streak of bad luck
John Munch x Reader
He always got what he wanted and, to your sudden change of luck, it seemed he very much wanted you.
warnings: black cat reader, you’re so unlucky (sorry babes) past abusive relationship, lingering trauma, hurt/comfort, reader gets mugged, munch crashout, happy ending always
"A trial run?" You echoed.
"Yeah, y'know, that test people do to see if-"
"I know what a trial run is, John, I just..." know I'll fuck it up; know you'll hate it; know you'll hate me after. You swallow the doubt that creeps into your voice, wringing your fingers until he takes them and holds them to his chest. He always knows how to soothe you.
"Finish your thought, honey." He prompts softly, pulling you closer to him.
"I'm worried. I don't want you to get sick of me."
John laughs lightly, not trying to be cruel but you want to shrink away from the sound all the same. His arms come to collect you, keep you together and by his side. He kisses the top of your head hard, like he wants the affection to take root in your brain.
"That won't happen, baby, trust me. With my track record, you’ll be the one running for the hills.”
You gasp at his awful joke, especially knowing there’s truth to it, brows pulling together in unfathomable horror, “I would not!”
And that pleases him to hear, he kisses your cheek so sweetly you’ll have to go to the dentist for the toothache he singlehandedly caused.
“Then there’s no reason not to try, is there?”
Lips part but no argument follows, you’re genuinely stumped on a defense. Everything you might want to suggest suddenly crumbles on your tongue and instead tastes like a shared kitchen and minty sweet kisses goodnight. Besides, you know every reason you could throw at him would be batted away like he was a World Series champion. He always got what he wanted and, to your continuous change of luck with him, it seemed he very much wanted you.
You gnawed the inside of your cheek, hesitating for a moment longer, “You promise you’ll let me know if it’s not working for you?”
“Promise,” John holds his hand up like a boy scout yet keeping that air of sincerity to him, “I’ll always be honest with you.”
That was months ago. You lost track of how many on account of the fact you were keeping tally of the great number of fuck ups and inconveniences instead. Like washing a shirt that was supposed to go to the dry cleaners, like closing the door on his tie, like stepping on his expensive shoes— how could you be so clumsy with his attire, they’re only the most important things to him! Dumbly burning your hand and letting his coffee pot shatter on the ground, sending him into a brief panic. Ruining dinner because the recipe called for four teaspoons of spice and not tablespoons, practically inedible even for his tolerance. Making him late for work because you couldn’t find your keys and later realizing they were in your pocket the whole time, even though you swore you checked no less than fifty times. Forgetting to do stupid things like turning off the lights, cleaning one spot, the damn grocery list.
The worst was when you locked yourself out of the flat with the stove on. Your day was horrible and your brain was fried and you still aren’t quite clear on how it happened but with your never ending bad luck you aren’t shocked! He thinks it’s funny now but when he got a call it looked like someone was breaking into his apartment, he was scared out of his mind. It was the one time he hoped, prayed, you weren’t there. Throwing his car into park, crooked and half on the sidewalk, John ran over to where the officers stood next to you. They explained what you did, how you’d locked yourself out but your name wasn’t on the lease so they didn’t believe you. It was reasonable, wasn’t it?
His face switched comically fast when he saw the handcuffs around your wrists.
He sent you inside to spare you but you could hear through the door. He was loud when he was mad, his quick witted snarky profanities had nothing on the infinity train of insults he rammed into those uniforms. Shocked wasn’t strong enough, you were nearly fully convinced he was lying— at the very least embellishing as he’s prone to do— when he admitted he had a bit of a temper issue. Your heartbeat was louder still in your ears, a warning drum. You didn’t mean to flinch when John joined you inside, you didn’t mean to cry, you didn’t mean to back away, you didn’t mean for the apologies to fly out of your mouth the way they did. He looked pained when you held your arm out as if it could keep him from coming closer. Of course it did, because how could you not know he would always listen.
Every time you expect his wrath, prepared to receive it in any way it would come, he reaches for your shoulders so carefully that you wonder if you had the power to slow time. “Sweetheart,” he says in that tone you love and hate, the one that can’t forgive you because what could be there to forgive, so soft it makes you want to cry, “it was an accident.” And after eleven months exactly— oh look, you do remember— you think you’d get used to it, eventually it would sink in that John Munch is never going to hurt you in any conceivable way.
