→ Summary: As Team Sinner's personal assistant, it is your job to make sure that travel is booked, accommodation is booked, and everyone is where they need to be on time. It is not your job to fall in love with your boss - just think of it like a little bonus.
→ Word Count: 3.4k
→ Multi Chap
Chapter One
You were in love with your boss.
Well, in love might be a stretch. And boss might be a bit of a stretch, too. Sure, Jannik paid you, and you did all your work for him and the team, and he was technically the one in charge of you all, but you’d never really thought about him as your boss before. So, really, you could say you had a crush on your team leader.
But that didn’t convey the desperation of the situation.
Of these past six months barrelling into you with the realisation that you loved Jannik Sinner, and the easy flow of your life was currently slipping through your fingers with each day that passed. You were really having to fight these feelings. You enjoyed your job far too much to give it up with a fractured confession you knew would never – could never – be reciprocated. So, you kept quiet, and you followed Jannik to his tournament. Because that was your job, and it was easier to do your job than think about just how pretty he looked when his ginger curls were all messed up from the plane.
London stretched out through the windows of the private transfer you and the rest of the team crammed into with your luggage, a blurry haze of blue skies, and red buses, and cramped streets. You’d booked the transfer all the way back in May, halfway through Roland-Garros, when the idea of not having a car to drive you from the airport to your Airbnb woke you up in a cold sweat. Thankfully for you, the driver had been waiting with a sign that clearly read TEAM SINNER, and your job was safe for another tournament.
Would Jannik fire you just because you’d forgotten to book a taxi?
You’d hoped not, but he had just fired Marco and Ulises, and you still weren’t sure exactly why, and you were worried he was on a bit of a firing frenzy. Maybe the losses in Rome, Paris, and Halle after those three months at home just made him lose his cool a little with the team members more easily replaceable. Maybe he just really wanted Umberto back. You weren’t going to ask. All you had to do was make sure things were booked when they had to be, that Jannik made it to places on time.
The seven-seater car rolled to a stop at a red light, and you kept your eyes on the scenery unfolding around you. The city that seemed never-ending. Bigger than you had ever imagined. The streets just kept on coming – tall buildings, too many shops, too many people. All of them were going about their days with the sense of urgency that only sweaty summer days could create, the heat made worse by the weird feeling that London had a roof right overhead, locking them all inside. You wondered if any of these people cared that their city was about to be flooded by tennis players. Most likely, they were too busy worrying about their own jobs.
You pressed closer to the window, eyes dancing from tube station sign, to black taxi, to famous landmark as you passed through the city. You’d never been to London, but you’d imagined it the way most people had when they really, badly wanted something, daydreaming through rose-coloured glasses of high-rise buildings and telephone boxes and afternoon tea. London was a dream you’d never imagine you’d reach, but there it was, within touching distance. You’d known, when you’d taken on the job, that you’d get to go to London eventually, but it still didn’t quite feel real until the driver rolled to a stop in front of your rented home for the next fortnight.
You’d scoured Airbnb for two hours one fateful night in early May, when Jannik was walking out onto that clay court in Rome to cheering crowds excited for his return, and you were too busy worrying about trying to find the perfect place to stay in London. You spoke to more hosts than you could remember, until eventually, you found this family home you were sure the rest of the team couldn’t argue about. Six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a back garden big enough for the boys to play football in the sun while you did literally anything else. You’d just gotten used to booking hotels with Team Sinner’s fancy credit card when Jannik had mentioned he wanted somewhere out of the way for London, somewhere quiet, somewhere his parents could stay if he made it far enough to warrant them coming all this way to watch. You’d caught him tapping the wooden cutting board in the kitchen when he told you that, but he didn’t even seem to notice doing it.
Superstitious to a fault.
The driver helped you pull out all your bags. The suitcases, the backpacks, the racket bags, all lined up nicely in the paved driveway, and made sure that you, Darren, and Simone all had his phone number in case you ever needed him before his scheduled pick-ups. Then he was gone, zooming back into the city, leaving you alone with the big house and all the bags. You fumbled around the key hold, punching in the code while Jannik mumbled sleepily to Simone in Italian, still trying to wake himself up after his nap on the two-hour flight from Nice and again in the hour and a half transfer from Heathrow to your Airbnb. You led the way inside, and you all left your bags heaped by the front door with your shoes before you took a tour around, scouring out which bedrooms you wanted.
Jannik already decided the bedroom on the ground floor was for his parents, with the painting of the Alps hanging from the blue-green wall above the bed. There was a small bathroom separating it from the office space you deemed your own as soon as you stepped inside, one of the walls made up of a beautiful bay window, while the other two that didn’t have the desk pushed up against it were for the crammed bookshelves you knew you’d spend too long perusing instead of working. The living room on the other side of the house had both a PlayStation 5 and an Xbox Series X that you knew Jannik would spend way too much time playing on. The double doors in the airy, bright kitchen/dining room led out into the garden, already set up with a kids' set of plastic goals that you could already picture the men playing around in. God, you could see it already. Darren in goals, Jannik versus Simone, someone falling and twisting their ankle, having to call the transfer just to take them to the hospital.
You were going to have to create a no rough-housing rule.
Just the thought of Jannik fucking up his entire Wimbledon run, all because of some silly football game,s was enough to send shivers down your spine. He chuckled, low and deep, beside you, his elbow catching on yours, leaning down enough so he could whisper in your ear while your eyes grazed the grassy garden.
“Promise we won’t break anything.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jannik’s laughter followed you throughout the house, still a little thick from the sleepiness of travel but still him, still that warm sound that burrowed under your skin and settled in your chest. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t ignore the way one simple laugh was enough to send a blush careening over your cheeks. You just dropped your head and hoped he didn’t notice it.
(Jannik noticed everything about you.)
Four of the bedrooms were on the second floor with a bathroom to share. You and Jannik took one side, and then Darren and Simone on the other side, separated by a small mezzanine that led to the bathroom you were most likely going to fight over, even though there were two more in the house. It meant the last bedroom, on the floor above, would go to Mark if he decided he wanted to watch his brother play at Wimbledon instead of staying at home to watch F1.
“Neighbours, again,” Jannik joked as you lugged your luggage upstairs to your rooms. Almost every time, you and Jannik ended up staying in hotel rooms right next to each other. You liked it when the rooms had balconies, when you could both sit out late at night and talk in hushed whispers, like you were afraid to break the peacefulness of the ever-moving cities below you.
“Unlucky. I get to hear you snore all night now.”
“Hey!” Jannik leaned on the wall between your doors, mouth jutting out in a pretty pout that did nothing to soothe the terrible way your heart had been fluttering all day, since he showed up to the airport in grey sweatpants and leaned all of his tired bodyweight against you like it was nothing. Like this was all just casual. It stopped being casual when you woke up in the middle of the night because you couldn’t stop thinking about him wearing that black kit in Rome.
Oh God, and now you were going to have to watch him walk out onto the grass courts in all white. The perfect little dichotomous angel.
“You know I don’t snore as loud as Darren.”
“But you do snore. Like a little cat.”
Your laugh set off his, and, almost unconsciously, you ended up leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, his head so low you could almost feel his curls tickling the top of your head. You could have stayed like that forever, giggling away, watching the laughter shake his body, brightening his tired face, but he turned away, into his room, claiming you had no proof to pin on him.
(He didn’t want you to know that the way you were looking at him made his skin turn pink.)
Your room was nicer than most hotels you had stayed in since travelling with Team Sinner. Large enough for a double bed, a window with a cushioned seat, a large wooden wardrobe and a set of drawers, and a round table with a strawberry red armchair by the window that you could so easily sink into. Sure, there was no mini-fridge to raid or a TV on the wall to peruse when you got bored, but the walls were a nice, homely shade of pale pink that reminded you of your childhood bedroom. And when you sat in the window seat, you could see right out into the garden and beyond, at the pretty brown brick walls lined up behind the house, at the park stretching beyond them. If you squinted, you might even have been able to see Henman Hill.
You unpacked while you waited for your grocery order from Deliveroo to arrive, just enough to last the first week, just in case. You were worried about ordering too much, about it all arriving and making Jannik feel ill just to look at. Two weeks' worth of food when he might not even last that long. So, you ordered enough for this week and tried to keep a positive attitude. You’d have to order it all over again. Jannik was going to make it all the way to the end. You were sure of it – he made it all the way to the end at Roland-Garros, and he didn’t even like clay. Grass was a walk in the park.
It had to be.
Unpacking took barely any time at all, since you’d gotten better at packing the essentials rather than bringing half your wardrobe with you, and by the time the food arrived, you had just finished dropping off your toiletries in the bathroom. You carried the shopping bags to the kitchen, called out for help, and within minutes, the three men were barrelling down the stairs to help you unload the groceries.
Conversation flowed quickly and easily, the odd domesticity of figuring out where to put the pasta in a kitchen you’d never been in before, the closeness of being on the move with these people almost constantly. When Simone told Jannik off in Italian for trying to put the chocolate in the fridge, you and Darren shared an eyeroll over their heads. When you and Jannik reached for the milk at the same time, and your hands knocked, Darren said something to Simone that made him laugh so hard he had to put down the olive oil. The team was easy to be a part of. Always friendly even when working hard, always laughing, always competing somehow. You’d been a part of more card games with these three than you ever had in your life.
That’s why you couldn’t be in love with Jannik. You couldn’t let yourself ruin this little family you had stumbled upon by accident. Even though you’d only started in December, uprooting your life to move to Monte Carlo on a whim that you might actually enjoy booking hotel rooms and airport transfers for a tennis player you knew nothing about, you’d settled into the team fairly quickly, and your initial shyness wore off sometime during Rome. You hated go-kart racing, which Jannik forgave you for – eventually. You always argued with Simone over who got the smaller bedroom. And when Marco was still around, you always convinced him to make Jannik spend a little longer on the exercise bike when he was being particularly annoying.
You guessed that those three months bringing Jannik back to life helped you secure a spot in the team.
(Jannik never would have gotten through the ban without you. Maybe that’s why he was in love with you, too.)
This time last year, when you were unemployed and struggling, you never imagined you’d be travelling the world with a world-class tennis team. You had moved home when your life started fracturing. Back to your parents and their helicopter closeness, always right there, asking too many questions, knocking on your door with cups of tea when you were trying to rot in bed and pretend you were some top-notch cinephile with a Letterboxd review worth reading. You left home for university, for a stupid journalism degree you told yourself was going to lift you out of the mediocrity of your hometown and into a life worth living, and you ended up right back where you never wanted to be. In your childhood bed, with your parents hovering, with your internship deciding they could do better than you.
Then, six months later, your dad’s friend from a rival PR firm mentioned a tennis team in desperate need of assistance, and your dad put your name forward without even asking you. You had an online interview, wearing your most professional blouse and a pair of fluffy pyjama bottoms that they couldn’t see. When Alex Vittur mentioned accommodation tied to the job in Monte Carlo, of all places, well, you hammed up just how good you were at keeping on top of timetables. Then, a couple of weeks later, you were all packed up and ready to get on with your life. Ready to be more than the NEET living off your parents' food and close-watched hospitality.
And now, look at you – helping set the table while the World Number 1 tennis player makes you pasta. Someone looking in from outside your life would probably think this was some great feat, making the best male tennis player in the world cook for you, but for your team, it was an everyday occurrence. For you, it was an everyday occurrence. You’d gotten oddly used to Jannik’s cooking during the ban, forcing him into the kitchen to give him something to do while all he wanted was to rot away in his bed. You’d even forced him to make a Letterboxd account, but the only time he ever updated it was when you watched a movie together, and you reminded him to rate it. He was always far more generous than you.
(He only watched movies because he liked watching you enjoy them.)
Dinner was eaten through yawns and quiet conversations. You poured water and spilt some on the tablecloth, and nobody really seemed to notice. Jannik sat with his chin in his hand the entire time, though you knew his mother would scold him for having his elbow on the table if she were here. Simone and Darren rarely spoke, except to mention something about your upcoming busy schedule. All the practices, the matches, the media in between, you’d have to deal with. Your plane wasn’t exactly early this morning, but the travel took its toll eventually. The constant movement. The packing and unpacking. The carrying of bags from car to plane to car again. It was like a tide washing tiredness over you all, and after dinner, when seven o’clock started to roll around, and the sun didn’t even look close to setting, you all disappeared to your rooms to shut your blackout blinds and sleep.
Except, you were lucky if you ever got to sleep before eleven on a good night.
You lay on your new bed in the dark, your laptop playing a French romantic drama from your watchlist, when the knock came. Quiet but sharp, three raps in quick succession. A Jannik speciality. You huffed, heaved your exhausted limbs out of bed, and padded over the carpeted floor barefoot to twist open the door. His pyjamas were a hoodie and a pair of old sweatpants he probably should have thrown out months ago.
“Are you watching a movie?” he asked between yawns, running a tired hand down his tired face, dragging the skin with him. His ginger curls were a mess from tossing and turning in the bed in the next room. He was used to different beds, used to hotels or Airbnbs, used to beds that didn’t feel anything like home. But, this time, the difference had felt too stark, and he’d tiptoed over to you like it was the middle of the night before a final, and he was going to be in big trouble if he was caught.
“Yes. I thought you were tired.”
Through his yawn, he spoke, “Y’am.” You rolled your eyes but moved out of the way to let him in, slipping into the still darkness of the room that felt paused with the movie. Stuck in a limbo of not quite sleep, but the heavy, heady exhaustion of travel on warm days. “What are you watching?” he asked as he followed you over to the bed, blinking at the transition scene you’d paused on.
“Vie Privée – but you won’t like it, it’s French.”
Jannik groaned lowly, and the sound caught the hairs on the back of your neck. You ignored it, pushed away the simmering heat in your belly, and crawled over the bed to sit against the headrest. He copied your movements, crawling over the bed, sitting so close you could feel his shoulder pressing against yours. It was so easy to sink into him. You tried not to. You tried to fight the whole being in love with your boss thing. You were failing.
Jannik slid down the bed a little so he could rest his head on your shoulder. “I hate French movies. Too pretentious.” You ignored the way your heart somersaulted.
“Big word for you.”
“Ha ha. I speak three languages, and you speak…?” His words muffled in the fabric of the top you’d stolen from him once and quickly thrown into your pyjama cycle. You liked the way it hung off your body like a hug, some Nike thing he probably was never going to wear again, but that you couldn’t let him get rid of. Not when it smelled like a home you’d started getting used to.
“Yes, yes, you are very smart, whatever. Wanna watch this or nah?”
“Keep watching.” You could almost hear his eyes starting to slow shut. It was strange how much you could know someone after just six months. It was strange that you already knew he was going to fall asleep right here and, in a few hours when you were ready to go to sleep too, you would wake him up and send him back to his own bed. And, you’d mourn the loss of his warmth until tomorrow night when the exact same thing happened again, and again, and again. “I’m just gonna sleep right here.”
“Not all night,” you warned, pressing play on your laptop.
He smiled against your shoulder, and it felt like a kiss. You couldn’t ignore it.
(He couldn’t tell you how badly he wanted to actually press a kiss there.)
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Hi! Welcome to our new Jannik fic! I've had such a lovely response to the teaser, and I'm so excited to read your thoughts as we go along. I'll be very busy over the next week with Christmas, but I couldn't wait to post, so there might be a little wait for chapter two 🤍
Hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.
The Best Man She's Ever Known: Jack Abbot/Reader. Chapter Two
This is going to be a long chapter kids...and honestly probably a long fic...
TW: mentions of past domestic violence, miscarriage, and religious trauma. Also therapy and poor self-talk.
Chapter One Here
As Y/N tries to will herself to stop procrastinating and take the pregnancy test she finds herself remembering past traumas. Meanwhile Jack Abbot finds himself taking his own trip down memory lane.
---------------
The white bathroom tile felt cold and hard underneath her as she sat crosslegged on the ground resting her back against the bathtub. She debated heading on to the bedroom and trading the thin cotton pink sleep shorts she’d settled on for a pair of cozy soft sweat pants, but was far too keyed up to make even the short trek to the massive dresser Abbot had insisted she should have for their bedroom.
She’d stared at him dumbfounded when they’d made the trip out to Ikea to find a few new pieces of furniture, for the townhouse they’d signed a joint lease on, and he’d pointed the massive piece of furniture out.
She’d tried to argue with him of course insisting she didn’t need anything that huge, but Jack Abbot had simply smirked and pointed out that he would be a foolish man to deny the fact that his girlfriend liked her clothing and she needed the space so she didn’t slowly take over his dresser. She should have her own dresser, one big enough to hold her treasure trove of clothes.
Y/N kept her gaze on the line of pregnancy tests lying out in front of her, the sight somehow equally as intimidating as it was orderly.
She’d lined the tests up by price, being sure to carefully place the instructions for each test right above each plastic testing stick with enough space between each stick so there was no chance of paperwork getting mixed up when it came time to view the results.
The tidy arrangement was a testament to Y/N’s work style as a night shift nurse in the ED. She had long been praised for her ability to keep everything needed to perform her job at 110% neat and tidy. It was a talent to have, especially working in a chaotic environment like an emergency room.
She knew that buying six different brands of pregnancy tests was definitely overkill, but an obnoxious voice in the back of her head barked that she needed a wide sample size to get the most accurate results.
She found herself treating this damn at-home pregnancy test experience like a research project.
She hadn’t taken a single test yet. She told herself she needed to go about this methodically and take her time to make sure the results were true and valid.
She told herself treating this the way she was was the most detached way she could go about this; treating it like she was conducting a study instead of doing something highly personal that risked changing her life forever no matter what the results on the tests had to say.
She was pretty sure she couldn’t step back from a pregnancy scare that wound up being just a scare, without it changing her just the slightest…without it changing Abbot.
