, very long time. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the world outside the walls of their house didn't feel like a threat. It just felt... like a Sunday. A quiet, ordinary, perfect Sunday. And for a man like him, that was the most dangerous feeling of all. Because that meant he had something to lose again. And he’d be damned if he let anyone take it away again.
Especially before he could teach you how to properly make an omelette.
Second-chance romance || Regency era || SFW fluff, getting together, falling in love, grumpy/sunshine (f is the grump), age gap (f is older), chronic illness/disability (f), lots of non-sexual but sensual-by-Regency-standards touching, near nudity, mention of death of first spouse || 3.4k words (14-minute read time)
🧜♂️
The woman hissed as the seawater touched her back with its icy fingers. Why her physician thought sea bathing would be beneficial for her health was incomprehensible, but, after trying every other treatment and having them all fail to relieve her pain, she had no choice but to try this one.
So far, it did not seem to be working, unless being distracted by the beauty of the shimmering indigo water stretching out before her counted as pain relief. It brought a momentary smile to her lips as she gazed out toward the limitless horizon. She had always loved the sea, but had not been able to visit for over a decade, too busy with raising her children, running her household, and caring for her much older husband in these last declining years of his life. But now her children were grown, her husband was dead, and she was at liberty to focus on taking care of herself for a change.
An envious sigh escaped her lips as she gazed out at the group of merfolk that were playing at the surface, far beyond where she stood. They looked so carefree, popping their heads up, slapping their tails on the water, twisting and darting about. Probably, none of them had to deal with burning pain in all of their joints like she did.
A head shot up out of the water not two feet in front of her, so quickly that she flailed backwards with a splash and nearly went under—but a hand caught her arm and hauled her back up. “Oh dear! I’m sorry, madam!”
She sputtered and blinked the water out of her eyes to see that it was a merman holding her by the arm, gazing directly into her face with his dark purple eyes. “Are you alright?”
“You frightened me,” she complained, jerking her arm away from him and rubbing at her elbow.
“Yes, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He peered at her with a look of curious concern. “Did I hurt your arm?”
“No no, it was already hurt.” He looked even more alarmed at that. “Don’t fret, it’s not injured, it merely aches, along with every other joint in my body. Don’t trouble yourself about it.”
But his face lit up as if she had told him something happy, his pointed fin-like ears lifting and the fleshy whisker-like tendrils on his cheeks standing straight out. “I know just what you need! Stay right there!” And he dove back under the water and shot away.
She frowned after him. What on earth did he mean about knowing what she needed? He knew nothing about her. What a strange, flighty creature to appear and disappear so suddenly!
After standing idly in the water for several more minutes, her skin began to prickle with the cold of the water. She had been in too long. She turned and began trudging back toward the shore.
“Wait!” she heard behind her, and turned to see that the merman had returned. “I have something for you!”
A rough rope made of sea plants was tied diagonally across his torso, and fastened to that was a small container made of shell. The top was open, and he dug his fingers in it to bring out some sort of greenish-black salve-like substance. Before she could ask him what it was, he had grabbed her arm again and started smearing the stuff onto her elbow. “I beg your pardon!” she protested.
“It will ease your pain,” he said, moving down to her wrist to apply more there, utterly unconcerned by her affronted expression. “Trust me.”
“Trust you! I have no idea who you are, sir, but you are certainly no physician. Why, you are barely even full grown!”
He grabbed her other arm to begin applying the substance there. “I am 28.”
“Precisely.”
He made an odd clicking sound in his throat that sounded like a scoff, though he was smiling. “I do not know everything about humans, but I am certain that you consider your males fully grown well before the age of 28.”
She eyed him warily, but for some reason, did not pull away from him. Perhaps it was because the salve on her skin did indeed feel soothing. It was strangely warm, and a tingling sensation was spreading from every spot where it touched her, numbing the pain slightly as it went. Still, she could not resist protesting a bit more. “Since you are fully grown, you ought to know how inappropriate it is to touch a female you are not related to.”
He clicked and smiled again. “You humans are too scrupulous.” But he dropped his hand from her arm, and scooped out the remainder of the strange substance. “Here. Take the rest to apply yourself.”