“What are you thinkin’ over there?”
You blink at yourself in the mirror, then at John leaning in the doorway. Ready and dressed for work, hair slicked back meticulously and suit pressed to perfection, he was devastatingly handsome. Maybe it was just the lost look in your eyes that made you feel less put together today, but he looked at you like he always did. Radiant. When your confidence was lacking, he lent you some of his because lord knows he has more than enough to spare.
“Did you know it’s been eleven months?” You ask, turning around to match his ease and lean on the counter, “Since we, well, y’know, not technically moved in together.”
Because you hadn’t, not really. A good portion of your stuff was here but you still went back to your apartment… once in a blue moon. In your absence you think a spider might’ve moved in.
John knew how to boil a frog. He put up with you living out of a suitcase for a week, if that, then put your clothes away in his dresser. He noted, not unkindly, that you were doing laundry frequently, maybe you should bring over more clothes. When work got busy and he ended up coming home later, he casually suggested moving over your hobbies so you wouldn’t be bored waiting for him. Did you know he really liked that painting you had in your apartment? So much so that he made a space for you to hang it up in his. He surprised you by stocking the fridge and pantry with things you, and only you, liked.
And he smiles, really smiles, because he absolutely did know that and isn’t it just so perfect that you brought it up!
“Not that I believe in cosmic signs but I do think that might be the universe trying to tell you somethin’, sweetheart. Quit wasting money on that place, you’re over here all the time now.”
“Not all the time,” you mumbled, averting your eyes as if looking for the last time you even thought about going there. ‘There’ and not ‘home’ because his place transformed into a shared one somewhere between all those disasters.
His careful steps closer are not unlike the ones he takes when he thinks you’re going to crack if he so much as looks at you wrong.
“Admit it,” he cages you against the counter, kissing the crown of your head, “trail run’s over. Time to move in. I can get off early today,” a kiss to your temple, “we’ll pack the rest of your stuff and drop off the notice,” your nose, “go out to celebrate?”
John always gave you space to say no, always made sure you knew he wouldn’t be mad if you did. However it was more of a question than he was willing to admit, you almost forgot that in his alluring cloud of confidence. His tone bled with hope because it’s not the first time he’s suggested it.
“I—” You huff, try to breathe air and not the infectious hope. Being pragmatic was proving to be a struggle, “I want to.”
He’s painfully patient, running a hand up and down your arm, “But?”
You swallow, “No buts… I want to. Let’s move in together.”
You thought it was just an expression, but his eyes sparkle at your agreement. Someone else might think he’d won the jackpot with the way he was beaming.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! I mean, if you’re sure.”
You’re ass on the counter before you can blink. His mouth is on yours, sending a jolt of energy up your spine and it’s not from the taste of coffee! He’s sure, he’s so sure and he wants to show you how damn sure he is. You’re so dizzied by the passionate kiss that you forget what you even agreed to. John gets a little carried away, excitedly murmuring things he absolutely should not be before you both have to work.
“Baby!” You squeak as he pops the button on your pants, “We have to leave in—“ you take his watch off the counter and point the proof at him, “15 minutes!”
Humming, he nods feverishly like he really and truly understands. Behind his glasses, his eyes work overtime to find a solution for the massively inconvenient problem you reminded him about. He figures it out because he always does when he really wants something.
“Do me a favor, honey,” he winds the belt of said watch around your wrist and fastens it securely, kissing your palm, shoulder, ear, “tell me when it gets to 10.”
~
It all happened so fast. He hates that, he’s sick of hearing that expression. They’re cliches because they’re true, though. One minute you’re walking— no, floating— to the police department, more than ready to take that next step with your boyfriend. Butterflies tickle your insides with their pretty wings every time you think about it, making you involuntarily smile.
That must’ve been it.