She found herself gnawing at the inside of her cheek, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she tried to steady herself and work up the nerve to take the first test.
The comically large bottle of orange Gatorade sat beside her along with a bottle of diet green tea, both beverages here to help her even produce enough urine to take the tests.
She knew she’d have to take them all in batches. There was no way in hell she could pee enough to take each test one at a time not without walking away with a truly achy poor bladder.
A more sensible voice in the back of her head tried to gently tell her that this was ridiculous. The entire production was messy and made her look absolutely deranged. She’d been accused of neuroticism to her own detriment, but this was an entirely new low even for her.
She should just call up Jack and ask him to come home for this. She should bring him in to this and let him hold her hand and help her find a saner more rational way to go about this.
As much as she wanted to reach for her cell phone and dial his number she resisted far too stubborn and far too avoidant of the intense anxiety it gave her to take the risk. What was she supposed to even say if she called him? “Hey baby, how’s work…that’s nice, you might want to come home because there’s a pretty good chance you put a bun firmly in my oven and I’m kinda freaking out here.”
She was certain there was no way to be subtle about why she might need him home without this getting messy. If she kept things vague and just asked him to come home now it would just lead to him assuming the worst and freaking out. Lord knows he worried about her as much as he did, as sweet as he was, there was no need to feed the fire.
So, she resigned herself into suffering on her own for now, at least until she had an answer.
She stared down at the tests as though they might jump up and bite at her ankles at any second.
She knew she was prolonging the inevitable. She was procrastinating doing this and had done so since she got home.
She had done a hell of a lot of procrastinating for someone who had left work early to take this stupid test just because she couldn’t possibly wait for a shift turnover.
She’d eaten the pasta Abbot had kindly informed her would be waiting in the fridge for her knowing he’d fuss over her if she skipped out on eating something after a long shift. Then she’d taken a nap after cleaning up her dishes from her microwaved leftover pasta knowing she’d be useless if she didn’t get some rest after a long shift.
Then she’d decided to work on the crochet project she’d been working on for a few months now; an adorable stuffed unicorn with a matching rainbow patterned scarf for her goddaughter’s upcoming birthday. She knew she needed to get it done before Noelle’s visit with her parents in a few months.
She was looking forward to the visit and she knew Abbot was as well. It was a relief for her; Jack’s acceptance of her goddaughter and her goddaughter’s parents. Maria, Reggie, and Noelle were Y/N’s family more than her friends.
Y/N was so cut off from her own biological family, so she’d found a family of a different kind instead. She’d worried Abbot would not mesh with the sense of family she had fallen into and cherished so, but those worries had been unfounded.
The four most important people in her life had gotten along and it had given her such a sense of relief to know that the man she’d fallen for was accepting of her found family and her found family accepted him.
Maria and Reggie had been the ones who had helped Y/N escape her ex husband. They meant the world to her as did their daughter. They were her rock for so long. It was such a blessing to know they adored Abbot and he meshed so well with them.
Y/N had told herself that it made perfect sense to pick up her crochet project in a time like this even though she knew it was irrational. She had some free time and needed to get the project done she’d told herself. So why not work on it now of all the times in the world? She had shut out the voice that pointed out she was using the crochet as an avoidance technique and locked in on her project for a few hours.
She’d attempted to work on the crochet project but had found herself losing count of her stitches so often she’d had to undo rows and rows and had come to the conclusion that she was just making a mess. So, she’d abandoned the project and forced herself to prepare to take the dreaded pregnancy tests.
She’d spent hours prepping the bathroom and the tests and herself for the moment when she actually bit the bullet and did it.
She took slow deep breaths trying to steady the anxiety attack brewing in her gut. She could do this. She could totally do this and remain calm and methodical.
Y/N stared down at the tests trying her best to will herself to grab one and get this over with.
She tried to calm her nerves telling herself that no matter what happened Dr. Jack Abbot was the best man she could ever hope to endure something like this with.
She knew deep within her heart and soul that no matter what happened in this bathroom that Jack Abbot would stick around. It’s just who he was; dependable and sturdy.
She’d often wondered if this personality trait in him was a skill Abbot had developed during his time serving in the U.S. army. She imagined being loyal and steadfast were traits that would be favorable for one to have in the military especially in a combat situation.
He maintained a sense of calm and control when he was on the emergency room floor. He never faltered, never strayed from his path, never let himself give into the chaos surrounding him.
She’d noted the stubborn relentlessness in him when he worked on cases. He was not the type to give up on a patient until he had an answer, nor did he give up on his residents until he was certain they could stand on their own two feet in whatever daunting situation they’d been dealt with while overseeing patients.
His passion for his role treating patients and overseeing residents was admirable. And it had been what had first drawn Y/N to him…at least personality wise. She had been known to tease him that the first physical thing she’d noticed about him was his strong forearms…and his cute butt. She’d thought he was hot, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
The sense of loyalty Jack Abbot possessed was something else she’d taken note of. He was dependable and never strayed from those he cared for. She’d seen the behavior when it came to his mom and his younger sister as well as his friends and of course with herself. He was by far the most faithful human being she’d ever met when it came to sticking by those he cared for. He did not forsake anyone even if it was to his detriment. She couldn’t help but to at times compare him to a dog who kept coming back so trusting and loving, no matter how many times life kicked him.
Of course he was just as loyal and dependable to his residents; sticking by them if he thought they were doubting themselves or needed an ear to rant to. He made sure his residents knew he was there if they needed them without hovering or taking over for them. He let them learn while offering guidance and encouragement. She’d seen him do the same for day shift residents as well; stepping up for a teaching moment and offering praise and reassurance or a firm correction when needed.
The compassion he possessed played a role there too. Jack Abbot was the most selfless individual Y/N had ever met. He’d give the shirt off his own back to a stranger if he felt that they needed it more than him. He’d been known to donate blood in times of medical crisis at the hospital because he was a universal donor and insisted he would be selfish not to give as much as his body could handle to save a life. His compassion extended to his patients and his residents alike. He cared about those around him. He wanted them to feel secure and capable. He took his job as an attending seriously; he was there to educate and empower his residents. He was filled with enough compassion to reach out to residents who he knew were struggling and even recognize and suggest specialties that might be better suited for residents who clearly couldn’t manage it in the ED.
He was so patient, just endlessly patient. He’d go over treatment plans a thousand times with a patient until he was sure they understood him. He’d work with his residents with a sense of calm but stern ease, never afraid to try different teaching methods until he found what stuck.
He was a stern teacher without ever being cruel even when someone screwed up. He was able to correct mistakes without ever talking down to anyone. He insisted his job as an attending and a doctor was to correct and inform without demeaning anyone.
Y/N knew these positive traits were part of what made her fall for Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack Abbot was a good man. He did not run from things that scared him.
If anyone was going to get her pregnant then she was lucky it was him.
Still a voice in the back of her head taunted her that perhaps maybe deep down instead she did not deserve motherhood. She didn’t deserve it; not after last time.
As hard as Y/N tried to stop herself she allowed her mind to drift back to a time that seemed so long ago and the person she had been in what had seemed a lifetime ago.
Y/N wrapped the sweater around her shoulders ignoring the itchy fabric it a comfort in the cold of the motel bathroom she sat alone in.
She cringed at a knock to the door, a familiar voice sounding out. “Y/N, Honey? You okay? You’ve been in there for a while?”
She parted her lips wanting to lie and say she was fine, but the words died in her throat. She sighed pulling her knees up to rest against her chest ignoring the ache in her poor bruised frame. “No.”
The door creaked open that familiar voice sounding out as the door opened to reveal the owner of that familiar voice. “I’m coming in, okay.”
Marie Walker stared down at her long time friend wasting no time to creep into the bathroom, her movements slow and steady knowing Y/N had been jumpy, not that she blamed her.
She sat down beside the other woman, her voice soft. “Talk to me, Hon.”
Y/N glanced over at her friend, always somewhat in awe of her. She had met Marie Walker back in her first year of college. Y/N had been isolated and socially awkward knowing no one outside her then fiance turned husband soon to be hopefully ex husband
Marie had taken Y/N under her wing and nurtured her. She’d not minded Y/N’s social awkwardness nor the fact that Y/N had never had many friends before, not outside her family’s church and Nathan Simmons the man who she would marry. Y/N could not call anyone involved with the church a friend. She also was well aware she could not call those who she had hung around in her rebellious teen years friends. To be honest she’d long accepted loneliness as the human condition. She had resigned herself to not having any real close friendships.
Marie had proven to be a much needed support for Y/N. They’d been thick as thieves. They’d both gone to nursing school together and had remained close even after finishing up their schooling and licensing. When Nathan Simmons had pushed everyone from his Y/N’s life, Marie had refused to butt out. She had worked to maintain open contact with Y/N. She made it clear she was always there; always reaching out along with her boyfriend Reggie.
When Y/N had found herself in the emergency room this last time she had managed to get a hold of a phone and call the two people who never allowed Y/N’s husband to push away.
Marie and Reggie had been there in a flash and they’d checked Y/N out of the hospital before Nathan even knew what hit him.
That was how Y/N had found herself in a motel room on the outskirts of town with no one but Reggie and Marie knowing her location.
She was getting out. Marie and Reggie were going to help her make her escape. The divorce would happen and Y/N was determined to leave for good this time.
This was life or death for her. Nathan had already taken a life. Y/N felt her heart ache thinking of all the blood; her poor sweet baby. She’d not even known of its existence until Nathan had snapped and beaten her so brutally that the little life within her had been snuffed out.
She’d lied to the emergency room staff of course. She’d fallen down the stairs as far as the hospital staff knew. It was just a tragic awful accident. The old bruises were explained away as old injuries from Y/N being such a klutz. She knew the lies were weak but she was well versed in the act of lying about the state of her body.
Y/N knew going to the police did nothing at this point. Nathan always had a way of slipping his way out of any real trouble. He got arrested and the charges never stuck. Y/N knew Nathan’s dad being a cop in their little southern town probably didn’t help the charges stick. She questioned what she would do with a restraining order anyhow; throw it at him next time he swung his fist in her direction?
Y/N felt her voice crack so many thoughts swimming through her mind at such a rapid pace that she could barely sort through them. “I just, I don’t know what’s next.”
“What’s next is getting you the hell out of this state and talking to Reggie’s brother about that lawyer for you.” Marie insisted, showing she had clearly already thought about this escape plan time and time again.
Y/N felt a weak smile cross her lips as she spoke. “You really think an outlaw biker is the best guy to ask about finding legal representation for a divorce?”
“Hell yes I do. Trust me criminals know the best lawyers…and he’s not really a criminal…I mean, Eddie claims he’s gone straight and is a law abiding citizen.” Marie replied, speaking far too nonchalantly about her boyfriend’s older brother.
Y/N sighed her head falling back to rest against the wall unable to stop herself from saying it. “Sure, that’s why Reggie offered to talk to Eddie about having Nathan taken care of? I swear Reggie better be out actually just getting us burgers, not plotting some hair brained hit job with his idiot brother.”
Marie shrugged her shoulders at the comment fast to respond. “I don’t think they were going to take dickface out, just give him equal treatment.”
Y/N felt a chill run down her spine at the words equal treatment. She shook her head at Marie’s chosen nickname for Nathan Simmons. “I don’t want any more violence, Marie. Just because he hurt me doesn’t mean he deserves to be hurt in return.”
“The fuck he doesn’t. He deserves hell, Y/N. Don’t defend the prick. Don’t you dare defend the man who put you in the emergency room. I know this isn’t the first time, Y/N.” Marie snapped a look of concern crossing her features, her eyes narrowing in Y/N’s direction.
Y/N had driven herself to the emergency room after that final beating. Nathan had left the house; probably thinking she’d clean up her wounds and go to bed like usual. Y/N had felt as though something had awoken in her though; the realization that she wasn’t going to do this anymore. She looked down at her bloodied lap, the cramps shooting through her pelvis a hint that there was something more serious going on than a bruised and swollen beaten body.
She’d been right. She’d drug her beaten broken body into her local emergency room, the blood soaked nightgown she’d worn stripped away for a hospital gown and a diagnosis; miscarriage due to physical trauma.
She knew the medical staff had not bought her story about falling down the concrete stairs in her apartment. She’d known though that it didn’t matter. She was going to escape. She would never find herself dragging her broken body into an emergency room lying about the source of her injuries ever again.
Y/N held her hands up in a defensive stance, shaking her head. “This isn’t me saying I forgive him and I’m reconciling with him. I promise. I’m not going back to Nathan. I’m not defending him, I promise. I just, there’s been so much pain. I just want the pain to stop.”
Marie wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulders giving the woman a squeeze as she spoke her voice so reassuring like a mother comforting a frightened child. “It’s over. He’s not going to cause you any more pain. I promise. Reggie and I aren’t going to let him near you. We’re getting you the hell out of this place and far away from dickface. We’re going to get you the best lawyer and you’re going to be able to live a safe life far away from this place.”
Y/N felt her hand slide down to her stomach the concept that there had been a life growing within her that was now gone so hard to wrap her mind around. “I didn’t know. If I had known, I could have protected them.”
Marie rested her head against Y/N’s giving her shoulder another squeeze. “I know you didn’t know. You aren’t to blame, Y/N. You didn’t know about it.”
Y/N let out a shaky humorless laugh, the sound as bitter as the words that left her. “It’s probably for the best, not bringing this kid into the world. I would have been a shit mother.”
“I don’t believe that. There’s no way you’d be a shit mom.” Marie was quick to argue a frown crossing her features.
Y/N stared up at her friend, not shocked by the words. Marie never let her talk herself down. She was a good friend.
To be honest Y/N was always in awe of Marie just the slightest bit. She had to think Marie had missed her chance to be a supermodel. She was tall and elegant with high cheekbones, a head full of pretty dark curly hair, and a clear tan complexion. She was so stunning that she made Y/N feel so invisible in her presence at times. Y/N had always thought her best friend was pretty enough that she could have been a model or a Hollywood starlet.
Marie had a kind heart though. She was as intelligent as she was kind and beautiful. Nursing was a calling for her much the way it was a calling for Y/N.
Y/N sighed, shaking her head the tears slipping from her eyes despite her best attempts to stop them. “I don’t know how to be anyone’s mom. I mean, you know what my mom was like…what my parents are like…how do I love someone so unconditionally when I was never given that love? If I’d had this baby…I would have just screwed them up.”
Marie cringed having only met Y/N’s family once or twice and she was not a fan. They’d gone a number on Y/N. The religious abuse didn’t even scrape the surface of what they’d done to her.
Marie sighed, finding the words. “You know what I think? I think that because you were never shown that kind of love that means you’d work so hard to make sure your kid never knows how that feels. I don’t think anyone knows how to be a parent. They just kind of learn on the job. I mean there’s parenting classes but that can only do so much. The only thing you do is go into being a mom or a dad with good intentions. I think you have the best intentions. If you were going to be such a shit mom then you wouldn’t even consider how much you might fuck up your kid. Shit parents don’t tend to be considerate enough to think about how their kids might be impacted by their parent’s baggage.”
Y/N stared up at Marie parting her lips wanting to argue that this wasn’t the case for her. How could she understand how to ever love a child? The only love her parents had ever given her was given with terms and conditions and reminders that God would punish her if she got out of line. There was no hate the sin not the sinner in her family. The sinner was just as guilty as the sins they committed and forgiveness was not easily earned not even if you begged Jesus and God for it a thousand times. She’d grown up feeling as though she was screaming out to a God who was not listening. Her prayers went unanswered and her questions and doubts were treated as insolence.
Marie did not give her the chance to argue though fast to speak again. “You had shit parents Y/N. You deserved so much more and it breaks my heart you didn’t get the love you needed as a kid. That doesn’t reflect how you love or how you deserve to be loved though. I think that someday you’re going to find a guy who’s going to love you so deeply and he’s going to be worth facing the fear of what kind of mom you’re going to be. I think you’re going to find a great guy and you’re going to realize that you do have what it takes to be a great mom. I think you are claiming this loss is for the best because you are so crushed. Your heart is broken because you know how much you would have loved this kid even with who the father was. I think you would have loved this baby so much that you can’t even comprehend how much you’d have loved them. If you really admitted it then it would just be too overwhelming to even face that love knowing that you lost the baby. Grief is just love that has nowhere left to go. I think sometimes we love people so much that if we sit and think about how much we really truly love them then it scares the shit out of us because of how all encompassing it is.”
The tears came harder now Marie giving Y/N’s shoulders another squeeze holding Y/N tight against her as she spoke again. “Trust me, Hon. You are going to get another shot at this someday with someone who’s worth it. It’s not going to take away how much this fucking hurts, but the love will be there. You’ve got a big heart. Any kid would be lucky to call you mom.”
The memory faded from Y/N’s mind, her hand reaching for her stomach much the way it had done in a different bathroom all those years ago. This time she knew that there might be life still growing within her womb. There was a possibility of a little life.
The love was there. She had found a man worth it.
She would be ready this time.
—---------------------------------
Jack Abbot would be full of shit if he tried to pretend that he’d not glanced at his phone at any moments of peace during his busy shift.
He moved through the motions keeping his mind on the job though he’d be lying if he tried to pretend that he did not notice the missing presence of a certain night shift nurse.
He felt pathetic to admit it, but he’d definitely noticed her absence these past few shifts she’d been covering for the day shift. She wasn’t around to banter with Mateo and Dr. Shen. She wasn’t there to work along his side assisting him with patients. She was not there to covertly try to steal all of Abbot’s best pens and claim they had always been her pens and she had no clue what he was talking about when he called her out on it. Nor was she there for Abbot to discreetly attempt to steal away for flirty murmured conversations trying to find moments between the chaos and away from the prying ears of their coworkers.
He found himself staring down at his text messages, his heart sinking at no new texts from her. He had to hope it was a sign that perhaps she had followed his advice about the cold compress to her head and was getting some rest.