She let him scrape it into her cupped hand, still unsure why she was tolerating him at all, but did not thank him for it. He was unfazed by her cold manner, smiling broadly, wishing her well, and, when she turned to glance at him one last time from the shore, waving energetically at her.
It was purely from curiosity that the woman smeared the rest of the salve he had given her onto her knees and ankles.
The next morning, she woke up feeling less stiff and achy than she had in years. There was still pain, but far less than she felt on most days. She was astonished. Could that silly merman’s concoction really have made a lasting improvement to her joints?
She felt so well that she skipped the sea bathing that day. But the following morning, she regretted it, for the pain had returned nearly to its typical levels.
She went back to the sea, her eyes scanning the water. After a quarter of an hour, a familiar salmon-pink head and torso popped up from the surface and glided toward her. “Hello!” the merman said cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”
“Much the same as always,” she said sourly.
“That is because you did not come yesterday. You should visit the sea every day until the malady is completely done away with.”
“You sound like my physician.”
“He sounds like an intelligent fellow,” he smiled. “Is he mer?”
“Human.”
“Ah, well, some humans are worthwhile. Some humans I like a great deal. Wait here.” He darted away with a splash of his silver tail.
She blinked in surprise at his abrupt departure. Young people had too much energy and not enough patience.
But at 42, she had patience in spades, so she waited for him to return, trailing her fingers through the water at her hips and watching the soft waves.
That was when the thought drifted into her head that it was odd he knew she had not come yesterday. How could he know that unless he had stayed near this beach watching for her all day long? It must have been a lucky guess.
Several minutes later, the merman returned bearing the container of greenish-black salve again. This time, she held out her arm to him without him having to grab it, and he smiled in approval and began to apply it to her skin. He did it more slowly this time, carefully but firmly rubbing it into each knuckle on her fingers, and she couldn't help sighing quietly in pleasure.
“How long have you suffered from these pains?” he asked.
“Several years.”
“And you only now have sought relief?”
“I tried a few things before my latest physician recommended sea bathing, but I had not much time to devote to my health until recently.”
“Why is that?”
He should not be asking her such personal things, but the way he was touching her had put her at ease, so she answered him. “All my energies had been devoted to my children and husband.”
“Why are they not here with you, helping you? Surely you deserve care from them, not just they from you.”
She was touched by such a sentiment. Very few people thought that way about women, and even less about mothers in particular. “He passed away last year, and my children are grown now.”
“How can that be—you cannot be older than 35.”
“Ridiculous flattery. I am sure you can see that I am over 40.”
He shrugged. “Either way, you are still young.”
“Stop it. I detest flattery.”
“But I mean it. You do not behave or look as though you are old, and so you are not.”
She stared at his face as he focused on rubbing her elbow. He seemed to be in earnest.
“Now your legs,” he suddenly said, and dropped fully under the water.
The woman nearly screamed when she felt his hand take hold of her calf and the other rub over her knee. She grabbed onto the bottom of her sea-bathing shift to hold it tight around her thighs like flimsy armor. This was wildly inappropriate! She should stop him! Yet, already it felt so good to have the tingling warmth of the salve seeping into her knee, and so she stayed still, apart from whipping her head from side to side to see if anyone was watching her. Not that any land people could tell what was happening from above the water, but it still felt as if she was doing something illicit.
When he surfaced again she hissed at him, “Why did you do that?”
“To help you,” he said simply.
“Why? You don't even know me!”
“Because I like your smile, and want to see you smile again.”
She furrowed her brow. “When did I smile?”
“Two days ago, when you were staring out at the water.”
“And that's all? For a smile?”
He gave her a smile of his own, showing his strange teeth, his whiskers perking up. “It is a beautiful smile, and you seem like someone who deserves to have more of them than you have allowed yourself.”
She stared at him again, dumbfounded that he should care at all about her happiness, a complete stranger—and that someone so young would find anything about her beautiful. “You make no sense.”
