thinking of this and my mind immediately went to the concept of widowed jack abbot having a google doc or spreadsheet detailing every movie he's watched since his wife died, since watching films together used to be something they loved. he includes his rating of the film, and any other thought he had about it; like his own version of letterboxd. a bit later, he starts including who he watched each one with, if anyone: robby, robby, robby, dana, robby, robby, robby, robby, shen and ellis, robby, and then, mohan, mohan, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira, samira.
movie nights at jack's turn into a multiple-times-per-week occurence. more like movie days once samira moves to night shift. he takes her through all of the star wars movies, talking nonstop about all of the lore, even going through the shows like mandalorian and even the animated series (he's a nerd for more than just medicine you know). then, of course, he has to share his "classics" with her: ghostbusters, back to the future, airplane!, top gun, the karate kid, the goonies, footloose.
Note: this is like nothing but it was soo sweet in my head. last minute mohabbot monday submission, my first. enjoy!
read on ao3
The shift was unlike any other, somehow feeling worse than the Pittfest shift. But things had changed since Pittfest; now close to two years later, and The Pitt was similar, but different. Two years ago though, Jack Abbot didn’t have Samira Mohan. Samira Mohan didn’t have Jack Abbot.
The two finally got together after 18 months dancing around each other, and making it everyone else’s problem. But once they were together, everything seamlessly fell into place. It all made sense. Knowing every aspect of the other came as easy to Samira and Jack as breathing did. So, when it came to recovering from tough shifts like these, they had the perfect remedies.
It had become an unspoken agreement that they had back to Jack’s after nights like these. Yeah, Samira switched to the night shift almost immediately after Pittfest, seeing how much better that team’s medical philosophy aligned with hers. It had nothing to do with the 49-year-old, greying haired, freckled man who won her over with an awkward yet smooth, besides it was too risky for me to do myself. Anyways. Jack’s place was much more barren and modern than Samira’s, but in a way that was perfect when the two needed as little stimulation as possible in order to fall back into their routines. Simple, kitchen just behind the entryway, a small dining area to the right, connected to a living area (with what Samira deemed the couch of all couches), and down the hall, two bedrooms and bathrooms. One of each were Jack’s, and those spaces matched the rest of the apartment, monotone colors, limited decor, but still riddled intentional scents that grounded Samira. It was all procedural in the best way possible.
These days, they’d walk out of the Pitt side-by-side, with one of Jack’s arms draped around Samira’s shoulders, doing everything he could to not slump into her frame, his stump screaming from hours of standing and balancing and jogging and leaning–a more pronounced limp than usual. Samira always had her arm wrapped around Jack’s waist, smoothing her palm up and down his obliques for the entire duration of their walk out to his truck.
The drive to Jack’s apartment is silent, but comfortable, with Jack’s hand attached to her thigh while he drives, Samira brushing her fingers up and down his arm, tracing his veins and freckles.
Calm. Peace. Quiet.
Before they walked out of the Pitt, Jack doordashed their usual meals from their favorite restaurant so it’d arrive by the time they got to the apartment. He grabbed the food bag and unlocked the door, allowing Samira to walk in first while he also brought in both of their work bags. Samira strides over to the couch to sit down and she immediately slumps back on the cushions, taking in some deep breaths, kicking off her sneakers to begin fully relaxing.
Jack sets their bags down, then moves into the kitchen to plate their food; a basic hamburger for him, caesar salad for her, a side of fries to share, and glasses of water. He brings everything to his living room, placing it on the coffee table. He then grabs his crutches from their spot by the front door, lays them by the end of the couch, and then takes a seat, removing his prosthetic, silicone sleeve, and sock. Taking a deep breath, he turns to Samira who now has her eyes closed as she lays on the back of the couch and gently reaches to tuck part of her bangs behind her ear, before pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
The action draws her attention back to the room. She presses her lips to Jack’s before she’s pulling the coffee table in closer to the couch and diving into her food. Jack follows her and the two eat their meals in complete silence, continuing to relish in this time away from the ED, but their legs stay pressed beside each other–a silent reminder. As she eats, Samira takes in Jack’s apartment that in just the few months that they’d been together, had begun to feel like a place she could call home.
Jack eats notoriously fast, most likely a relic from the Army, so once he’s finished with his burger, he goes to drop and rinse his plate before heading upstairs for a quick shower. Samira finishes eating once Jack is out of the shower, so she follows in his footsteps and they’re soon in the bathroom side by side. Jack, going through his quick routine of brushing his teeth, running a bit of leave-in through his hair, and layering a bit of lotion across his body, drawing special attention to his stump before adding some antioxidant cream there. Finally, he trims his stubble and applies some aftershave–for the smell that Samira loves more than anything else. Samira more recently has started devoting a bit more time to her routine, she takes the leave-in and some oil, dragging it through her hair a bit more diligently by sections, before braiding it. Then, she goes through her skincare routine, multiple steps that leave her glowing. Her own dental routine follows, then lotion.