He couldn’t stop himself from picturing her though lying in the center of their bed her face pressed close to his pillow to take in his familiar scent, their bedroom cold and dark. He imagined her buried underneath the comforter reaching out for his vacant side of the bed missing him as much as he missed her. He pictured her closing her eyes resting soundly despite the pain in her head, her breathing soft and even soft murmured words occasionally leaving her lips as she dreamed. He imagined she was wearing one of his t-shirts to bed and wearing little else but that article of borrowed clothing.
He had to think that the sight of her in one of his t-shirts was akin to the beauty of a fine work of art. Of course Y/N might look alluring in lace and silk lingerie, but nothing in Jack Abbot’s opinion was more captivating than the sight of her in one of his old t-shirts. It was the prettiest sight on planet earth.
Sleeping during the day knowing she was working day shifts had been miserable for Jack Abbot. He’d had to wonder how he had ever slept without her by his side. There was something comforting about knowing she was resting safe by his side. There was something that was so lovely cuddling by her side as they settled down for the night…or well day in their case. He loved curling up against her in the warmth of their bed even if she might press her cold feet to him. He liked listening to her softly talk in her sleep and waking by her side each morning pressing kisses to her lips despite her protests claiming morning breath.
Jack Abbot had no idea how he’d ever gone so long sleeping on his own.
Needless he was relieved to say that Y/N only had one more day shift to cover and then she’d have a day off and get back to the night shift with him where she belonged.
This evening he’d found himself glancing down at his phone, the wallpaper on his lock screen a photo of her, the sight soothing him through a hard shift.
The photo of her he was currently using as a phone background had been taken when he’d taken her to lunch on a day off a while back. There was something so stunning about how she’d looked in the sweet little sundress she’d been wearing that he just had to have a photo of her. Of course he knew his fondness for the photo might have to do with the memory of just how that sweet little sundress had wound up on their bedroom floor that afternoon.
Of course he’d found himself gazing down at the photos of her on his phone even when he wasn’t having a rough shift. He had so many photos of her on his phone it was a miracle he wasn’t constantly getting notifications asking him to upgrade iCloud storage space. He knew to those around him who knew him well enough that it was obvious just what he gazed at on his phone and just why it put a lovesick smile on his lips.
Robby had given him plenty of shit for it and deemed that lovesick look Abbot got when it came to Y/N the Oh Wow isn’t Y/N just swell look.
He knew that the teasing was well earned. He could not even try to pretend he was not lovesick for Y/N.
He pined for her when she was away from him for too terribly long. For someone who had lived in solitude for so long and claimed he was so comfortable in that solitude and found comfort in the darkness, he had become so comfortable in Y/N’s company and the brightness she brought into that darkness he’d claimed to find such peace within.
Perhaps the comfort he’d found in that peace was part of the reason why he’d been more eager than usual to do his turnover for the day shift and head out of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
His shift tonight had been rough. It had not been one of the top ten worst he’d endured. It was not bad enough for him to seek the rooftop of the PTMC to decompress at the very least.
If anything he had the feeling the roughness of his shift would have been lessened by Y/N’s presence.
That was partially why he rushed out the doors the second the handoff and turnover was complete responding to Robby’s knowing commentary on just where Abbot was so eager to get off to with a subtle flip of the bird. The move was quick and discreet enough that anyone but Robby and he would have missed it unless they were paying attention. Thankfully everyone around them remained far too involved in their own work to take notice of the exchange.
He wasted no time making it to his truck ignoring the slight pain in his right side. He was more than ready to take a break from his prosthetic leg after this shift.
He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain and discomfort knowing the second he got home he could ditch the prosthetic and massage his limb. He would grab a quick bite to eat and a shower and relax by Y/N’s side.
He resisted the urge to go over the speed limit knowing driving recklessly would do him no favors in his mission to get home to his girlfriend.
He kept his eyes on the road, feeling as though every cell in his body was ready to get home to her.
Jack Abbot found it so impossible to believe that there was ever a time where he might have been so certain in the fact that he could ever live a life without her in it.
It was hard to believe he’d ever been so foolish and so damn stubborn. He knew he had his therapist to thank for helping him reach the point where he’d realized that perhaps getting close to Y/N was not such a terrible idea.
His therapist had played a huge role in making him recognize just how much Y/N had begun to mean to him.
He found himself sinking back into the memory so easily of one the many therapy appointments where the conversation had turned to Y/N and the place she had carved in his life so early on.
Jack Abbot sat back in the cushy chair, the room warm and secure feeling. The space was clean without being clinical.
Seeing a counselor had been good for Jack Abbot. It had taken him a long while to find one who he meshed with.
The counseling had begun soon after he’d been honorably discharged from the army after he’d lost his leg in combat.
He’d been angry then; struggling with PTSD from war and the fact that he’d lost his right leg from the knee down. It had been an adjustment; not just physically but mentally coming to terms with the amputation and the mental scars that had been left from the experience.
Jack had gone into the military knowing it would fund his education. He’d been young and his family had not had the funds for medical school. Jack was smart but scholarships could only help so much.
The army had seemed a good way to get an education without drowning in too much debt especially as far as Jack Abbot hoped to take his education.
His service in the army had given him what he needed when it came to his education but he’d paid his dues with his body.
He’d come back from the war in the middle east with a prosthetic leg and a lot of trauma.
The therapy had been a lifeline. He’d learned to cope with what life had dealt him.
He’d continued with the counseling throughout his medical career, finding it comforting to keep in touch with some form of mental health counseling even if he’d been able to move forward without needing it so frequently.
Then Anna had passed. The loss of his wife had shaken him. He’d fallen into a deep depression as anyone in his shoes would. Her death had been so sudden and it had come during a difficult time in their marriage. He’d been dedicated to his work and she’d felt neglected and they’d been going back and forth on starting a family.
Things had been tense and then she’d been gone. Any future had died with her and all Jack Abbot had been able to think about was all the time he’d wasted working instead of being at home with her and all the time he’d spent arguing with her about if he was ready for kids or not.
He’d avoided therapy for a while until the depression had lifted just enough for him to have the energy to force himself to find a counselor.
Though it had been nearly a decade since he’d lost his wife he’d still not allowed himself to move on romantically. His therapist told him he didn’t let people into his life past a superficial base level. Jack didn’t quite agree but he’d at least been willing to hear his therapist out.
He’d found a therapist he meshed well with. Brian had proven to be a great therapist to Jack in the years he’d seen him.
Jack had come to him every week for a long while now and it helped. It gave him a healthy space to decompress from his job and be honest about how he was really feeling in a nonjudgemental environment.
Jack paused the story he’d been retelling recalling how his last shift had gone, not even really realizing the sense of fondness clear in his voice as he’d said the words. “The woman is a true menace. I still haven’t figured out how she’s getting my best pens. I’m thinking I might just need to buy Y/N her own set so she stops borrowing mine.”
“Y/N. That’s a name that’s been coming up often in our visits, Jack.” Brian pointed out Abbot frowning thinking back to the past few visits they’d had. Sure, he’d mentioned Y/N, but they worked together so of course she was going to come up when he recalled a rough shift or how things at work had been going.
He cleared his throat attempting to sound nonchalant about the possibility that he’d been mentioning Y/N at just about every therapy appointment for the past few months now. “She’s a great nurse, capable and orderly. She has a way of anticipating patients' needs without them having to voice them. She’s compassionate but steady enough to not let her heart cloud her choices when assisting in patient treatment. I am pleased with her work. I’m happy to have her on my team.”
“You’ve developed more than a professional relationship with Y/N? You mentioned taking her to breakfast last week.” Brian pointed out seeing right through Abbot’s attempts to focus only on the work aspect of his opinions of Y/N.
Jack Abbot shifted in his seat staring down at his hands as he responded. “We’ve developed a friendship of sorts I suppose. You’re the one who’s always encouraging me to seek out connections beyond the workplace and the occasional work I do with the SWAT team.”
“I have been encouraging you to do that. Would you say that your feelings towards Y/N go beyond a friendship? You just described it as a friendship of sorts, Jack. That might imply that there’s an emotion you might feel towards her that goes beyond a friendship.” Brian questioned Jack grimacing at the question. Of course his therapist would pick apart the response and read between the lines.
Jack sighed, shaking his head at the question. “It would hardly be appropriate for it to extend beyond a friendship.”
Brian raised a brow quick to question this line of thought. “And why would that be? She’s not a nursing student from my understanding, Jack. It seems as though she’s settled into her career. She is not your subordinate. So, what would be inappropriate if you were to view her as something beyond a friendship? I know we’ve discussed your feelings about romantic relationships given the loss of your wife. From our past talks it seems we reached a place where you admitted that finding love again would not be a betrayal to your late wife. Has that changed? ”
Jack let out a heavy sigh forcing himself to make eye contact with Brian finding the words. “No, that hasn’t changed…I’ve moved my ring from my finger to my dog tags. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve mentioned…when I’m ready writing a note to Anna, to the ring…thanking her for loving me with the time we had letting her know that it's time to put the ring in a safe place, thanking the ring for being a symbol of the love I shared with Anna and the memories we created. I’ve put some serious thought into it…even looked for a ring box I could put it in when I’m ready.”
He paused, clearing his throat, it growing tight, he knowing he wasn’t quite at the place where he was ready to do this just yet.
He shifted in place knowing he had not exactly fully answered the question he’d been asked. Brian of course picked up on this. “That’s good to hear, Jack. I know not wearing your ring was something you were resistant to for a long while. When we first broached the subject of your late wife years ago you were convinced removing the ring would be a sign the love you shared meant nothing. It’s good to see you’ve reached a place of understanding that allowing yourself to accept the possibility of no longer wearing your ring doesn’t mean devaluing anything you may have shared with Anna nor does it mean you love her any less. I know it’s taken you a long time to come to a place where you’re open to the concept of having the ability to find love again. I know it’s not been easy to consider that you might be able to experience love for more than one person and that loneliness is not a life sentence for you.”
Brian paused, mentioning the other part of the question he’d asked again. “Given the amount of time you’ve spent with Y/N, would you say it might be safe to say that you might consider pursuing something more than friendship with her?”
Jack couldn’t stop himself from scoffing the words slipping from his lips long before he could stop them. “I couldn’t put her through that.”
“Through what, Jack?” Brian questioned the Abbot twisting his lips, his jaw set tight as he realized just what he’d said.
Jack sighed, shaking his head deciding to just be honest about it. If he couldn’t be honest with his therapist, who could he be honest with? “I’m too much for her. She’s young and she’s got a full life ahead of her and I don’t need to drag her down.”
Brian was fast to pick up on the comment and question it. “What about you do you feel is too much or would drag her down?”
Dr. Jack Abbot took a deep breath, one of the reasons spilling from his lips. “I’m too old for her, hell, I’m old enough to be her father. I’m sure she wants more than a man nearing fifty with weathered wrinkled skin and gray hairs. She probably wants someone close to her own age.”
“The age difference might be unconventional, but you are both consenting adults. Have you asked her how she might view your age difference?”
“No, I haven’t. It’s not exactly a subject I’ve broached with her, Brian. I don’t even know how I’d bring something like that up.” Abbot remarked, waving a hand dismissively.
He paused, shaking his head going into all the other reasons why it would be an awful idea to pursue anything beyond friendship with her his voice raising a little anger beginning to brew in his gut as he admitted all his failures. “Even if the age thing wasn’t a factor, I’m not what she should look for in a partner. She needs someone less complicated with less baggage. She doesn’t need an old widower with a missing limb who’s so uncomfortable with moments of peace that he picks up extra shifts at work and works with a SWAT team in his spare time because he has to keep busy or his thoughts will cause him to break down if he thinks too long and too hard of all the shit he’s lived through. She should go for a guy with a body that isn’t broken and a mind that isn’t a mess. She needs more than a guy who wakes up in a cold sweat dreaming about the battlefield, his dead wife, and coding patients in the ED. Trust me, Brian, It can’t progress to anything beyond friendship. I can’t do that to her.”
Brian did not react to the outburst, keeping his voice calm and even. “You are making a lot of assumptions about what Y/N should want and what she might need. As far as all these faults you’ve described in yourself, I know you’re actively addressing them. I think you’ve proven you are beyond capable of living a full life with your amputation. You don’t seem broken physically to me, sure you might struggle on occasion with pain and limitations, but you’ve done the work to be mindful of your body and what it might need from you. We’ve talked about listening to your body and nurturing it, Jack. You have an understandable mental state for the traumas you’ve endured. You’ve worked hard to work through the ptsd symptoms. You’re assuming that Y/N might not be understanding of the reasons behind the symptoms as well as your body’s limitations.”
Jack gritted his jaw turning his eyes from Brian not wanting to admit that the man was being reasonable in his assessments.
Brian spoke again, glancing at his watch. “We’re nearing the end of our time for today Jack. Before our next session I want you to work on your journaling. When you have these thoughts about all the reasons you might think that you might not be worthy of anything beyond friendship with Y/N, I want you to write it down.”
He paused, adding another comment on. “I do think it might be important to consider a detail I haven’t heard you mention, Jack. If Y/N were to find herself in a romantic relationship with someone else, would you feel at peace with that? I think it might be important to weigh out how you might feel about the possibility of her moving on romantically compared to these doubts you might have about pursuing anything beyond a friendship with her. It’s just something I would like you to journal about. It might be helpful to consider both sides of these feelings. It can help you sort out all of this should and needs talk compared to how you might organically feel for her removing any concept of assuming what she might expect from you.”
Jack Abbot could admit that yes, he’d taken Brian’s advice. He’d journaled a lot about Y/N.
And about a month after that therapy appointment Jack Abbot had to face that question Brian had brought up; how would Jack feel if Y/N moved on with someone else.
He could still remember that overheard conversation that had lit a fire under his ass and forced him to make his move.
He’d been standing outside a patient room far enough out of view that Y/N and Dr. Shen could not see him and was unaware he was listening in. He’d not intended to listen in but the words had stopped him dead on his feet.
“So, Y/N a little bird told me you have a big date with Danny from phlebotomy.” Dr. Shen teased between sips of his iced coffee.
Y/N groaned at the comment fast to reply. “I’m going to murder Nurse Diaz. Mateo’s days are numbered.”
The comment earned a snicker from Dr. Shen he fast to respond. “So, big date? Danny was making moon eyes at you and pulling all the moves according to Mateo.”
“Yeah, I mean, he flirted…asked me for coffee. I said yes. Figured it couldn’t hurt. He seems like an okay guy.” Y/N remarked Jack feeling his stomach drop.
Danny from Phlebotomy, the same Danny a few of the night shift staff made eyes at. He was young and attractive and a flirt. Abbot had noticed Danny’s gaze turning to Y/N lately, but he’d always found a way to distract Y/N, to pull her from the other man’s gaze.
Now it seemed that Danny had made his move and Abbot felt sick to his stomach.
“Ouch, okay? That’s not really the way you should describe someone you’re going on a date with.” Dr. Shen remarked a brow raising at Y/N’s lack of enthusiasm about this upcoming date.
Y/N sighed, shaking her head focusing on readying the bed for their patient who was currently gone getting an MRI in imaging. “I…it’s just been a while. I haven’t really dated in a long time. I don’t know if this will be anything, and I’m not 100 percent sure how I feel about it to be honest. I mean, he’s nice…he’s cute enough. If anything it’ll be a good way to get back on the saddle with the whole dating game. It’s a good idea. I mean and he’s interested and it’s not like guys are beating down the door to ask me out…not with my work schedule.”
“Oh I can think of one guy who would beat down a door in a heartbeat to take you out. Salt pepper hair, incredibly fit for a guy nearing fifty, night shift attendee that has a last name that rhymes with that animal that hops and is fond of carrots.” Shen remarked Jack feeling his pulse quicken.
Was he that transparent? Did everyone know about the feelings he’d been wrestling with for Y/N for so damn long now?
Y/N was quick to respond to this, a sharp laugh leaving her. “Dr. Abbot? Jac…Dr, Abbot and I are just friends.”
“So you two keep exclaiming even though none of us are buying it. Just friends don’t stare at each other the way you two do. You two are glued at the hip around here. You sneak away to the roof after your shifts together more often than not. Dr. Abbot actually comes to outings with the rest of us when we go out for a drink or a bite to eat as long as you’re going to be there. You two have been hanging out outside of work a lot.” Dr. Shen replied calling out the just friends line Y/N fed anyone anytime they mentioned her closeness to Dr. Abbot.
Y/N was fast to defend herself. “I like working with him, trust me as far as doctors go, Dr. Abbot is by far the most pleasant I’ve ever worked with. I’ve worked with some real narcissistic doctors before and it’s a pain to deal with someone who disregards every word you say because you’re just a nurse. The roof is a nice place to decompress. Dr. Abbot and I just share the space sometimes. I’m sure his joining social outings has zero to do with me. Yes we hang out sometimes. We’ve grabbed breakfast after some rough shifts and he’s helped me move furniture when I had to move apartments.”
She paused a soft sigh leaving her lips sounding almost resigned to the next words she said. “If Dr. Abbot wanted to make some kind of move on me he’s had the chance. Trust me, I am not even on his radar. He’s not read-...it’s just not like that okay.”
Abbot cringed at the words she didn’t say. He’s not ready.
He cringed even more at the ones she did say. He’s had the chance to make his move.
She was going on a date. Y/N was going on a date with someone who wasn’t him.
Y/N of course had never made that date.
Jack Abbot had gone straight to her place after their shift the day he’d overheard her conversation with Shen.
He’d run up to her apartment ignoring the ache in his right thigh telling him he needed to get out of his prosthetic and not paying mind to the fact that it was pouring rain and he was soaked by the time he reached the front door to her apartment.