You must’ve been looked too happy, too pleased with everything. Higher powers were surely warring over your good fortune, one of them isn’t on the same page as the rest because you’re supposed to be horribly, miserably unlucky in all departments. John wasn’t meant for you and, really, you should’ve known. His affections were marvelous and magical and easy. God, it was so easy to fall in love with him. Nothing was easy for you, you always had to learn the hard way.
“Gimme your wallet and you can walk away.”
Something you don’t see, can’t register, rests between your shoulder blades. Even through your clothes it’s cold and sends a shiver out to the rest of your body, effectively freezing you.
“I said gimme your wallet.”
Wordlessly, you fumble for it. You make the incredibly fucking stupid mistake of handing it to your mugger and not throwing it far like John told you to.
“The watch, too.”
In your fear induced rush of adrenaline you didn’t understand, the words hit your ear but didn’t compute. You don’t wear a watch, you don’t have one to give him. Then the weight of it around your wrist is so heavy your arm wants to pop out of its socket and fall off entirely. The watch— his watch.
“No.” The word dumbly crashes off your tongue, practically a question.
The weapon, whatever it was, was made quick and painful jab to the side of your head, the connection spinning both you and your head. You stumbled against the side of a brick wall, keeping your eyes downcast because that’s what you used to do to when you were hit.
“I ain’t asking, gimme the damn watch.”
Unconsciously, your hand wrapped over it as if to hide what you both knew already existed.
It wasn’t yours to give, you shouldn’t even be wearing it! What if you had cracked it or wo— well, actually, this would qualify as a worst case scenario, wouldn’t it? You risked a glance at the ground by your assailant. Cargo pants licked against bright red sneakers, information you could trade later to redeem yourself. Only, you had to be alive to do that.
Horribly ashamed and teary eyed, you unbuckle the leather.
~
You swallow hard on the lump in your throat but it won’t go away. It just sits there, undecided, waiting to choke you or send you into tears. John didn’t get off work for another five minutes and you, in your hilariously foolish streak, thought that you could quietly reporting the mugging.
In the precinct your boyfriend worked at, around people that recognized you immediately, to someone that knew him by name.
The officer took his darn time going over the questions with you, looking for a pen for you to fill out your contact information when John bursted in. His wild eyes searched until they found you, then he was over in two sweeps of his long legs. You hated that your impulse was to back away, you had to force yourself to be impossibly still as his hand leapt forward, but he caught that tiny jump.
His hand curled into a fist and fell just before he touched you.
“You’re bleeding— Why are you bleeding? What happened?”
Brown eyes, usually so soft and comforting, were murderously locked on the side of your head. You went to cover the wound that offended him, the aching bump on your temple but the light touch might as well have been a full press. You hissed and pulled away. Flakes of dried blood dusted your fingers. You didn’t even notice.
“Can—“ you inhaled sharply, eyes darting all around at the people who were starting to stare, “Can we not talk here?”
Sending a pointed glare all around, John didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Still, he mumbled “we done here?” to the officer who nodded even though you hadn’t filled out the form. Without touching he put his arm around you and angled himself as a shield, ushering you out of the building.
You had practiced everything you were going to say on the rest of that shameful walk to the precinct. You’d explain, apologize, offer to replace the watch, and then maybe he wouldn’t be so upset! Out the corner of your eye he seethed like a quiet moment before thunder boomed and lightning struck. And you forgot everything.
He barely made it halfway through the parking lot before he turned around, kicking a tire of a car. His hands threaded his hair like he was grasping for a shred of composure even though he’d already lost it. To you, he gestures up and down with a hardened expression that makes you feel smaller than ever.
“What happened!? I had to hear from Lewis that you walked into the station with a bruise? Why didn’t you come straight to me!?”
Ever since the incident, he always tried to protect you from his temper. He’d go on walks, presumably to hit something outside, or to the bar to yell at someone there. He doesn’t bring his rage through the front door. John never so much as raised his voice at you until now.
“Please don’t be mad.”
“Don’t be—!?” He cuts himself off with a curt breath, shaking his head, “You can’t ask me that, you just can’t! Look at you! What the hell happened!?”
You blink, searching the ground trying to find air but there’s none.
“I lost your watch.”
“What?”
You wince at his incredulous tone, crossing your arms to protect yourself from his ire.