He laughed. “Life is too short to worry about making sense. I should much rather be happy than sensible.” He bowed his head at her, his wet wine-colored hair flopping into his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow. Good day, madam.” And he abruptly dove down and swam away.
The next day, the merman surfaced as soon as she waded into the water, smiling and waving at her as if they were old friends. A young woman nearby looked at her. “You have a merman for a friend?” the stranger asked.
“He’s not a friend, he is…” She did not know how to explain what he was, for she did not know herself, and so she merely walked onward, away from the other woman and toward the merman.
“How do you feel today?” he asked her.
She had to admit it was pleasant to have someone care enough to ask her that. “Better than yesterday.”
“Excellent! I knew you would.”
He was already in possession of the salve and began rubbing it on her at once. “What is this?” she finally asked.
“Mostly a crushed up sea plant.”
“Mostly?”
“You do not want to know what else it has in it,” he said with a sly smile.
“What! Ugh!” she tried to jerk her arm away, but he held tight and laughed.
“Humans are too scrupulous, as I said.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, still laughing, still rubbing.
She made a noise of frustration and looked away from him. Her eyes landed on the young woman she had spoken to before, who was watching the two of them with raised eyebrows. Embarrassment crept into her belly.
“Stop touching me; someone is watching.”
The merman followed her line of sight to the other woman, then dropped his hands away. “Can you swim?” he asked.
“What does that have to do with—yes, of course I can swim, I am in the sea, am I not?”
“Many humans cannot swim, even ones that visit the sea, and you are not entirely well.”
“I can swim,” she huffed.
“Swim around to the other side of those rocks. I will meet you there.” He swam off in a flash of pink and silver.
Once again, she had no idea why she was going along with what this impulsive young merman wanted, yet a few minutes later she found herself on the other side of the rocky outcropping he had indicated. A small cove was there, with no humans present, only a few merfolk that she could see as brightly colored shapes moving within the shallow water. Her merman—or rather, the merman she had been conversing with—already had his torso out to watch for her arrival.
He beckoned her up onto the pebbly beach, pulling himself out too. It was the first time she let herself get a good look at all of him, and she was surprised how handsome she found him when he looked so different from all the males she was used to. The silver scales of his tale shone so brightly in the sun they were almost blinding, and the salmon-pink of his wet skin looked more vibrant than ever. He was thick all over, around his middle, his arms and shoulders, his tail, which must be nearly six feet long all on its own. He looked so powerful, alive with youth and life.
“There is no one to watch us here, other than my own kind, and they will not care what we do,” he said, breaking her out of her reverie. “So, may I continue?”
She nodded wordlessly. He lifted her leg into his lap, making her breath catch and muscles tense at the scandalous familiarity, but he immediately launched into a tale about the sea, distracting her and easing her tension. He talked the whole time he rubbed her legs, asking her questions about her previous visits to the sea, what she liked about it, and so on.
When she told him a story about building a sand castle for her daughter on the beach many years before, she smiled at the memory, and the merman’s face perked up too. “Ah, there’s your lovely smile,” he said.
She turned her face away, still smiling but bashful now. It had been a long time since she had felt admired by anyone else.
“I must return to the water now,” he finally declared, and she only then noticed that his skin and fins had entirely dried. They must have been speaking for the better part of an hour! “May I meet you here again tomorrow?”
“Oh! Ah, yes, I suppose so.”
His lips curled into a crooked smile. “You suppose you will meet me or you will meet me?”
“Very well,” she sighed. “I will meet you. Satisfied?”
“For now.” He quickly dragged himself to the water. “Until tomorrow.”
It was not until she was in bed that night that she realized she still did not know his name, nor he hers.
She rectified this as soon as they were together in the cove the next day, and then they talked again as he massaged her limbs for close to an hour. Every time he succeeded in making her smile, he flashed her his inhuman but charming smile as well.
This went on for several more days. By this point, she hardly had any need of the salve any longer, and so they often spent their time together simply floating in the shallow water of the cove, or, when she was too cold, she would sun herself on a rock while he laid on his back in the water below her, talking up at her, or she would wander along the beach collecting pretty pebbles and shells while he watched her.