The words had left him the second she’d opened the door.
“Please don’t go on the date with Danny from Phelbotomy.”
Y/N had stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. She had not anticipated opening her door to a distressed looking Dr. Abbot who was currently soaking wet from the storm outside.
She stepped aside letting him in as she spoke. “What are you talking about Jack? Why don’t you want me to go out on this date? I mean, I know Danny hits on anything with tits and a pulse, but…”
Abbot had spoken, interrupting her before she could continue. “He doesn’t deserve to take you on a date. Don’t go out with him.”
Y/N crossed her arms across her chest, her stubborn streak kicking in. “I don’t recall giving you any authority on what I do and don’t deserve nor did I give you authority to order me around about who I go on dates with.”
Jack cringed at the sharpness to her tone. He took a deep breath remembering everything he’d journaled about concerning Y/N and his feelings towards her. He could let her go or face his fears about his inadequacies when it came to loving her.
He took a deep breath making his choice. “You didn’t give me that authority. I’m not trying to dictate that for you. I am just…I know this is an absolute cliche to say it, but I don’t want you to go on a date with Danny or any other guy. The only guy that should be taking you on any dates is standing right here in front of you getting mud and rain water all over your entry way rug.”
He swallowed the lump developing in the back of his throat as he paused finding the words. “I should have made my move a long time ago. I was scared…I’m man enough to admit to it. I told myself that you deserved more than an old man with a missing leg and night terrors. I thought I could live with the concept of you finding someone else…told myself I couldn’t put you through being with me and all the crap I come with. The truth of the matter is though that I’m crazy about you and I can’t stand the idea of anyone else being with you. I’d rather bring all my baggage to the table and all my imperfections and beg for you to adore me nearly half as much as I adore you. So, I’m putting it out there. I’m making my move. I want to take you out on a date. I want more than a date…I want you. I want us even if it might feel complicated and scare me half to death.”
He let out a deep breath feeling his gut churn as she stood staring at him he fearing the worst. What would he do if she rejected him? Did he misunderstand her feelings towards him from what he’d overheard from her conversation with Shen?
The words left her lips they so soft he almost didn’t hear them. “Oh, Jack.”
She leaned up the move shy and hesitant, her lips sliding along his her hand pressing to his cheek.
The kiss was uncertain and so soft he almost didn’t feel it, but he found himself returning it, his hands placing at her hips pulling her closer to him. The kiss grew deeper, the pair easily growing lost in one another months and months of denying what they felt for one another fading by the second.
He coaxed her to part her lips, his tongue sliding along hers with ease and need taking pride in the soft moan that left her lips in response.
The desire to breathe outweighed the need to continue the kiss, the pair parting their lips but remaining pressed close to one another.
The words left his lips so soft she barely heard him. “Better than I imagined.”
She ran her fingertips across his jaw the touch reverent she caressing the fine lines he’d once claimed she couldn’t possibly find desirable.
She spoke the smile crossing her lips. “So, where are you taking me for this date?”
“Anywhere you want, Sweet Girl.” The reply left him without hesitation, the petname flowing from his lips without doubts or fear.
Jack pulled his mind from the memory, his heart lifting at the sight of his home and his trip down memory lane.
He could not believe he’d ever been so certain that he couldn’t have this with her. She’d slowly undone all those reasons he’d created in his head about why she might not want him. While those insecurities did rear their ugly heads in from time to time Y/N was always there to silence them.
He dropped his backpack by the front door the second he shut it behind him cringing at the slight limp to his step. Yes, he was definitely ready to ditch his prosthetic for a little while.
He made his way upstairs ready to ditch his prosthetic and shower before he grabbed a bite to eat.
He frowned not finding Y/N in their bedroom the way he’d assumed he might at this hour.
She had a day off today given it was her usual day off and she would have a last day shift to cover tomorrow before a day to rest before hopping back into the night shift.
He had expected to find her taking advantage of the break to get some much needed rest but found their bed empty.
He frowned, spotting the bathroom door clearly cracked and the light within it clearly on.
He knocked at the bathroom door, his voice soft. “Y/N, Baby. I’m home. Is it okay if I come in? You in there?”
He felt his stomach turn as he received no response. He cracked the door open frowning as he spotted his girlfriend sitting on the bathroom floor, she looking dazed and exhausted.
He stared down at the mess sitting out in front of her on the bathroom floor, disbelief clear in his voice. “Are those what I think they are? Are those pregnancy tests?”
This one comes from a deep, personal place and I really hope you guys like it. This one goes out to everybody who's ever been trapped by "love;" I hope you have your soft!Billy moment one day.
If you'd like to view this work on ao3, please click here.
Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader (roommates)
Word count: 3k
Summary: You're finally fed up with your controlling boyfriend, but you feel stuck. You find your savior in the last person you would've expected: Billy Hargrove, formerly Hawkins' most notorious bad boy. He's changed...a lot.
CW: abusive relationship, soft!Billy, smoking
Notes: This work is set around the year 1995; reader and Billy are about 27/28 years old.
Chapter One title inspired by: "Nutshell" by Alice in Chains
"No one to cry to/No place to call home"
"My gift of self is raped/My privacy is raked/And yet I find, and yet I find/Repeating in my head/If I can't be my own/I'd feel better dead"
It was raining outside, and you were huddled, drenched, in a small phone booth by the gas station. Your hoodie felt like it weighed a million pounds. You wiped the rain from your face, but your vision was still blurred by tears that just wouldn't stop flowing.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm a burden; maybe I'm selfish.
Maybe I'm unlovable.
Your boyfriend never let you forget how his kindness — his money — was the only thing keeping you afloat. You'd fallen for him because he was so romantic at first. He'd send you flowers just because you felt sad. He learned how to say "I love you" in multiple languages and never ran out of new pet names to call you to make you blush. He always made you feel special, which wasn't hard with a family like yours. You'd grown up walking on eggshells around your volatile father; you were your mother's emotional crutch and protector. No one ever taught you how to be independent because they wanted you to stay home and under their control. And he, your charming boyfriend, had taken you away from that hell with promises of a safe, cozy little life. Just the two of you.
He left you a shell of your former self. Your quirks were nuisances to be corrected. You were too noisy, too excitable, too "difficult" when you wanted to do things your own way. He took it upon himself to "guide" you. He drained your joy and his anger at the world left you tiptoeing around his feelings. It was a routine you already knew by heart…you'd just been naive enough to believe it was all behind you.
Your friends noticed the nervous way you held yourself, the way you'd try to anticipate upset and stop yourself from being too much.
"Why don't you leave him?" they'd say. "Come stay with me; you don't have to deal with that bullshit."
But his words echoed in your head. He cleaned when you were depressed. He made decisions when you were overwhelmed. According to him, he'd done so much for you that he felt more like your father than your lover and wasn't even attracted to you anymore.
If that was all true, what the hell would happen to your friendships when you became a burden to them? The simple truth was that you were paralyzed with fear at the thought of leaving. You never knew another life outside of your childhood and with him. You didn't even drive because when you tried to learn, he constantly yelled or, as always, acted as if you weighed him down. The notion of getting behind the wheel again made you panic.
But you'd finally had enough. It's how you found yourself shaking and crying in the rain, clutching a dirty public phone in one hand and a quarter in the other.
You were frozen because you didn't know who to call. You didn't want to ruin anyone's night with your drama and neediness. Your breath hitched, and you slammed the phone back into the cradle before sliding to the floor, your head in your hands.
Someone tapped on the glass door.
"Please go away," you begged. "Just…please? I'm having a really shitty night." But the tapping didn't stop. It was relentless. With a huff, you wiped your swollen, sore eyes and blinked up at the intruder.
Billy Hargrove.
You glared up at him defiantly. "The hell do you want?"
You expected him to make some douchey remark or smirk down at you like the smug asshole he was in high school. Every cell of your body braced for it — just another man making you feel small. What else was new? So it surprised the hell out of you when his face came into focus and he looked worried instead. His pretty lips twitched in a frown, his brow furrowed, and there was real concern behind his eyes.
"You okay in there?" His voice was softer than you imagined it could ever be, though it still held an edge of annoyance that told you he hadn't turned into some saint. You sniffled, speechless and taken aback for a moment. When he sighed impatiently, you reached over and slid the door open.
Should I tell him the truth?
You warred with yourself internally. On one hand, you really needed a friend. On the other, Billy had never been one. You weren't sure he knew how. What you did know for certain was that you were alone, afraid, and more depressed than ever before. What the hell?
"No. I'm pretty fucking bad, actually." A self-deprecating laugh escaped you, and you shook your head as more tears fell. Billy looked like he was two seconds away from turning heel and getting the hell out of dodge; your tears made him uncomfortable — you could see it in the tense way he held his broad shoulders. The chilly wind whipped into the booth, making you shiver. "Well?" you prompted. "You coming in or what?" He hesitated for a minute more before sidling into the cramped spot with you and kneeling.
"Gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked in a low, careful voice. He was so close you could smell whatever gum he was chewing. Big Red, if you had to guess. Warmth radiated from him despite the chilly night air, and his cologne smelled so…
You shook yourself out of it. What the hell is wrong with me?
"I — yeah. Yeah, sure." You took a deep breath and tried to steel yourself against more tears. "My boyfriend, he—"
"That sonofabitch hit you?" Billy growled. His muscles went rigid, bulging against the sleeves of his grease-smudged Aaron's Auto T-shirt. Your eyes widened; he was making a hell of an assumption.
"No! No, God no. As if I wouldn't fly off the handle if he tried." You rolled your eyes. "He's just a real…he's a shithead, okay? He makes me feel fucking worthless no matter what I do, and I'm tired of it. He says I'm like a child. He's the one who moved me into his place as soon as I graduated, and now he complains because I don't live up to the version of me he idealized! I'm not neat enough or quiet enough or ambitious enough for him. And believe me, he never lets me forget it." Tears welled up again; you hastily brushed them away. "Being alone has to be better than whatever the hell this is. I know that, but I just…" You trailed off.
"Just what?" he said, irritated. "Case closed. He's a goddamn cradle-robbing control freak. What more is there to say? Pack up your shit and go, I don't know, move back in with your folks for a while."
"It's not that simple." There was a whiny quality to your voice that you hated. That your boyfriend hated most of all. (Childish) Billy tilted his head and looked at you — really looked. You felt vulnerable in a way you didn't expect, like he was cracking you open and examining everything you tried to suppress. Color rose on your cheeks, and you turned away.
"Hey, don't do that. Look at me." You almost scoffed at his command, but the way he said it was soft, almost pleading. Your heart skipped a beat, and your head turned back in his direction like it was pulled by gravity.
Billy had always been attractive. He was the hottest guy in Hawkins, and he knew it. That golden, curly hair. The muscles, the tan, the confidence that rolled off of him in waves that turned every woman's legs to jelly. And there had always been rumors that he was fantastic in bed. He noticed your gaze wandering and laughed under his breath. "Don't start that shit. I'm not your Prince Charming and I'm not here to ride off with you on a white horse or something stupid like that." His features softened. "But I've been around enough controlling assholes in my life to tell you it doesn't get better. It never fucking gets better. So if you're thinking of staying — my eyes are up here, look at them — if you're thinking about staying for whatever bullshit reason the fear is giving you…you'll never be free. You'll always be stuck in a cage. It's not worth all the pain that comes with it…is it?"
He was so commanding, and yet you didn't fear for a second that he'd belittle you or raise his voice like the others. The phone booth suddenly felt too hot, too cramped. All you could smell was cinnamon and the musk of that cologne that had made you lose your train of thought earlier.
Billy snapped your attention back to the present with another dramatic sigh. He was waiting for an answer.
"Oh. I…no. It's not worth it." You huffed out a bitter laugh. "But what the fuck am I supposed to do? I have nothing. No car, no money, no job now that I've been laid off. I'm useless." You froze again when his thick, calloused fingers held your chin in place, forcing you to keep eye contact.
"You're not useless. You've just been alone with that asshole for so long he's planted the idea in your head that you'd fail without him." There it was again, that tone that begged you to listen closely. It hit you all at once — he'd been through this before. He knew what it was like. These weren't empty words from a well-meaning but clueless friend. He was someone who'd made it out. Your chin trembled as fragile hope sparked in your chest.
Billy dropped his hand. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."
"N-no' I'm not scared," you stammered. "I've just never met anyone like you before…someone who's actually found the greener grass on the other side instead of—"
"Just more bullshit?" he guessed. You both smiled a little at that.
You nodded. "Yeah, exactly." Understanding passed between you, and you felt more at ease — that is, until another voice crept back in. Your face fell. "Listen. I don't know how to get to that place, though, and the last thing I wanna do is be a burden, so maybe I should just—"
"Should just what?" he asked, that edge of irritation creeping into his voice again. "Go home and wither away? You're not a goddamn burden. If you were, I'd have gone already. I don't waste my time on whiny bullshit." Now that sounded like the old Billy. It was sort of comforting; at least you knew he wasn't lying. You opened your mouth, maybe to protest again, but the look he gave you made it clear he wasn't in the mood to argue. "We're going to get your shit. Come on." He tugged you up by the hand and you let him lead you to the Camaro he still drove all these years later. It was warm and dry inside, and the seats were comfortable.
"I don't have anywhere to go after—"
"Yeah, you do." Billy's knuckles tightened on the wheel like he was bracing for you to chicken out. To his surprise, you sat there silently, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You couldn't speak if you tried. You were in shock at his implication…and you felt a secret thrill that clashed strangely with the dread of the inevitable confrontation.
Your boyfriend wasn't pleased when you showed up with Billy in tow. He couldn't block your way, not with Hawkins' most notorious bad boy standing right there. But he didn't need to get physical — he never did. He knew how to hurt you without lifting a finger.
He laughed in that incredulous, resentful way he always did when you triggered his temper. "Are you serious?" When you didn't answer, he followed you down the hall to the bedroom you shared. Billy wasn't far behind. "What, you gonna shack up with him now? Good fucking luck. You can't use him, he doesn't have any money!" It was another one of his favorite lines, calling you a gold digger when he knew you never got with him for financial gain. You'd loved him back when he was just a stocker at Bradley's Big Buy, before the firm hired him. You sighed; he was trying to bait you and you knew it.
"Could you just leave me alone, Danny?" You were throwing things haphazardly in boxes Billy had picked up from his work and jamming clothing into the one suitcase you owned. You couldn't afford to worry about a neat packing job; you needed to get through it fast, before you let fear win.
"Sure I'll leave you alone…just as soon as I make sure you're not stealing my shit to pawn off or something." What did he even have that was worth taking? You wanted to laugh. You wanted to spit in his face for thinking so low of you when all you'd done was try to be what he wanted. When you didn't rise to it, Danny scoffed and leaned in, forcing you to notice his derisive sneer. "Real mature. Giving me the silent treatment like the petulant CHILD you are!" Billy had been a silent presence beside you until he saw a tear roll down your cheek.
"You wanna back the fuck up, amigo?" He held out an arm to bar Danny from getting any closer. "I don't think she has anything to say to you." But Danny was like a dog with a bone.
"That's right, get another man to fight your battles for you! God knows you can't do it yourse—" Billy's hand closed around the collar of Danny's shirt, and his feet left the ground.
"That's enough."
Danny may have been a real bastard when he was angry, but he wasn't stupid. You were left to pack the rest of your things in relative peace. The last thing you did was leave the house key on his desk with a note: A golden cage is still a cage. I asked for neither.
Your hands fidgeted in your lap on the drive to Billy's house, wherever that was. He hadn't said a word since the two of you left your old place. You didn't want to be the first to break the silence. You already felt indebted and didn't want to risk annoying him. He was the first to speak, somewhere on Kerley 20 minutes later.
"You good?" It was a simple question but you had no simple answer, so you shrugged and turned the focus onto him.
"You're…different now. What happened?" Your body shrank back into the seat as soon as the words left your mouth; you braced for anger. Instead, he just threw an amused glance your way.
"You mean, why am I not a raging asshole anymore?" Your shoulders dropped as you relaxed and a relieved smile touched your lips. He was taking everything in such stride — it gave you whiplash. You nodded, and he lit a cigarette at the red light before answering. "Three reasons. First, I got away from my piece of shit old man. It's a lot easier to sleep at night without a broken rib or a concussion." He said it like it was a joke, but it made your heart ache. You'd had no idea. Sure, you'd noticed the bruises, the cuts, the way he favored one side sometimes — you just figured they were from fighting with the other macho douchebags. "Second, I almost died once, and it put a lot of shit into perspective." Your eyes slid over to the driver's seat warily. You weren't sure if he was fucking with you. The raw honesty on his face put that to bed. "Third, court-ordered anger management classes. My punk-ass little sister says they must be working since she can stand to be around me now." He smirked and took a drag of his cigarette before holding it out to you, a silent offer.
"Thanks, but I don't smoke."
"Good. Don't start." He just kept puffing away, though. Hypocrite.
You lapsed back into silence. Memories floated to the surface of your mind, things you hadn't thought about in years. A little redheaded girl scowling at Billy as he barked something at her outside of the Palace Arcade. The same girl, skating alone, looking like she'd rather die than be in Hawkins. Billy telling his date that Little Red wasn't his sister and not to call her that anymore. The fury with which he sped out of the senior lot that day.
"Must've been something scary," you murmured. "What you went through that made you change." His knuckles tightened on the wheel until they were bone white. Those perfect lips pressed into a thin line and he threw the half-smoked cigarette out of the window.
"You could say that." He was trying hard to keep his emotions in check. The old Billy would've lashed out when you got too close to the truth, and you didn't have to be close buddies with him to know that. You bit your lip and turned your face to the window, watching the trees blur by. God, he drove fast.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried."
"Nah, sweetheart, I'm the one who brought it up. Don't sweat it." Sweetheart? He didn't offer anything more. He wasn't ready, and you weren't about to push your luck.