“I got mugged. I didn’t throw my wallet like you said to an-and the watch, your watch, he asked for it and I said no. But then he hit me and I didn’t have a choice!”
He clenched his jaw so tight you swore any second that you’d hear a crack of a tooth. His eyes were dark, yet ablaze like a wild forest fire.
“You—“ He scoffed, smiling sardonically at the sky. Sliding his hands under his glasses, he dragged them down as he sighed heavily, like he was trying to come back down to Earth, “My watch? Why? Why would you do something so incredibly reckless!?”
Tears sting at your eyes again but this time you can’t keep them at bay, they flood and pour over. You dig your nails into your skin.
“I just.. I didn’t know what else to.. I’m sorry, I’ll pay you ba—“
He crosses what little distance there is too fast, you squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath.
You’re enveloped in a crushing embrace. John presses you to his chest like he wants you to move in, you can hear his rapid heartbeat right under your ear.
“Baby, I don’t give a fuck about the damn watch! I care that you’re hurt! You were mugged, and you didn’t wanna tell me that first!? Jesus Christ. Never scare me like that again, I don’t ever wanna hear from someone else that you got hurt— y’know what, better yet, I don’t want to hear you got hurt at all.”
You feel awful all over. Of course he didn’t care about the watch. Of course the only way he could ever hurt you was by holding on too tight.
“You’re… not mad?”
“Not at you.” He breathes, pulling away slightly to look down at you. “Honey, if you don’t know by now how much you mean to me then I’m doing something very wrong here. You’re the one thing I could never replace.”
He cradles your face with a gentleness that fills you with guilt, how could you ever think he would hurt you? That fire in his eyes was fueled by fear the whole time, you didn’t notice it because of your own. John ghosts his thumb around the bump at your temple and you feel every little movement before it even happens.
“Are you hurt anywhere else? Should we go to the hospital?” He shook his head right after the question left his lips, deciding himself, “Yeah, we should. Car, where’s my car.”
He’s looking everywhere but at you as you flounder for words, still attempting to catch up to him. You dig your heels into the gravel as he starts to guide you forward.
This was too easy. He was being too nice, too understanding. He forgave you too easily. He deserved better than a black cat that just happened to cross his path and follow him home.
“John—“
“Don’t argue with me on this, ok? Not now, not ever. You are the single most important thing in my life and you’re…” he sucks in a sharp breath, catching his voice and temper rising again.
His eyes flicker to the side and back but you know where they went. You shift in his grasp, wrapping your arms around him this time. His hands don’t know where to settle for a change, struggling to find a hold that will give him the closest proximity to you.
“Finish your thought.” You say softly.
A weak, proud chuckle leaves him. He’s been working tirelessly to help you unlearn the abuse you went through. It’s always worth it he says, but moments like this are unbelievably special. To both of you.
John’s arms squeeze carefully and he breathes you in like you’re oxygen.
“You’re hurt. Baby,” the fond moniker is so heartbreakingly soft, “you don’t know how badly I never wanted to see you with another bruise.”
“I’m,” you swallow the instinctive apology even though it’s true, you are sorry, “I’m hurt, yes, but.. you’re making it better. Can we just go home?”
The word slipped out before you could snatch it back, making both of you go still.
“Home?” He echoes quietly, thoughtfully, hopefully. Pulling away, just enough to look into your eyes, “You still wanna move in?”
You almost succumb to your doubts, but you persevere and manage a slightly teasing, “I should be asking you that.”
“No,” its immediate and makes your heart swell, “you shouldn’t.”
He leans in slowly, tipping your chin up so he can capture your lips in a sweet and gentle kiss. The gesture washes away any lingering worries, replacing them with that delightful buzz you had earlier. John rests his forehead against yours, his smile is infectious.
“We can go home after I make sure you’re not concussed.” He promises.
Knowing your luck, you should’ve seen that coming. There was surely more to be said later, the conversation was left far from unfinished. However you stopped tallying up your misfortunes, deciding right there to erase the mental board on a whole. Because if you really wanted to keep score of something, the focus should be on him. The comforting thought of eventually being home with John would forever be more than enough.