One day, he asked her if she ever had pain in her back, and when she said she did, he asked if he could apply the salve there.
“I am not going to take off my shift!” she exclaimed.
“You need not take it off, just lift it in the back, and keep it held down in front. All I will see is a bit of the skin of your back. What is so bad about that?”
It suddenly hit her how improper this whole situation was. She had been letting this male whom she hardly knew see her nearly naked and touch her again and again. She had grown too complacent. How did it ever get to this point? And what could ever come of this anyway? “Everything! This whole arrangement is madness. Why do I even let you do this to me at all?”
“Because you like how I make you feel,” he said, and there was something in his low tone that made her stomach flutter. “And there is nothing wrong with that. Let me take care of you.”
Her heart was pounding like she'd been running. But there was something so bewitching to what he offered her that once again she did as he wanted—held tight to the bottom hem of her shift in front and reached behind with her other hand to tug the back out from under her arse.
The merman shifted to sit behind her, and then she felt his hands slowly push up under her shift to trail over her spine, making pleasure swirl in her belly. His fingers dug into each vertebrae, pressing the warming salve into her skin, loosening each joint and muscle, and she moaned at how good it felt. “That's it,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you, yes.”
His hands worked down to the base of her spine and fanned out over the top of her arse, sliding over to her hips to squeeze, and another moan slipped free of her lips. “I love making you feel good,” he whispered close to her ear.
“B-but why?” she breathed. “Why do you care about me?”
“You have a good heart, kind and loving, despite how cross you like to act. You love beauty. You are beautiful.”
“I'm not—I'm old, I'm broken—”
“You are perfect.”
That stole her breath clean from her lungs for a moment.
“Why are you saying all this?” she finally asked.
“Because I want you.”
“But—but you have only known me two weeks, and I'm human—”
“I don't care.”
“—and I'm 14 years older than you.”
“That’s good. Me being so much younger will make it easier for me to take care of you for much longer.”
Oh, there was something so appealing in that idea! She, who had taken care of others for so long, to finally be the one taken care of! And not just in body, but in heart—to be fully loved, weaknesses and all. Didn’t she deserve that? Her husband had been 14 years older than her, in fact, so what was wrong with her being that same number of years older than her partner?
Still, she could not conceive of how a relationship between them could really work. “This is madness,” she repeated. “This cannot be what you truly want, a lifetime of taking care of an old woman.”
“You are not an old woman!” he laughed as he pulled himself back in front of her. “You will not be so for many years yet, and even when you are, I will still love you.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “What kind of love would it be if it was so weak as to fade away with age?”
“You’re getting that muck on my face,” she could not resist complaining, and he clicked in his throat, his purple eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You love that muck,” he pointed out.
“Only because you still haven’t told me what horrid things are in it.”
His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “And I never will.”
“You love me?” she whispered.
“I do. I always will.”
“I love you as well.”
His whiskers and fin-ears stuck straight out in his joy. “Then will you marry me?”
“How? How could we possibly marry? We cannot even live together.”
He shrugged. “We will come up with something.”
She had to laugh in disbelief at his nonchalance. “You make no sense.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but I am happy, and that is all that matters.”
She smiled brilliantly, because for the first time in a long time, she was truly happy too.
🧜♂️
The prompt for this came from @rowenchant, and while I originally meant to write it as a reader-insert and possibly sequel to this kiss snippet, I got this other idea featuring an older female character, because I’m an older female myself and the world needs more monster stories with FMCs older than 35.
This story is dedicated to Martha Lloyd, Jane Austen's dear friend who at the age of 62 got married for the very first time to Jane's 53-year-old brother Frank Austen. Good for you, Martha!
If you're curious how sea bathing worked for ladies during the Regency, this article is a great overview with fun pictures from the period.
back again with a new post-finale headcanon and fanart!!! MENTOS EDITION!!
we know that trinity gave dennis a total glow up between seasons one and two, so in my mind now that her and mel are getting close (so yuriful) she's gonna also give her the Santos Special™ and give her a lil makeover day!! i like to think mel was feeling down about her deposition and becca, so santos decided to have a girls day to cheer her up :)