Both of you were relieved when the trailer park came into view. You stopped outside one painted a pale blue with a small covered porch. "Ain't much, but it's mine," he said, swinging a leg out of the car. "Yours now, too, I guess." You watched as Billy picked up your heavy old suitcase like it was nothing and hauled it up the rickety steps. Your heart pounded in your chest at the effortless display of strength…and at his assumption that you'd be staying long-term. You still weren't entirely convinced that you weren't stuck in some bizarre dream.
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series summary> In your universe, Sylus is your beloved character in a game you like to play. In his universe, he acquires a mirror of the game… and sees you playing. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series notes> Sylus x Nonmc. Mutual yearning. Sylus and MC are not in a relationship. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <an> Eyyy welcome to my first try at a multi-chapter fic! I hope to complete these thoughts brewing in my mind.
There’s gonna be lots of parts but each part may be short, about 400 to 500 words~ (I don’t even dare call them chapters haha but better to write them short than not try at all i guess) I’ll try to make reader as general as possible but she may eventually be an oc later. Enter and enjoy~ </>
[masterlist]
⊹ part 1 - tether
⊹ part 2 - stealth
⊹ part 3 - scour
<others to follow>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <reminder> Kindly respect the time and effort put into this fic. Do not copy, plagiarize, reproduce, feed to ai, or upload this work elsewhere. But ofc reblogs, tags, and comments are deeply appreciated! ♥️ </>
⊹ Divider by @alienshipper ⊹ other Sylus fics here ♥️
A/N: *rings bell* come gets your dinner! Smut! Plot! I studied Apothecary Diaries for the plot, so you know its something absolutely delicious and angst filled. Don't worry, there is a happy ending <3
You can find the entire chapter here on my AO3!
tw: reader gets burnt/ burn treatment
You always pour his first since the tea has to steep longer than your hot chocolate or coffee.
You hum a little tune, finishing filling up Levi's cup. The water sits about a centimeter away from the rim.
As you reach out for your own cup, a loud bang, almost like a gun shot, sounds from the outside of the building.
You gasp, pulling your hands to your chest, completely forgetting about the kettle in your hand, and the scalding hot cup of tea right in front of you.
Your actions knock the cup all over yourself, soaking your stomach to your thigh. Hands shaking, you try to set the kettle down on the counter, not without spilling more hot water on your nondominant hand.
Cursing under your breath, you almost run into the bathroom.
You never felt the heat of the water, that is what scares you.
Thankfully, your training from work kicks in, and you step into the shower, turning the water to the coldest setting.
"What happened?" Levi speaks with authority, his tone harsh and foreign to you.
Choking down a whimper, you accidentally grab the shower head with your nondominant hand, making the dry and irritated skin stretch with a burn.
Quickly, you switch hands, putting the cold water over your hand to remove the immediate pain.
"Tell me." Levi walks towards you, his body hovering in the open shower door. Too focused on yourself, you don't see the way his face twists with pain – like he can feel how hurt you are.
Levi can clearly see the irritated area on the back of your hand forming, and with his immaculate detective skills, he knows you burnt more than just your hand to be treating yourself in the shower.
"Where else did you get burnt." His hands are held out to help you, hesitating on touching you where you're burnt.
"It's my tummy a-and my t-thigh." You whimper again, the sound sending twisted pleasure to his cock and wounding his heart at the same time.
Levi watches as you angle the shower head to your stomach, your injured hand lifting the material of your tee shirt so Levi can see the extend of your damages.
This time, Levi is the one cursing under his breath, taking the shower head from your hands.
"Strip. You shouldn't have clothing touching the burns." Levi moves the water to run over your stomach, his free hand helping you lift your shirt over your head.
You hiss as the harsh, wet material runs over the burn on your hand. Cradling it to your chest with your free hand, the wet tee shirt is dumped on the shower floor beside your feet.
Levi is quick to hook his thumb into your shorts and to work it down your long legs. The perverted side of his mind noted how you had forgone a bra and panties. The more logical side of Levi's mind kept assessing the burns, his head how level with your pussy.
The water had scalded a majority of your stomach and most of your right thigh.
"Shit." He hisses under his breath, looking up to you from his crouched position.
Tears are running down your face (which is now ghostly pale), your hands still cradled to your chest. Levi also notices the periodic shaking of the adrenaline leaving your body, giving you full body chills.
tag list: @aphroditaeon @thoughtfullysassysublime @cupidacutie @ackerslut
cw: 18+, smut-lite, very brief mentions of past suicidality/attempts
words: 11.6k
a/n: title based off the song ‘at last’ by etta james <3 sooo fitting, give it a listen! also: what a nice gif we’ve had… ;)
also! there's a good amount of conversations through text that shift with the POVs of each section. for reference, if it's the POV character texting, it'll be in bold. if it's the non-POV character, their texts will be in bold and italics.
"Like this?"
"Yes!"
He glanced up, worried. "Right here?"
"Exactly. You're stellar."
Bruce held the trainer EpiPen with a hand so steady he should've been a neurosurgeon. You'd instructed him to hold it in a fist, never putting his thumb over top, and he'd taken every word as law.
"This can go through clothing?"
You nodded, slightly confused. "You said you used epinephrine on yourself before."
"But doing it on someone else… on you, it's making me overthink."
Blue to the sky, orange to the outer thigh… Bruce slammed the orange plastic into the outer part of your leg, pushing and holding it for three seconds. When he pulled back, his eyes flashed as you shook your head.
"You have to rub the leg for like ten seconds after injecting."
"Right, sorry—"
He repeated the process, counted, removed, then counted again, rubbing heavy circles around the nonexistent needle mark.
"Then I get you to a hospital, right?"
He took it so seriously it nearly brought you to tears. While making breakfast he'd opened a drawer that hadn't opened in years; a trainer EpiPen sat front and center, and out of the corner of your eye you noticed him moving it from palm to palm, analyzing the instructions like dismantling a bomb. You flipped the hashbrowns and he moved to plate the sausage.
He set the trainer on the counter and asked if you two could practice before he left. Half an hour later, here you were on the edge of your bed.
"Yeah. When it wears off it can make the reaction come back." He capped the pen and set it beside you as you continued. "Bit different than using it to recover from injury."
You'd already expressed to him that if you were repeatedly exposed to an allergen, the reaction could worsen—it was unpredictable, which made him visibly nervous. He kept apologizing for getting it wrong, for asking so many questions, but all of it swaddled your heart in a bundle of the coziest yarn. What's the first sign? Then: How do I know if an antihistamine wouldn't be enough?
"A good tell," you eyed him curiously as you tidied up your room, the smallest ache in your leg from his practice. "Is if multiple organs are involved, like I'm vomiting and my lips are swollen. Or if I can't breathe at all."
There was no doubt he looked nervous, he felt it; it was absolute terror to imagine what might've happened if your body reacted slightly differently in Spring. "So you have a real EpiPen? Where do you store it?"
"I'm so bad at keeping track of it, it's awful."
He wrangled control of his breathing.
"It's somewhere in my—somewhere at your place now. I should have another one though because they give you two in case you need a double dose."
He stared at you, waiting to get more info. He was so precious.
"If after fifteen minutes I'm not getting better, you'd give another shot. But since you'd already fly me to a hospital by then, you don't need to worry about that."
Bruce became acutely aware you were two thousand miles from lifesaving medication. Why weren't you panicked?
"I think I kept the second one around here so I didn't have to travel with it." You picked up the trainer and walked to your desk to rummage around, wondering if it might've been stuffed in some drawer. Your old journal was the biggest limit to visibility, so you moved it, found nothing, and headed to the kitchen to widen your search.
Bruce ruminated over the anaphylaxis protocol until he was certain he wouldn't forget it. Sitting idly in your room had him getting up to fluff the flowers on your desk that had begun to have the slightest droop.
And the journal was enticing—as was the pen right there in the open top drawer…
Quickly, so you wouldn't be the wiser, he snatched the pen out, turned to the very last page to ensure he didn't read anything, and scribbled a note for you to find when you got to the end. He barely made it back to your bed before you came in, holding a real EpiPen out to him.
"Here. Take it so you have one."
"You need one with you," he asserted, wary of you being unprotected. "I'll find the one at the tower when I get back."
Anxiety leadened your ankles when you glanced at the time.
"Is your bag packed?"
Bruce kicked it at the floor of the foot of your bed, then knelt down to check. "Should be."
His attention snagged on a black garment at the far edge of your closet as you went to shut it. At his interest, you sighed and showed him the 'ridiculous thing' you'd forgotten to return to your ex-friend. It was half-blanket, half-poncho, somehow having a hood attached. He'd never seen something like it.
"There was a time I wore this like every day, but I haven't worn it in years."
You slipped it on to go fill Walter's bowl while he ensured nothing was missing from his duffel. He heard some commotion and walked into the hallway, startling when you rushed up from a dark corner. He made a joke about it being menacing, uncanny, and you laughed, promptly removing it and planting an apologetic kiss on his cheek.
Maybe he wasn't ready to go back to Gotham if his nerves were this fried.
A tube labeled 'Churu' was held out for Bruce. He ripped off the top and clenched his stomach when Walter dug his claws in place to keep his hand still, almost—but not quite—breaking skin. He'd never seen Walter stretch to this long, or act this desperate, hissing at him when he'd move his hand away to push the treat up. It was a stressful but memorable goodbye, barely managing to pet his head while zooming around the house for more.
He slung his duffel over the shoulder and eyed you under the thrown light from your living room lamp. His heartbeat felt sentient.
This morning while making breakfast, Bruce had been concerned about memorizing the feeling of being in your home. He focused on every minute detail as if the lenses would magically appear and record it, letting him feel right back here any time he pleased.
You led the way onto your porch, his chest cinching with each step.
"Make sure you bring the EpiPen with you on the flight. God forbid."
"You care so much, it's really sweet."
"You're making me worried about your dating experiences."
How they treated you, how they didn't. He still couldn't get past how the people you'd known all your life couldn't be assed to not have peach cobbler at an event you attended.
"Well they don't matter anymore, do they?"
He grinned. "No, they don't."
It was so normal now, you walking up and kissing him; despite this, he imagined he'd never quite get used to the sensation of your lips against his.
Your lashes fluttered as he pulled away. "Sure you don't want to come with me?"
It was a delightful concept, you knew, not having to say goodbye until you nestled into his bed that night and he went to his Batman duties—it held the potential of joining the mile-high club, too, but even that wasn't enough to sway you. You wanted some time here alone, while this house still felt like yours. A last night in your own bed.
"Tempting…" you toyed with the hem of his shirt. "But I want time here. I'll be on a flight tomorrow morning. Bright and early."
"We'll go straight to City Hall from the airport. Still work?"
"Sounds perfect, baby."
He held your gaze for a beat before hanging his head, blush creeping onto his cheeks. "I love when you call me that."
"Don't get all bashful now." You squeezed his hand, shooting to the night before and the pressure of the seat cushions on your knees as you straddled him.
A smile flickered on his lips. He clung to your hand like a lifeline, playing with your fingers, swaying your hands. "I don't want to leave."
You almost said then don't but he would've taken it seriously, and you didn't know what would be worse: if he outright denied it or outright accepted.
Considering the sheer concentration of love in his stare, you worried it would be the latter.
Clingy Bruce was a marvel and something you never dreamed existed. He leaned in to kiss you for the fifth time this morning—not like you were counting—and let this one linger.
When he slipped his tongue between your teeth you knew he was trying to make this last an hour and fuck you almost pretended not to notice his antics; the stalling he'd never admit to, his voice the tenor of honey as he swore he was just saying goodbye, and how you'd believe him.
But pulling out of his kiss made your chest ache, so before you could call him out you went right back in. He kissed like he wanted to drink you, his knees buckling.
"I love you so much," he murmured as he caught a breath, cupping your cheek with his palm.
If this is how he acts with only one night standing between us, how the hell is he gonna go out as Batman every night?
"So, so much," he continued, and your heart burst.
"You say it like I'm gonna forget it."
Whew, when he admired you like that he could split DNA. "Don't even want to take that chance."
Tonight was the first time he was yours under the whims of Gotham's nightlife. He said he never took a longer break, and his mind was so focused on you—what if he never came home? He'd never looked so alive, his presence never more tangible.
"I can tell, you know."
Bruce's voice was excruciatingly tender.
"When you're worried."
You flit your eyes up to his. While his face never used to twist into these tender lines, it was willful ignorance to say that gentleness hadn't always been there. In passing glances, moments where your mind left you, it had held you more than you'd been aware of it.
Him leaving here meant abandoning this week to memory. Like perfume on wet skin, you wanted to linger; let him twirl you around the living room, watch him melt under Walter's insistence, see him fit seamlessly in the kitchen with your parents. You wanted him here, but here wasn't quite forever anymore.
Forever was looking at you from a foot away on the porch, his hip resting delicately against the handrail. This being a place you were supposed to outgrow didn't make its imminence any easier. "It's strange not wanting to leave here."
Even with the Gazette offer, it wasn't that you wanted to stay in Washington—you'd never wanted to stay in this town—just that you didn't want to go there. Now when you glanced over his shoulder at the grassy fields, you thought of him and a creaky old house with rusted shutters.
More than anything you wanted him, and a secluded house in the middle of nowhere felt like the only way to keep him.
He watched your lips catch your teeth as reality poked at the bubble: he's bigger than this, he's bigger than us. He had ventures to go on, millions to serve.
You continued. "I just don't want this to be over."
He opened his mouth to start, but you knew that look. You didn't need reassurance right now, despite how lovely it was he rushed in to save you from drowning waters.
"Even if Gotham is perfect," you bridged the gap and rested your palm against his chest. Its gentle rise and fall was ridiculously soothing. "It's not this. This era feels so specific." Like a honeymoon. "We weren't even close to together when we got here."
His response made your knees weak. "We were closer than we thought."
A memory streaked past of him holding your hair while you vomited on the plane, how he wiped your face without so much as a passing wince. How you let him do so much—washing your hair, cooking you food, meeting your mom in a hospital room.
Trying to distract from your tears, you kissed him; you didn't want him to fret and see that look, because it would make it so much harder to be away from him. Diabolically needy, you'd even missed him when you excused yourself earlier to go to the bathroom.
Your efforts were in vain, since he immediately moved his mouth to smudge the tearstreaks away with gentle kisses.
"See you tomorrow." He kissed your forehead and rubbed your back, trying not to crumble when he heard you sniff. "You can call me any time."
"What about patrol?"
You'd asked this three times today and it cracked him open a little more each time; you could never be a burden, and "You could never interrupt me when you need me."
Every sentence exchanged tightened the knot in his stomach. He yearned to memorize every crumb of your neighborhood; each bend in every street, every windchime's frequency. He'd never felt aglow like this, and it washed all over your town.
"This is nice," he reminded, wrapping you in a hug. "We had a week away."
He worried what would happen once the tabloids hit an artery. How people would snuff out where you lived, try to interview your family, have some cousin of yours get a soundbite out of it for a second of fame. Rather than indulge those fears, he kissed the side of your face, placed his lips to your ear, and whispered words that came out easier and sappier each time.
"I'm completely in love with you. Leaving won't change that."
"We're like teenagers at curfew." You both laughed when you pulled away and your resolved sigh cooled his rosy skin. "I like it though, it's sweet."
Bruce's phone buzzed in his pocket, blaring the final alarm he'd set knowing it would take an eternity to tear himself away from you. How the hell was he supposed to get back to work when he had every resource to go anywhere you wanted in the world right now, for the rest of forever?
The exit burnt on his tongue. "See you tomorrow."
A final kiss that was so short, so assured. Dry eyes and a steady hug, the warmth of your bodies recognizing each other. He tripped his way down your steps and warmed up the car.
He looked at you through the passenger window as you waved. A peek in the rearview showed cloudless blue skies, and he let the moment fill him up until he could hardly breathe.
"Excited to be in Gotham with you." he shouted, rolling down the window.
"God, me too. So excited to move in."
His hand felt warmer on the steering wheel. "I love you."
"I love you more."
He paused to debate the ethics of getting into war with you over a 'more, more, most' competition while he was already running late. "Don't know if that's possible."
By the time he'd mostly backed out of your driveway you were at the edge of it, fully off the porch, waving goodbye in front of the car. He had half a mind to rush out to you…
The slip of the tires off the curb had him pull the e-brake and run out to you, drawing you into what he hoped was a bear hug, hoped was reassuring enough. You knew he would be late, he knew he'd be late, but he struggled to care under the weight of your lips and sound of your laugh by his ear.
You wondered if he'd ever make it home at this rate because why, god, why did he have to kiss like making love? Nipping at your lips until they were kiss-swollen, both leaning into each other so much it made your jaw ache. When he pulled away your body reacted as if struck.
That kiss evoked memories of last night, in the time just before dawn when it was still impossibly dark, of the ache in your hips as you twisted every which way across the seat, on his lap, kissing so deeply your teeth gnashed; until his fingers inside of you weren't enough but him pulling them out to open the condoms was too much distance and you fumbled with the box yourself as he pumped the full length of his fingers in the perfect come here motion, and jesus, how the windows fogged and smeared as you straddled him and found your balance, as he helped you get off while listening to his whines, the pitchiness of his whimpers as he met your hips in slow, forceful—
God, he was kissing you again.
"I think, um," breathless and dizzy, you gripped his hair and pulled him back in whenever he moved for air. "My parents, they should be gone for another hour..."
"Y/n,"
"I know,"
"I'm sorry." He broke away from your magnetized lips. "You wanted time alone. You deserve that."
I deserve… every nasty, romantic thing in the universe. It wasn't just about the sex, you needed to be as close to him as physically possible, consuming all of each other.