The couple moved into Jack’s connected bedroom where the sun was just starting to pool at the bottom of the blackout curtains. They climb into their respective sides of the bed, Jack rolling onto his back followed by Samira placing her head on his bare chest, with their bodies entangled all the way down. The silence continues, but it’s more than comfortable. Their breaths are now synced, and they exchange soft touches–Samira drawing her hand up and down Jack’s torso methodically, while he plays with the stray curls that have already fallen out of her braid. She’d sworn on bringing her silk pillowcase to his apartment when she first started staying over, but it’d never been of any use because she’d fall asleep in this exact spot every time, head fully rested on Jack’s chest as he stared at the wonder that was Samira Mohan in front of him. She was his final sight before he went to sleep that morning, their breaths evening out together as the Steel City kickstarted its day.
With All the Weight of What We Could Be - Chapter 1 - Stella Kidd x Kelly Severide
Summary: Stella had done her best to ignore all of it, but deep down, she knew. It was all the same as before. The sudden, deep emotions, not just simple sadness, but more sympathy than she usually walked with. Leaning on Kelly more often for things from shift that truly weren’t that big of a deal. The bouts of nausea. Her late period.
Stella had done her best to ignore all of it, but deep down, she knew. It was all the same as before. The sudden, deep emotions, not just simple sadness, but more sympathy than she usually walked with. Leaning on Kelly more often for things from shift that truly weren’t that big of a deal. The bouts of nausea. Her late period. Stella knew.
But after what’d happened last time, there was no way she was facing that truth again. Her and Kelly had talked about it in the midst of Isaiah leaving and going back to live with his mom. Processing the emptiness of the loft, and in their hearts, as a result of the recent losses. They took their time, vocalized everything that they could, even took a couple shifts off to just spend time together. Kelly and Stella left those conversations and days off feeling much better than before, relieved, and feeling more confident in their marriage than ever knowing all that they’d overcome. This all happened about six months ago.
So when the symptoms came back over a month ago, Stella recognized them, yes, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to actually come to terms with what they all meant. So she went on. It wasn’t until one shift, where she ran out of oxygen a few minutes before she was able to come out of a house fire, working to save a little girl, where everything fell apart.
Stella, and everyone else made it out of the fire just fine, but she freaked everyone out in the process. Especially Kelly, acting chief on this shift. After sending the little girl on her way to Med with Violet and Novak, Kelly found Stella catching her breath on the curb, bent over, wheezing out coughs.
“Truck’s all cleaned up, I’m sending them back with Herrmann as acting lieutenant, you’re going to Med.” Kelly urged, placing a hand on Stella’s shoulder.
“Kelly, I’m fine,” Stella rasped, attempting to get up to catch Truck before they left. Kelly held his hand on her shoulder more firmly, keeping her seated on the curb.
“You’re going,”
“No. Kelly, I said I’m fine.”
“Come on Stel, give me your gear, I’ll be with Squad right behind you.”
Stella tried to stand up again, “I said I’m fine, I was only out of oxygen for like three minutes, I just need some water and maybe a quick nap before our next call,” all of her words sounding like they were being pulled out of her vocal chords syllable by syllable.
Finally coming to her feet, Stella took her arm and pushed Kelly’s hand off of her, but the movement threw her off her balance. She stumbled, nearly dropping her gear and falling to the ground. Kelly was able to catch her just in time, but that was it.
“Lieutenant Kidd,” Kelly snapped, forcing his eyes to meet Stella’s and softening his voice before continuing, “you are going to Chicago Med for further observation. As your acting battalion chief, that is an order. Do you understand?”
Her husband’s firmness drew out the little air in Stella’s lungs. Bearing into his eyes, she knew there was no getting around him this time, nodding, “Yes sir.”
Upon arrival, Trini got Stella situated. Hooking up an IV, and setting up oxygen. Dr. Ripley came in shortly after for an assessment, “Stella you’re already sounding a lot better and your O2 levels are starting to rise, but given your history with your lungs, I’m going to order some blood tests just to be sure that everything is clear.”
“Okay, yeah,” Stella quickly nods.
“Alright, I’ll be back shortly with those results and we should be able to get you out of here shortly.” Dr. Ripley turns around to leave the room, but he’s stopped.
“Dr. Ripley, are you sure those are necessary?” each word continuing to tear through Stella’s throat, barely audible.
At first, Dr. Ripley’s thrown off by the formality. While he didn’t know Stella very well, they’d worked together enough times at this point to be on a first-name basis, and Stella in general wasn’t one for formalities once she knew someone.
“It’s just a precaution Stella, everything should be just fine,” he says, leaving the room with a final nod.