A car honked from down the street and he blocked half of the road. "Gotta go. I love you." He planted a kiss on your forehead and jogged to the driver's side. "Think of a movie for us to watch tomorrow—and don't forget your epinephrine for the flight."
You nodded, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "I won't. I love you too."
He navigated out of the driveway, then turned onto Camellia after a quick wave. You lingered there who knew how long, listening to the knocking wind chime and the soft scratch of Walter's claws on the screen door, before heading inside.
The photo wall, couch, and table were especially loud now that he'd left. Now that he was actually gone, this place felt timestamped, like a living scrapbook.
To bottle this feeling, you raced to your room, Walter trying to attack your foot on the way. You nabbed the journal you'd used since high school and hopped into bed. Walter curled up at the edge of it and rested his paw on the stuffed bat.
Flipping to the nearest clean page reminded that you hadn't used this journal since leaving two years ago. The last entry read:
I don't want to go to Gotham, but I don't want to stay here. Hopefully over there I can forget about it all. There's so many people and so many places that I have to get lost in it, right? I'll be living alone for the first time which I'm excited about. I have this studio close to campus, so close I can just walk to classes. Mom and Dad are pissed, as expected. Mom talked about blocking me from leaving, and Dad told me every horror story in the book. They think it's going to kill me to go there, not that it would LITERALLY kill me to stay, but they don't know that.
You abruptly turned the page, forgetting how rock bottom you'd been when you left.
Clean page. New start. You clicked the pen and wrote the date neatly in the corner, its nib holding a charge. What the hell to say first?
Hey.
Hey?
I graduated! I would say that I'm back here for good, but that isn't the case.
You felt physically hot.
I got a job at GU. A journalism job, which is a long story. Don't know if I still have it, but I guess I could be more freelance now if need be.
Why were you allowing yourself to sit on gold? You wrote the rest in a flow state, filling page after page until your wrist ached.
Needed an interview… Bruce Wayne… I hated him… finally got him to do one… Arkham… he was crying… saved me and Mar… panic attacks… movie nights… City Hall… Oz… 'kissed' in the conference room… so warm and seen around him… he visited Mom in the hospital… bracelets… Walter loves him… at the beach… Sue's… singing in the car… told me he loved me… had sex in a tent at that field I love… busted an air mattress… keeps telling me over and over that he loves me… moving in to Wayne Tower… could be permanent… nothing's ever felt so perfect.
The creak of the front door opening made you startle. You discarded the journal under your pillow and walked into the hallway.
"Bruce's car was gone, thought you'd for sure be with him!"
You gave her a confused look. "He said bye to you guys this morning."
"I know that." She waved you off and put the mail on the table. "I thought you'd drop him off."
"He has a rental car from the airport."
"So you're going back tomorrow?" Your dad chimed in while emptying a small bag of groceries into the fridge.
"Yep."
"For how long, sweetie?" Her brow raised like you were about to confess to leaving forever.
"I don't know."
Unlike with Bruce, honesty wasn't always the best policy with your parents. Despite how uncomfortable it was, you'd gotten good at lying for a reason; when you were honest about the perpetual flow state you existed in, they'd interrogate you into giving a hard answer.
"Are we talking a month? A year?"
"Mom, I don't know."
"Well, I hope you stay safe over there." Your dad finished with the groceries, crumpling the bag before Walter could suffocate himself with it. "Things didn't seem too bad in the part of town we were in, but you never know."
Hah. You wondered what their thoughts would be on this.
"Um," you crossed your legs at the ankles, leaning into the counter. "I'll be in a slightly different neighborhood, staying in Wayne Tower."
"Tower? Is that an apartment complex?"
You googled it for them. Hundreds of photos materialized of the soaringly high skyscraper, its windows perfectly polished and gleaming. As you expected, they were in various states of disbelief, pounding endless questions your way about the logistics, why it was his building, what Wayne Enterprises did, which left you excusing yourself lest you expose how little you knew about his public-facing career.
How many business meetings did he attend? When he wasn't with you, what made up his days? Did the public not see his business ventures for the simple fact that he never had to leave the building, and he did more than you or anyone else knew? Did he not want to leave because he knew you'd never get time together once he landed?
Crashing into your mattress had you staring up at the ceiling in a buzzy state of awe and motorized thought. Having every meal prepped by a butler? Did you had a maid now by extension? Without conscious awareness, you stumbled into the kind of life you'd always condemned. Would you ever touch a washer or dryer again? Ever fold your own laundry? Grocery shop?
Jesus Christ.
Maybe there was a middle ground? You could get used to someone doing the laundry and Alfred occasionally cooking. You couldn't imagine Bruce ate every single meal from Alfred's hands or that he never washed anything himself. Take the suit for instance—did Dory wash that?
… did Dory wash that?
You forced yourself to quell your worrying with a nap. Household delegations could be dealt with when you weren't 2400 miles away.
Bruce got on the flight with a mind caught between nerves and excitement. He was thankful jets had their own wifi, ordering a billion and one things for pickup across the city. Since his card was attached to Alfred's ledgers, he received a text from him not a few minutes after he paused.
Would you like me to retrieve your orders, Bruce?
It might make things quicker…
But no. He wanted to do things for you himself, like any normal boyfriend would.
After sending a quick I'll take care of it message, he settled in for the rest of the flight. Being away from you roused his body from its newfound sleepiness. The only thing keeping his system online was watching the flight tracker inch closer to Gotham.
He'd have to follow up with Gordon tonight, no doubt. Being gone for a week without his work cell was dangerous, but it'd happened, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He mentally went through what he'd do when he got back, which pickup route was most efficient, and rolled some things over to the next morning, knowing your flight landed only half an hour before the fundraiser began.
He stretched his sore wrist and flexed his fingers; last night had been an unexpected treat on top of an already perfect evening.
The fog that steamed up the windows, the handprint you made on the back window as you grasped anywhere for grip; the static and euphoria in your kiss and every interlaced hand, every bump of his wrist or his hips into yours; the stiff backseat slamming the back of his thighs, delicious pain chording through him like a vine.
Bruce took a steep sip of water. The most lingering part of it was how his hands knew you. Settling instinctively into the fold of your waist, knowing just where to grip on your hips at first try. Knowing that if he did this, you'd do that; that if he did that, you'd make that sound. Familiarity made the memory delectably tangible.
He refocused on strategy for once you arrived: would you want to hit the ground running with the journalists case? If so, and if not, where did his boundaries lie? You didn't want to be kept and he didn't want to cage you. Where was the line of culpability if you wanted to be more hands-on?
Though he loathed it, his status was protective; though it sometimes unnerved him, he also knew that hands-on was who you were. The two could work in tandem; it would be easy to solidify the relationship publicly with neither of you putting on a farce. It could be fun, even. He'd never been one for PDA but he was everything he never thought he'd be when it came to you.
He texted with Alfred about Enterprises affairs, then turned his phone to silent and went to the bathroom. He didn't make it halfway down the cabin hallway before he rushed back and turned his phone on to full blast; if you called, he wanted to be available.
The rest of the flight was more of the same, wanting to text you but wanting to give you space; finalizing his route to all the stores, tweaking some orders via email correspondence, mentally landscaping the Tower.
It was as if time itself had stopped when he stepped onto the tarmac—his car sat undisturbed where he'd hastily parked it, even the weather held the same chill despite the storm passing.
Same tips, same handshakes, same roar of the engine. As he rolled through back streets toward his first stop, he was relieved that for a week, the city had breathed without him.
"So. Sweetie."
Your mom positively beamed from the other side of the couch, her idle hands absently continuing a crochet stitch you couldn't possibly name.
"Bruce is quite the smitten kitten."
You bit back a grin. Very cute and surprisingly apt.
She went on about how wonderful he was with everyone at the barbecue, how patient he was when you spoke, how he was just so helpful and intelligent.
"I know it's only been a coupla months, but I have a feeling about you two. Far as I can tell, he's a good one."
If she kept this up any longer you might explode. She'd never been so overjoyed about your love life. You had feelings about him too, and it was already hard for you to stave off clingy, grand fantasies of the future when you didn't have anyone feeding it.
"But what matters is how you feel."
She stared at you expectantly.
You wrung your hands and felt your body heat, avoiding her gaze. "I feel, um—really great about things."
"Don't be shy, hon. Have fun with it! What did you two get up to while he was here?"
You ran toward the first safe-for-work thing to pop in your head. "He took me to an arcade. Got me flowers, uh,"
"Thoughtful! Isn't that the first time someone's gotten you flowers?"
If she wasn't counting the time her and your dad bought you a bouquet after you got stood up at prom; how they casually left it on your bedside table like you wouldn't notice, like you'd think it from a secret admirer.
Everything had worked out with Bruce as well as it could, but there was a constant voice in your head screaming that any conversation with her might be your last. What if all you said was all she ever got to know about you and Bruce?
Shoving through self-consciousness, you divulged more. How you went to Sue's, how he paid off her fundraiser, feeding the seagull, camping and nothing else at the field you love. Driving around here and getting stuck in the mud in Gotham, going shopping for fancy outfits and going to bars. She listened like it was a fairytale.
"You light up with him." You embedded her sparkly eyes to memory. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart."
The rest of the night was easy, calm.
Dinner with your parents, where the table felt notably empty to the point your dad had nearly readied a fourth plate. Passively watching a movie out in the living room purely to catalog the memory. Poring over old journal entries late into the night, teenage you dreaming about an unreachable partner and wondering what color eyes they might have, all the ways they might treat you, and wishing anyone would just listen and cure your loneliness.
Some of the entries were damning; looking at the scribbles, doodles, and hopes in front of you threatened everything you knew about fate. The air knocking out of you when you saw fantasies about blue eyes and someone who soaked up your presence like a sponge. Was there a space somewhere in your world that was always for him? Had your heart known him longer than you had?
If you weren't meant for this and he weren't meant for you, why was he scrawled all across these pages like a prophecy?
Naively, Bruce assumed that around-back store pickups would save him from the harassment of paps. Now that he had an entire carful of items and his eyes were practically bruised from all the flash, he worried if you'd seen any of the inevitable photos and the surprise would be spoiled.
It was a labor of love to bring it all up in a billion trips, that familiar ache in his right shoulder ripping through him as he set the final bag on the kitchen counter. His stomach twisted in knots. He jogged up to his room to slather on icy hot and pop an ibuprofen, stretching it out on his walk back.
The flood would always haunt him.
As he put it all away, he felt Alfred's presence like a trap waiting to catch. He didn't have time to talk while the flowers threatened to wilt and the ice cream melted on the countertop.
Bruce tucked a bouquet on the kitchen table, one in the entryway, one in the bedroom, and another in the theater room. He stocked the snack bar, strung up softer lighting, and suppressed every thought tugging him down to the cave until it reached unbearable heights.
Stepping into the cave left his eyes struggling to adjust. Dark, dingy, cold. It was glaringly apparent he worked alone, and as he powered on the computer to check the damages, he deliberated on ways to make the place hospitable.
As the screen whirred to life, he braced himself. How many times had Gordon shouted into the void? New serial killer? A mass shooting? Riddler or Joker escaped? A prominent social figure found dead?
Nothing but the occasional check-in from Gordon not seeing him for a few days.
Hm.
He fixed the brakes on the batmobile, then dinked around to make sure the car and suit were in workable shape. By this point, Bruce had stalled enough to begin leering at the suit, the tips of his fingers going cold as he fastened straps and attached velcro. Tugging the cowl on constricted his breathing and fell the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Had it always been this heavy?
Things chafed that hadn't before. The car was very loud, the streets moved too fast, were too narrow, too busy.
The first group of thugs was heavy work; he wasn't out of practice as much as he was in his head. What usually would've been an unintimidating weapon had his heartbeat fold on itself. As much as he hated when Alfred was right, occasionally he hit the money: you remained welded to every thought, and each weaponed criminal ripped anxiety through him. What if Bruce forced you to attend his wake?
He took a sharp inhale as he narrowly avoided a blade, popping the assailant in the jaw with a reinforced elbow. The group scattered as the subway paused at the station. It would get easier.
Trudging through the rest of the night proved this affliction was more impenetrable than he estimated. His skin had thinned, getting frustrated by Gordon's titular side-eye asking why he'd been gone, angry after he'd taken down a guy with a gun. It was aggravating to have his efficiency weakened, but he tried not to see it that way.
He tried, even when ducking shots half as fast as usual, his mind struggling to keep up.
He tried, even though his hands shook whenever he hopped in the batmobile to move sites.
He tried, until it reached a head with a cut that actually made it through the suit. A cut which required him to turn in immediately, only stalling down in the cave with the motor on, staring listlessly out at his desk wondering if this were just nerves, or his new normal.
Alfred received his text and made his way down, staying notably, and thankfully, silent. A strange disappointment bubbled in him, carbonating the anxiety and numbing him from the pain of the stitching.
Bruce didn't want to resent you for lowering his capacity; it wasn't your fault you filed down his edges. Wasn't it good he was more aware of his mortality? Couldn't he factor that into his risk assessments while in the field?
He could use it. Knowing the full weight of the consequences could make him more effective, more aptly gauging damage and priorities.
Barely beginning to put the kit away, Alfred scolded him as he pulled the suit over the sutures. "Bruce. You cannot go out like that."
He muttered something about it being a quick trip and put the car in gear. He needed one win to make his thoughts stop whirling.
Muggings were the next three stops. By the time he reached an armed robbery on the south side of the city, his brain began to tire and he settled into a groove, no longer feeling the fire of your tears on his cheeks whenever a weapon pointed at him.
When he reunited a child lost off the subway, when he interrupted a mugging at knife point and looked into the terrified, relieved eyes of the student, he knew he'd make both things work. There simply wasn't another option. It was far too easy to forget while in your orbit, but people needed help. Pangs of guilt skittered across his skin.
A particularly satisfying end to the night had him loosening his gloves before he'd even put the car in drive. For a brief moment, he'd gotten out of his head and fully into—out of?—his body. Moving with the current of a fight rather than taking forever to think about its direction.
He didn't know why it was so challenging to trust himself now; trust had gotten him you, and you were the best thing he ever had.
God, it was only night one—he shouldn't worry.
About twenty minutes before sunrise, you called Bruce.
"Goodmorning, baby. Up this early for the flight?"
Thank god he couldn't see your embarrassing grin.
Standing by the desk, you fiddled with the moonlit petals of the bouquet. You turned the volume up, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. "Hey. No, I just wanted to catch you as you were heading home. I'll go back to sleep soon."
His voice was slightly gravelly from fatigue. "You're right on time."
"Are you driving?"
"Mhm. About a mile away from the Tower. Do you have your pen packed?"
"Yes, it's in my carry on. How was your first night?"
"Not too bad. Gordon had some cases for me to look over but nothing urgent."
Perhaps due to you running on damn near two hours of sleep, your brain reminded you of the open investigation. "What about the case involving you? Any updates?"
"Nothing. Must've not found anything."
Yet, you didn't say. The last thing he needed was the entire world knowing he tried to kill himself, working themselves into a tizzy coming up with fake evidence and crime podcast content.
Bruce's life seemed an everlasting fountain for Gotham's schadenfreude.
"So you said you're almost back?"
"Just about. Why? Want to get to sleep?"
"No, just curious."
"You know," he let out a breathy laugh. "I used to hate that about you."
"''Used to' implies that you're in love with it now. Favorite thing about me."
The petals were velvety soft, gliding between your fingers like they were wet.
"One of my favorites."
Was it too self-indulgent to press him on that? Was that even a consideration when talking to your boyfriend?
Boyfriend. You looped an imaginary heart around the word.
"What's your favorite thing about me?"
With anyone else you might've started panicking when the line went silent. But you could imagine so vividly the crease between his brows, giving the question its full weight and respect.
"This might seem selfish,"
Mm, would it now?
"Or on the nose?"
Thinking out loud, how cute.
"But your sense of justice is very special. Even when I've struggled to comprehend it."
It meant a lot coming from him. You hoped he would see the compliment in your response.
"So you like that I'm like you?"
"Birds of a feather, I'm sure."
This conversation was so easy, casual, sweet.
"There were a lot of contenders," he continued. "I'll tell you more sometime."
A hard clunk tore you out of your reverie.
"But I just pulled in—the car phone will disconnect when I cut the engine. You should get some sleep."
If you could; hearing his voice made you excited all over again. It'd be divine to settle into his home, do some skincare in his mirror, wrap up in his shirts, get to eat all your favorite snacks without worrying about a grocery bill.
"I will if you take your own advice."
"Got to be awake for our movie."
"Or I'll just pick one with a bunch of jumpscares. Wake you right up."
"Horror for our first date here?" It made him laugh, which notched your spirits so bright you definitely wouldn't sleep any time soon.
"Those gallows, hmm?"
"So terrible," he teased, and you heard a seatbelt unclick.
"I love you." you said, desperately trying to bridge the mileage.
"I love you too."
So nice. You yawned and his care wrapped around you like a dryer-fresh blanket.
"Get a nap in, Y/n. City Hall might be standing-room only."
"Alright." you conceded, pressing the phone so hard to your ear your knuckles ached, squeezing every drop of affection through the mic. "I love you again."
"I love you again too. Good… morning?"
That was the first thing on your mind when you woke to your alarm; after clicking off the line, drunk off your own smiles, you blinked awake hours later to popcorn ceilings and warm sunrays. Early lightbeams sprinkled lovingly over the bouquet, illuminating the vivid pinks and oranges. Half a world away and Bruce still held you closer than anyone ever had.
You snuggled under the covers another minute, relishing in Walter's purrs and the relaxed thrum of your heartbeat.
Bruce got out of bed with a skip in his step.
After a quick snack, he hopped from room to room sprucing things up for your arrival. Yesterday's surprising revelation that there was less chaos than anticipated allowed him the space to take the night off, spend the first night with you in full.
Plans made and meat thawing for dinner that night, the theater room fluffed full of blankets, snacks, and pillows, his bedroom dresser cleared and closet halved, smoothing over fresh sheets Dory delivered hours before.
A pillow from the guest bedroom as a finishing touch. A lamp to your bedside table. A charger nestled in a nifty loop for accessibility. A lavender-tinted water bottle. It was shockingly fun to mess around with housewares. Made him feel normal. Part of society.
He thought of calling you practically every other minute to ask if you liked this color, or pillows like this or that, what type of lightbulbs were easy on your eyes, what scents you'd like around the house, what noise you wanted as ambiance, but he figured endless questions might destabilize you more than a couple misfit homegoods.
And on the other side of all this excitement buzzed a vulnerability he could only rid through neuroticism. Fixing rooms you'd never even look in. Aligning paintings that weren't crooked. Cleaning grout that wasn't dirty.
What he'd initially conceptualized as an extended sleepover now behaved like cracking apart his ribcage.
There was an intimacy to the Tower, a heavy but intangible thing he never wanted to dwell on. Accessorizing it felt like laying flowers at a grave.
Bruce fell onto his bed for a shake of respite. His bedroom was less lonely than the rest of the house; at the age he was when they moved in, he was too old for bedtime stories so his parents had rarely come in there. Just a knock on the door as his father left for work, or his mother with talk of breakfast. It was the only room where the smoke didn't suffocate. It wasn't scary to think of you in here, as unnerved as he'd been in Spring.
His bedroom windows, always tightly shut with blackout curtains, faced the back corner of the tower. When it stormed rain, it was too dark for a drone or helicopter to see anything and when the sun did shine, its angle glinted off the glass rendering any camera unable to snag a photo.
He scooted from the middle of the mattress, training his body to take half the space amidst a rush of vertigo. His phone buzzed.
About to leave for the airport! So excited :)
The tension in his chest loosened.
Got the place ready.
Mostly.
Looking forward to settling in with you.
Me too! How long do you think we'll have after the fundraiser before you have to get to work?
He grinned, anticipating your excitement.
I'm staying in tonight.
You reacted with exclamation points.
Really?! You don't have to do that. Might be jetlagged anyway.
Want to spend this first night here with you.
Seven different heart emojis were sent his way alongside an explosion of confetti.
Ttys! Can't text in the car, you feel everything in that truck and I don't wanna be carsick for the flight.
Drive safe. Text me when you're about to board.
You knocked the dust from his thoughts; he finished organizing his room without a chorus of anxiety ruling every decision. He worried if he'd been too assumptive that you'd want to sleep in the same bed; if the Tower was enough like your home now or if it were still too cold; the shadow was heavy over the door, but he kept moving anyway.
Alfred shuffled around him when Bruce grabbed some lunch. What did he think about the flowers? The full cupboards? The dust clinging to the air from rummaging in rooms forgotten to time?
He bit into a tangy apple and jogged up the stairs.
Your phone was dense in your palm. While your dad warmed up the truck, commenting through the screen door about how smoothly it ran after Bruce's help, you dwelled in the entryway, chancing nervous glances toward the hall.
"Mom?"
"Yes hon?"
"When's the next shot? Next Friday?"
She walked into the living room with Walter in her arms, hunkering down into the recliner.
"Nope. Next one's October 18th."
Shit. It'd been long enough to switch to monthly?
"Okay. I'll stop by so I can go."
"Honey, I don't want you worried about me. Settle into things with him over there."
"It's fine. I want to come back, I want to see everyone. I want to keep the routine."
She eyed you warily, but without fight. "Okie-doke. I know your dad likes to get lost at the airport, so you'd better head out."
As antsy as you were to leave, it also felt like a betrayal. What if less frequent injections caused her tumors to grow and you spent the last few months of her life holed up in Wayne Tower?
There was no way to know, which meant there was no way to know—the canyon of uncertainty caused a chronic freeze response. If you only have a couple dollars, you spend them differently. Leaving meant that on some level, you were either convinced things would be okay or that you'd be fine being away if they weren't. Neither one appealed to you.
Her casual approach to mortality was as grounding as it was terrifying. If she were inconsolable, you were fairly certain you'd be running around like a chicken with its head cut off or consumed by guilt at spending time away.
I should feel more guilty about leaving.
And I do.
But Gotham sparkled just as it had two years ago, promising novelty and connection and space to breathe. Was it naive to believe in the same lie all over again? That the distance did anything but stretch the rubber band farther?
Leaving made it seem like nothing of note occured. If you were a better daughter, wouldn't you be staying nearby, not letting your dad work on the car and the yard all by himself? Wouldn't you drop your superfluous priorities, run out and start weeding the garden so they didn't have to, empty the dishwasher before you left, clean up the kitchen, get groceries, go to every single appointment with her so she'd have an advocate?
You bid her goodbye with a massive hug, digging your teeth into your tongue when you felt how thin she was. Scritching Walter's chin was the only way to make your stalling inconspicuous.
There was only so long that she'd be alive, only so long that she'd be an option—so why the hell were you choosing anything else? Why'd you run around with Bruce Wayne while your mom was in the hospital and fresh out of it? Why'd you let yourself get so enchanted by someone that would still be here in ten years? Or… someone that might not even matter in ten years.
She would always matter more, yet how were you showing her that?
An egg lodged itself in your throat. "I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you this week. I got distracted with Bruce—"
She shook her head so fast you worried it might bobble off. "Don't worry about that. Have fun."
"You're fun," you challenged, and she tsk-d as she grabbed your hand.
Her skin was soft in that worn, affectionate way only a parent's was. "Worrying won't change anything, honey."
She sure did love to say that.
"Don't let me keep you waiting." Your mom squeezed your hand and waited for you to let go. "Go be in love."
Boarding!
Bruce had changed his ringtone so that when he got a text or call from you, he could easily distinguish it from the rest. Conditioning himself to associate his useless phone with delight.
Hi love. Fly safe.
I still have service while we're on the ground, boarding could take forever.
That was true. He certainly didn't want you thinking—
Unless you're trying to get rid of me ;)
The prospect of inviting you to live at the Tower indefinitely while desperately wanting to be rid of you was comical.
Never!
Don't say that or I'll take it as a challenge.
Conversing with you was like lounging on a cloud.
How do you like to spend flights?
You took a few minutes to respond, the typing button popping up and back down again. He hated waiting on people but, as if you weren't an exception to everything, he actually enjoyed waiting on you.
Sorry, had to board wayyy sooner than I thought.
But I like to listen to music. Got a pair of headphones with me.
No movies?
Nah. Feels weird to have everyone watching it with me.
Good point.
And books make me carsick. Planesick, I guess.
Lol.
You laugh-reacted to that and he couldn't believe he was full-on wide tooth grinning at his phone.
Actually, I think my group was the last to board. They're starting the instructions for if the plane kaputs.
Fuck, he didn't want to think about that.
Wait, they didn't give that message on the private plane. Is it just assumed those don't crash? Despite all those tragedies?
Never flown commercial.
He smirked as he watched a text pop up instantaneously.
You're literally joking. Never?!???!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Not once.
Okay, the flight seems to be getting ready for takeoff, I could lose service any minute. Don't want my last words to be gasping at how rich and sheltered you are.
Sorry, that was meant to be sarcastic. I will be safely landing in a few hours!!
Counting on it. I love you.
I love you too.
❤️
❤️❤️
❤️❤️❤️
I love you so much!
I love you always.
You must have taken off because you didn't reply. Resuming his duties, he zigzagged up and down the stairs to finish last-touches. Some dusty areas he took care of with a wet rag, and he fumbled through a few storage closets for a broom before plunking himself on the top stair to reorient.
"Is Miss Y/n's residence permanent?"
Alfred leaned against the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. Bruce had all the lights on in here for once, peeking around for any dirt, dust, or god forbid mold, so it was hard to see his face as his eyes struggled to adjust.
Permanent made it sound like you'd spend the rest of your days here. "Semi."
He felt his walls build again, like spirals of ivy armor.
"We're together now."
He could see the old man's face slightly better, but if his vision was accurate Alfred's face didn't change. Bruce didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't nothing.
"Ah."
A long beat of silence. You were right, the halls were much too quiet.
That was what he forgot! Something to fill the halls! Would he have time to get another order before your flight landed? Maybe he could go to a store near the airport, stash it under the seat?
"I see you're bringing some color back to these halls."
Bruce's voice softened. "Yeah."
Alfred glanced around the foyer while clicking his cane against the ground—a thing he did when there was something he wanted to say but was hesitant to.
"You seem happier, Bruce."
I mean… he'd never laughed as much as he had the past week. His jaw had never ached from smiling. His muscles never felt so relaxed. His thoughts had never been so concentrated on the future.
Tears smarted Bruce's lashline but he blinked them back. He knew Alfred cared but it was impenetrably difficult to go toward it. Always had been.
"I am." He grit his teeth and tensed his stomach, a pathological avoidance creeping in. "Very happy."
He forced his jaw to slack, allowed his mouth to curl into the ghost of a smile. He had no doubt Alfred would see his happiness when you walked through those doors, but he didn't want talking about you to feel strained. He hated this stiffness that plagued the both of them, but hadn't a clue how to escape it.
"Washington was… fun. The beaches there, they're uh, they're cold. Her parents are nice. Nice town. Different. Sunnier. Slower. She, um,"
Speaking shouldn't feel like being flayed alive, especially not about this.
"The camping trip my parents were going to take, she recreated it. It was all…" His throat dried. "Very meaningful. Perfect."
He hoped that was enough. That was more than he'd ever willingly indulged the man in one sitting.
"Well!" Alfred's cane snapped brightly against the ground, and Bruce heard the excitement he fought to bury. "How wonderful. I'm happy for you."
The silence that followed was comfortable, kind of—he couldn't decide if it held a charge. He stalled a minute before going to check out Dory's storage closet in the back. He hadn't made it halfway down the hall before Alfred called out to him.
"You know, Bruce. When you invite someone into your life, it needs to be taken seriously."
He ignored the defensiveness that flamed up his spine; what decision hadn't been followed by Alfred's scolding? Naively, he'd thought as he aged that he might let up; if anything it had only grown more persistent.
"Going out as you have been might not be best. The schedule, the risk."
"We've talked about it. She understands."
Simple, straightforward, didn't start any arguments.
"Yes, but you might find the reality is quite different."
Words about not abandoning his mission nor you were shoved back. By the way he spoke of it, it was as though Alfred thought he'd shoved you into a trap. He didn't want to feel nauseous today; he didn't need his worries stirred. Today was about you and him.
Bruce effectively distracted by grabbing a broom at the back of Dory's closet and got to work on the upper levels, in case you ever wandered up there any nights he was away.
He set a spare pillow on the upper level's chaise lounge, softening the velvet with an upholstery brush. A window nestled above it that faced the south edge of town, memories scattering of evenings tucked into a book in this corner of the house that blocked the noise. There were always colleagues of his father over for meetings, dinners—
Shit.
He pocketed the brush and jogged down to the kitchen, taking a right towards the most veiled part of the house. A door opened into the foyer, he remembered too late—the butler's entrance nudged open.
Thankful his teeth hadn't split from grinding, he stumbled inside the hosting room. The walnut table had ornate carvings on its sides, centered below a silver chandelier. Bruce's gaze settled at the head of the table, startling as the top of the chair brushed his waist. It used to be at his eyeline.
Things that required upkeep had, surprisingly, been tended to. Adhesives weren't nearly as degraded as they should be, the leather had been oiled, the varnish on the table kept so the wood didn't crack. The carpet vacuumed, the drawers opening cleanly. If he didn't know any better, this room could've been used last week. It didn't smell of mildew or stale air. The room expected to be used. He'd forgotten it existed.
He hurried away from its implication, his pulse thundering.
Bruce grabbed the last bag from the kitchen and flew to the bedroom, uncapping the fresh candle and letting the scent of Noble Fir exonerate him. Rain, pine, firewood; the heady amber of flushed skin.
His fifteen-minute warning alarm sounded alongside a knock on the door.
"Your psychiatrist needs to meet with you."
Bruce cast a sidelong glance as he snagged his keys from his bedside. "I'll call him after, she's landing soon."
Alfred shook his head. "I'm told it's urgent. I'll chauffeur from the airport."
A change in med dosage? A recall? Wanted to ensure he was mentally prepared for another political event? Had they uncovered something about his attempt, needing to warn him before it went public?
He sent a text he knew wouldn't deliver until you landed and left a note in the center of the mattress. Taking so long he felt Alfred's impatience from a floor away, he didn't have time to think up an outfit—he reached for that same old wool overcoat and closest plain suit, fussing with the tie in one hand while stowing the EpiPen in his breast pocket.
One last sweep of the house, rushing between floors at a speed that strained his suit. Eager steps carried him to the garage and sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel as he pulled out of Wayne Tower.
Gotham air reached the bottom of his lungs for the first time in twenty years.
For the first time heading toward Gotham, you didn't feel otherworldly dread. Playlists looped tales of romance that spun your veins gold. Your favorite love songs read like a personal soundtrack, inducing playback of memories, not fantasies.
Every cloud fluff begged to be cataloged; every ray of light dancing off the window stuffed you with sunshine. Did people just feel like this? Was this what life felt like when you were exactly where you were supposed to be?
Bruce. You traced a B on the leg of your sweats. When you thought no one could peek, you admired the photo of you two on the beach. Who would've thought those eyes could crinkle?
While getting on the plane brought no fanfare, getting off was a different ordeal; you ducked into a restroom to change for the event and by the time you emerged, flashing lights blurred the path to the exit. How had Bruce's eyes adjusted?
You trudged your way to the pickup area and struggled to look for Bruce's car amidst the black spots in your vision. His car was nowhere.
Questions boomed behind you, too jumbled to pick out more than the odd phrase. Politics, relationships, Bruce Wayne. It seemed they wanted you to answer for the great mysteries of the universe.
"Miss Y/n?"
A crisply-ironed arm reached out to you and you looped yourself around it, following Alfred to the backseat. Within seconds he slid in the driver's seat and put the car in drive, barely allowing time for you to buckle. No nonsense.
Who you assumed were paparazzi followed you in assorted vehicles, their brights turned on despite it being broad daylight. It hadn't been this bad before. The intensity, the invasiveness.
Against the better judgment of your blooming headache, you checked if Bruce had texted.
And of course he had.
Hey. Have a meeting with Crane, but it shouldn't take long. Logistical stuff, I assume. Should be able to make the fundraiser but I'll be a few minutes late; Alfred will be waiting to pick you up at the airport. Hope your flight was enjoyable.
Leave it to him to be one of the few people on earth to do a semicolon in a text.
Sounds good babe. Excited to see you!!!!
You leaned your head against the window and stared at the passersby on the sidewalk, considering how you hadn't walked against the brick in weeks, how much that would save your clothing, and what that meant going forward. The fine line between you and them began to blur for the first time.
Despite Alfred parking as close as physically possible to the front steps, the walk was long. Cameras on cameras, shouts and stage direction they expected adherence to. At the airport you wondered if Bruce had just shielded you from most of it, but no; you were certain it'd never been this dire, having to push through shoulders to reach City Hall doors. Paparazzi had become downright monstrous in the span of a week.
Rai caught your eye at the catering and you went toward him like an oasis. Another first was having to smile off conversation starters as you walked through the foyer.
"You're here!"
"I'm so glad you're catering, oh my god."
Black curls framed his brown eyes, all the frizz gelled out of them. He handed you the bubbliest champagne you'd ever seen like you were back across the counter. City Hall never felt so familiar.
"Reports said you and Wayne jetted off to some foreign land. Video of you two dancing at some bar."
He winked at you as you took a sip.
Did the video go viral? Is that why everyone's circling like sharks?
"Something like that."
Gossiping with Rai between patrons passed the time flawlessly. Apparently business had been booming at his store and more than the occasional person talked to him about Lincoln March. They loved him.
Rai snuck a drink out of the dregs of a champagne bottle while you stood just in front of him to block. About a fifth of the foyer was filled now, Mr. March and his team setting up onstage.
It wasn't lost on you how the elite guests gave him no more than utilitarian attention, like it was a hassle to interact with someone outside of their circle.
"Is that normal?" you whispered, not bothering to conceal your distaste. "Them barely acknowledging you?"
"I prefer it," Rai rolled his eyes, discarding an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon. He spoke only after a careful glance around the rapidly filling room. "You think I want to talk to 'em?"
Thank god he still felt comfortable talking to you like this—he didn't see you as one of them yet.
He stooped to grab a bottle of Cook's. Your brow furrowed. "Ran out already? But that one was so good."
"Coordinator said to switch at five, that it's too pricey."
To spend on the poors, you filled in, surveying the room overwhelmingly populated with working-class people. "Bruce is paying for this, right? The catering? His money's going toward that in the budget?"
Rai's eyes flashed when you used his first name. "Yes, the Wayne Foundation funds this."
"Use the expensive stuff. Bruce can foot it."
You downed the rest of your glass and nodded him goodbye, wandering to the middle of the crowd as March's voice boomed over the loudspeaker. Except…
Taking stock of your environment, you realized that when Bruce showed up in a few minutes, he wouldn't be able to find you here.
Scooting to the side closest to the door didn't help either; with this much crowd, even if you stood directly in front of it, you'd be funneled deeper in just a few minute's time. You resigned yourself to keeping your head on a swivel.
Groups you'd never seen poured through the double doors: construction workers wearing muddy boots with wear lines, parents with little kids coming in on their day off from school. March was connecting.
This fundraiser read more like a community gathering than anything else. There were a few tubs for donations at the front, a volunteer from his team with a card reader smiling at the edge of the stage, but like the money was an afterthought rather than expectation.
His promises were all too easy to get lost in; in case you got bored and wanted to rile up the conservatives in the city, you hit RECORD on your phone. March's talking points were so idealistic it almost read fantastical. It was incredible, but Gotham giving paid leave to parents? Gotham having universal childcare? Gotham creating an outreach program for the houseless, Gotham decriminalizing drugs and focusing on rehabilitation? Gotham having the highest taxes on the wealthy of any region in the U.S.?
If Bruce were here to hear all this, you hoped it might persuade him to endorse. This guy was a damn lightning strike.
Lincoln March talked to the crowd like they were friends, neighbors, loved ones. He fielded questions outside of appointed times and kept the focus on the most vulnerable. He was harsh on his fellow candidates but didn't live there. Refreshing to have a leader with a vision so clear, so dedicated to helping the city.
He was that last Christmas light that wouldn't go out in a whole dead string.
Five-minute intermission came swiftly, with March shouting out Rai's and promptly weaving toward the restroom. You followed close behind, waiting for him to reemerge with impatience exaggerated by strangers doing their best to catch your eye.
Right at the four minute mark he slipped out.
"Mr. March."
He spun on his heel and clapped his hands together. "Ah! Excuse me, aren't you the journalist who did the interview with Bruce Wayne?"
Not The Girlfriend, huh? Does he not know or is he just being respectful?
"I am. Y/n. Nice to meet you."
His handshake was more casual than you'd felt in these rooms; his equally disarming smile spurred one out of you. "Pleasure's mine. Anything you were looking for?"
"There's a lot of turnout so I'm sure your message is getting heard, but I have some follow-up questions that might be better answered in an interview format."
It was a struggle not to laugh at the irony of politely requesting an interview in this hallway.
"You're with the Gazette?"
"I am, yes." Tentatively.
"GU cleared this?"
"If they won't publish there, I'll do so independently."
March took a second to figure something. "I'll accept if you publish independently."
Huh? "Well that's not figured yet, unfortunately."
"I know that puts you in quite the position, but independent press needs to be fiercely protected. Nothing beats integrity."
"I agree," you followed, slipping between groups of people trying to say hello to either of you. "But are you speaking on integrity of journalism or the ability to manipulate your answers with a private press?"
March laughed like you'd made a joke between friends. "Reach out any time if you're able to meet my stipulations. If not, no hard feelings."
He pressed on, folding through the crowd like parting the red sea. You tucked into the back corner to avoid being in people's eyeline.
You chewed on your cheek as March resumed, appreciative of the recorder in your pocket memorizing everything impossible to listen to against a storm of thought.
Independent press—it wasn't something you hadn't considered, but where would you host it? Start a newspaper for one? Create a blog? If you went that route, what if you were ousted from weekly meetings and had to ride your boyfriend's coattails? Would your pen have less weight without the Gazette's reputation preceding it? With Bruce's in its place?
Although the interaction was pleasant, it left you churning with questions the latter half of the event. What underdog didn't want all possible coverage? In a city like this, anything that got your name out was worth it. If you went independent, would that revoke your insider status and make the journalism students more at risk? Did you need to work within the system to make it better?
"Once again, thank you all for taking the time out of your day for the future of Gotham."
You snapped out of it. Where the hell was Bruce?
He'd left no texts. You sent a follow up.
Almost over. Everything okay?
The second you hit SEND, a ruckus erupted outside. Breaking from the herd, you poked your head toward the entrance.
Bruce ascended the stairs, absolutely annihilated with mics and enormous cameras. Outside of the blast radius, it was easier to parse their questions in full. Where had he gone last week? Was he serious about his girlfriend? Would he make it a habit to be absent for election coverage because it reminded him of his parents? Reminded him of the flooding? Reminded him of every single bad thing he had ever experienced?
No wonder he never went out.
But god, his beauty was a shame to hide—you swore he had a halo. Dark brows, dark hair, cheeks blushed from the chill, wearing that same outfit of his. Had he worn it as an homage to the beginning?
He scooted through a narrow opening, twisting backwards in his haste to escape the cameras. He'd barely taken a full breath indoors when he peeked over his shoulder and met your eye with a subtle double take; after the brief distance, it'd never been clearer that he was the very air you breathed.
You recognized the tension in him immediately. The divot between his brows, regarding you without a smile but not a frown. Poor guy was concerned. Cautious.
Back to the hustle of Gotham, at last.
Oh, Bruce. Violins laced your internal monologue. Always so worried.
Welcome to the Master Post for all my writings! Feel free to leave requests for characters I've already written for, or ask about characters I have yet to write for <3
Criticism and ideas are always welcome too! I love getting people’s thoughts on my work so I can improve and get to know what I’m doing right. Or if you just wanna chat or brain about a certain story, I’m always up for that ^^
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𝕋𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤
✦ Enchantment [Draal x Reader] ✦ SFW ✦
⭒ Multi-Chapter Work
⭒ Currently Unfinished
⭒ Content Warning[s]: Injury, Brief Description of Blood and Wounds
✦ Chapter 1 ⭒ Basement Dweller
✦ Chapter 2 ⭒ Two Steps Up
✦ Chapter 3 ⭒ Is This Even Legal?
✦ Chapter 4 ⭒ Training Trauma
✦ Chapter 5 ⭒ Terror Amongst Valor
⭒ Current Word Count: 32,290
⭒ AO3 Link ⭒
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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜 ℂ𝕚𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕤
✦ Pierrot With a Reader Who Struggles With Love / Relationships ✦ SFW ✦
⭒ Headcannons [request]
⭒ Finished
⭒ Content Warning[s]: Obsessive Behavior [canon typical] ⭒ Word Count: 1,543
⭒ AO3 Link [n/a] ⭒
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ℙ𝕠𝕜é𝕞𝕠𝕟
✦ To Change the Heart and Mind [N x Reader] ✦ SFW ✦
⭒ Multi-Chapter Work
⭒ Currently Unfinished
⭒ No Current Content Warnings
✦ Chapter 1 ⭒ The Wonder of the Woods
⭒ Current Word Count: 6,871
⭒ AO3 Link ⭒
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⭒ Links to Divider Assets ⭒
☾ Small Star ☾ Three Moons ☾ Moon + Stars ☾ Lines ☾
You owned a tea shop in Fontaine, one that you ran with great care and pride. But of course, that was before you were sentenced to exile in the Fortress of Meropide. You had resigned yourself to keeping your head down and seeing your sentence through to the end, but now the Duke had his eyes on you. And you couldn't imagine why.
Chapter one of a multi-chapter work, cross-posted on AO3.
Minor CW: Light sexual themes (for now), the reader is in Meropide for a reason, slow burn.
“Got a moment?”
You paused, fork halfway between your meal and mouth. It wasn’t often that the Grand Duke of Meropide paid you a visit. You could honestly count the number of times on one hand, starting with one.
“All the time in the world.” You replied coolly, setting your fork down. You had a feeling that you weren’t going to be able to finish your meal.
“Sounds about right. Finish up here and meet me in my office.” The duke was casual with the request; you weren’t a threat to him, but he was definitely a threat to you. You’d heard the rumors about what happened with Dougier and his Beret Society. There really wasn’t anything to worry about, though; you knew you were keeping your nose down and working your sentence just fine.
After a meal that was semi-decent at best, you approached the Duke’s office. While there might have been guards outside it, the Duke had a fairly open-door policy, and it wasn’t unusual for you to see him take visitors from within the fortress.
You ascended the steps to the Duke’s office, the dulcet sound of a piano played over a phonograph grew stronger as you approached. It had been a long time since you’d seen one played, much less heard one. This was a treat.
The Duke stood with his back to you, intently studying the contents of a drawer in the cabinet by his desk. You weren’t sure what to say for a moment, unsure of why he’d even invited you to his office in the first place.
“Your grace?”
“Ah, there you are.” He turned, a calm and inviting expression on his face, “You’re earlier than I thought you would be.. I understand you were once a tea sommelier, is that correct?”
“I was.” There was no point in lying; you hadn’t lied before, why start now? “I ran a little shop in Fontaine: Bijou Fine Teas. We sold all kinds of tea, mostly imports from Liyue and Sumeru. Local blends too, many of them made in-house.”
“I think I’ve had some of the tea from there before.” The Duke nodded, motioning towards the couch, “Have a seat, there’s a tea I’d like your opinion on.”
You blinked. The reason for your visit to the Duke’s office was so that he could ask your opinion on tea? You slowly took your seat on the couch. The Duke really was a strange man. You weren’t opposed to talking about your former career, but this was the last thing you ever expected to talk about inside the Fortress of Meropide. You’d sooner have guessed that the Duke was going to ask you to spy for him than you would have guessed that he would ask you for tea.
Soon, the Duke joined you on the couch, handing you a small flat tin. There had once been a label affixed to it, but it appeared that the label had gotten wet and the ink had completely smeared into an unreadable blob.
“A colleague brought this tea back with them from Liyue. Unfortunately, it got wet in transit, and she couldn’t remember the exact name of the tea. I’m hoping you can identify it so I can prepare it correctly.”
You blinked again. So it wasn’t even to invite you to have tea but to identify an unlabeled one? This visit was just becoming more and more strange as it went on… but it wasn’t like you had anything better to do.
“I can’t make any promises that I’ll know the exact blend, but I’ll try to get you close, your grace.” You didn’t want to oversell.
“See what you can do.”
It had been a while since you’d done this sort of thing before. Fontainians often thought that being a tea sommelier had roots in being a wine sommelier, but the truth was far from that. In fact, wine and tea were cultivated so far back in time that it was impossible to say which came first. While there were similarities in the approaches, saying that one was derived from the other eliminated the important nuances that you respected.
You started by investigating the tin. It was a simple metal tin, understated. But there was obviously an airtight quality to it, something that maintained the freshness of the tea. The material also kept sun off the tea, protecting it from further degradation. There were no maker's marks on the tin, but the paper that had once been its label was of a high quality. The paper was soft, with a slight grain to it. Bamboo paper.
Liyue was a land of commerce; the paper could have been from anywhere in the nation. And the tin was a standard you’d seen frequently, leaving you without answers for the blend.
With your thumb, you carefully broke the paper seal holding the tin shut and gently popped the lid off. The smell was clean, with a slightly sweet, vegetal note to it. No water damage inside the container, that was a good sign. You took another sniff of the tea, a prominent note of sugar cane greeted you.
The tea itself was rolled into oblong shapes, nowhere near the perfect pearls you had seen many times. Hand rolling was an expensive process, and typically indicated a high-quality tea. The brew would also be fairly long-lasting, able to accommodate multiple steeps with steady development of the flavor.
You plucked one of the rolled leaves from the tin, turning it over in the palm of your hand. The color was a dark green, but it lacked the silvery green veining that would indicate it a varietal of jasmine. It hadn’t been roasted either. The color alone was an indicator of that. You wracked your brain, recalling information that had once been innate knowledge.
Hand-rolled dark leaves with prominent notes of sugarcane and vegetal…
“This is likely a winter harvest. See the dark color of the leaves? Spring harvests would be brighter than this. And this has a sweet vegetal scent to it, spring harvests are more floral forward.” You started to explain, leaning over to show the Duke exactly what you were seeing and smelling, “Based on the smell, I’m thinking an oolong variety. So, two ways you can brew this. The low and slow way, which is lowering the temperature of your water and extending the brew time, or the opposite. You’ll get different parts of the flavor out of the leaves depending on which method you use.”
“I see.” The Duke nodded, an impressed look on his face. You realized just how close the Duke had gotten to you and held your breath; it had been so long since you’d been this physically close to another person. You could see the scars on his neck, the loose black wrapping doing little to hide them. Your eyes moved down, finding his collarbones just past the unbuttoned top of his shirt.
You caught the scent of his cologne. A dark scent of black tea and oiled leather, softened slightly by bergamot. It was a scent you could wrap yourself in. It put you on edge to be so close, but you weren’t sure if you actually minded it. You felt warm.
But just as soon as you had realized that, the Duke pulled away, moving towards a kettle you hadn’t noticed before.
“Which method do you prefer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you think I was going to send you back to work after answering my question? I still want your opinion on this tea.” He seemed almost offended, “Now, how do you want this tea made?”
You thought for a moment, how did you like your oolong brewed?
You gave your answer, watching as the Duke set the kettle to heat the water to the correct temperature. You had to admit, it was a nice kettle; you had one just like it in the shop for tea services. It had certainly made your job much easier in keeping your newer employees from scalding the nicer teas, and it had freed your hands up to attend to other matters in the shop.
Your eyes wandered over the coffee table, recognizing the tea set up immediately as one that originated in Liyue. Delicate-looking porcelain cups sat on a layered wooden tray, and the adorable, leisurely otter tea pet stared back at you. There was also a clay teapot that had clearly been well cared for.
So, the Duke was serious about his tea time. It felt oddly humanizing to see the Duke like this, making tea so carefully for a guest. You had always sort of viewed the Duke as his title, intimidating and unapproachable, despite some of his lackadaisical attitudes. You were always expecting that kindness to end. No. Not kindness. That wasn’t the right word… patience? Not quite. Whatever it was, you were always ready to be guarded around the Duke.
But he made it so easy to forget that he was the Duke of Meropide. Especially like this, especially when he was standing there with a hand on his hip watching the kettle come to temperature, preparing tea for a guest as if you weren’t a prisoner. His coat was slung over his shoulders, intimidating as it was casual.
Your hands, which had been folded on your lap, gripped one another now.
You knew your crime, and you were sure the Duke knew as well. Was this a check-in? Was this all a ruse to see if you were as truly dangerous as your case indicated?
Soon, the Duke was back to sitting on the other end of the couch from you. He carefully measured the tea, pouring the right amount of water, and waited for the first brew.
“So.” He started, his voice tinged with an air of honest curiosity, “I usually form my first opinion of inmates from their intake papers.”
You inhaled sharply. Of course he would want to talk about that.
“Your Grace.” You gritted out, earning a blink from him.
“I’m not here to judge.” He assured, a charming smile on his face.
“I would hardly say that discussing my crime is appropriate tea talk.”
“Then let’s avoid that topic then. I want to know what your life was like before your trial. What drew you to becoming a tea sommelier?” He hadn’t batted an eye at you, naturally moving away into a kinder conversation, one you were clearly more open to having.
You watched him pour the first steep over the leisurely otter as you gathered your thoughts. A second steep was started, this would be for you and would take much less time than the first.
“My mother.” You started, “I grew up in the Beryl Region, she had a garden that she would use for her teas; raspberry leaves for cramps. Chamomile for anxiety. Lavender for sleep. That sort of thing..”
The Duke listened intently, pouring the second steep into a cup that he then handed to you. Your fingers curled around the porcelain, soaking up the warmth; you hadn’t realized it was that cold in the Duke’s office. The tea was still a little hot, you gave it a moment to cool down.
“So I suppose there was always an interest in tea. When I was older, I started to travel and study. I went to Liyue and worked in a tea house for a time, spoke with the traders, and lived with the tea farmers in Chenyu Vale for about two years.” You inhaled the tea’s scent, pleased with the familiar aroma of a properly brewed oolong, “Traveled to Sumeru next, learned how they spiced their tea. And I read as many books from Inazuma as I could about their tea ceremonies.”
“What brought you back to Fontaine?” The Duke pressed, pouring himself a cup of tea now. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation; there had been a consistent spark to his eye since you’d greeted him.
“My mother died. I had to come back and handle her estate.” It had been years ago, you had done your grieving, but if she saw you now…
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The Duke said, his tea cup paused midway to his mouth.
“I couldn’t afford to travel extensively after that, so I opened Bijou. And that’s all there was. Me, my tea shop, and as many teas as I could import and introduce to the Fontainian public.”
“That’s a pretty simplified story.”
“That’s all there is to tell.” You answered back, “You’ve finished your sentence, you have occasional visits topside. I’m sure you have more stories to tell than I do.”
“Maybe. You’re right about having occasional time above water, but really, most of it is business-related.” The Duke admitted, “I do remember seeing your shop though.. Smelling it, really. You had the doors open.”
It was a trick you learned in Sumeru. As the scent of your products wafted down the street, customers would be drawn in. Something in you was pleased that it had been that impactful, but another part of you twinged in longing. You could never go back to that life.
“I admit I never had time to browse, but if I had..”
“It’s funny how the world works.” You nodded, picking up what he was getting at, “If we had met outside the fortress, we likely would have had a transactional relationship. I, your supplier of tea, and you, a possible customer.”
“I would have loved to have seen your offerings.”
You smiled, for the first time in a long time.
“I can tell you that there was an entire wall behind the counter of nothing but tea. That the shoproom floor had different styles of tea wares. That every week we had a tea service from a different nation, that we also highlighted a new pair of teas each week.” You missed it. Your Bijou. You still dreamed of it, and occasionally you could still imagine the smell of the shop when you opened it on rainy mornings.
You finally took a sip of your tea, the sugarcane flavor was prominent, and there was a creamy note to the end that was truly delightful.
“Sounds like a vibrant life.” The Duke nodded, “Thank you for giving me some of your time today.”
“What the duke wants, he gets. Is that how it goes?”
“Within reason.”
“Fair.. this is definitely an oolong, I think I might have known the grower.”
You left the Duke’s office sometime later, the taste of tea lingering on your tongue. He had promised to call on you again when a new batch of tea arrived, and promised that there would be light snacks next time if he could manage it.
A troubled knot was forming in your stomach as you returned to your assigned sleeping quarters. You still had a nagging feeling that the Duke had other plans for you; he really couldn’t have just been wanting someone to talk about tea with.
Once in the safety of your room, you began to pace.
Throughout your worries on what the Duke intended for you, you couldn’t get the sight of him out of your head. His physical closeness to you, the way his scars were, the charming blue eyes, his rough hands still delicately holding a teapot and serving you. The scent of his cologne…