Stella forced out a breath, wincing at the end of it. The room was so sterile, so cold, and with nothing, no one, in there to distract her she was left to her own devices. She knew what the blood test was going to say.
I can’t go through this again. I can’t do this. I don’t think we can do this. How am I going to tell Kelly?
Every possible thought was swirling through her brain. Picking her cuticles raw, then clinging to the bed sheets; each breath still feeling like barbed wire in her throat. The minutes felt like hours. Staring up at the ceiling, as if searching for a higher power that would give her all the answers. Soon, she’d fully dissociated, completely wrapped up in all the ways something could go wrong, something she’d done wrong. Maybe Dr. Ripley would come back and reveal that the blood tests said nothing at all. Her spiral wouldn’t continue for much longer.
“Hey Stella,”
“Hannah–Dr. Asher, hi.” Stella felt her heart drop to her stomach. Dr. Asher, bless her, kept a soft smile on her face, but Stella could tell that something was going on. “Hannah’s fine, don’t worry. I’m just here with your test results, Dr. Ripley got pulled onto another case. Stella, did you know that you were pregnant?”
The room’s curtain slides open and Kelly crosses the room to be next to Stella, grabbing her hand, “Stella! Hey, sorry I’m late, I had to stay at the scene and then I just decided to drive over; Dr. Asher.”
Stella drew her eyes over to him, but stayed silent. This was not how she wanted him to find out. She’d spent all this time avoiding the truth, but now that it was here, she wanted to be the one to tell him. She felt tears pricking at her eyes, and her throat closed impossibly tighter.
“Hi Kelly.” Dr. Asher muttered, before gathering herself to deliver the news. “Stella, your results are saying that you’re approximately eighteen weeks pregnant. Did you know about this? I didn’t see it on your chart, but maybe it was missed in your initial assessment.”
Kelly’s eyebrows furrowed immediately, searching Stella’s eyes for an answer. Stella continued to stay silent, now feeling her lip starting to quiver.
With her silence, Dr. Asher’s face grew puzzled as well, but she took the couple’s silence as her sign to continue. “Stella, the test is showing that you’re firmly in your second trimester.”
Stella felt like her throat had been sewed shut. All she could do was feel a sole tear roll down her cheek, bringing her gaze down to her lap. Kelly squeezed her hand, chiming in, “Is the…” now he was the one feeling a lump in his throat, “is the baby okay?”
“Everything in the blood appears to be normal, but we’d need to do an ultrasound to be sure.” Dr. Asher replied. “I’ll give you guys some time, but Stella, I feel comfortable discharging you today. Just make an appointment with OB soon.”
With that, Dr. Asher left the room, and Kelly and Stella were left in the suffocating silence of the room. Kelly was still standing beside Stella’s hospital bed, utterly confused with what he just heard, “Stella, you’re pregnant?”
“I-” Stella couldn’t force the words out.
“Did you know?”
“I’ve thought maybe? For a while? But, uh, I wasn’t sure.” Tears now falling freely down Stella’s face. Reaching up to wipe her face, she finally brought herself up to meet Kelly’s eyes. Her favorite sight in the world, filled to the brim with tears of his own, a mix of dejection, suspicion, and just barely, a glimmer of hope.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The last word choked out of Kelly’s throat.
A sob released from Stella’s throat, further ripping her throat to shreds, fully wracking her body. Stella collapsed in on herself, burying her palms into her eyes, “Kelly, I’m, I’m so sorry. I should’ve–told, I can’t do this again.” Still holding her hand, Kelly stood bewildered, for once, not knowing what to say. His own tears began to fall, and for now, all he could do was bring his arms around his wife. A silent pledge, they were in this together, whatever this would come to mean.
just wanted to write out some of these as a bay area native who really resonated with ryland's love for the city, first thoughts about ryland lmk what y'all think :)
SF born and raised, obviously. the only child of two professors (one at sf state, one at ucsf (a science-only grad school!)) who loved him dearly, but they were really focused on their jobs so he was also a bit of a latchkey kid. beneficial in many ways though because from a young age he learned everything about san francisco and has loved it ever since. could navigate the city with his eyes closed and loves how unique sf/bay area culture is, also crafted him into a massive LA hater, will not tolerate LA propaganda. will also immediately shut down anyone who tries to call sf "san fran."
a nerd from the very start, loved going on field trips to the california academy of sciences, exploratorium, and curiodyssey (he now plans these very same field trips for gcms every year). literally had to be dragged out of these science museums a few times, especially the chabot space and science center, when he finally went in his 7th grade year.
went 2 hours away for school at uc davis (~30mins away from travis air force base, for my book readers!), and stayed there through his PhD. it's here he got really good on a bike, and learned how to carry anything you could ever need on one. had a really colorful bike while in school that he loved, but it got stolen during his last year of grad school and he thinks it's the most violent he's ever felt, wanting to find the person who stole it. he also developed a hatred for people on ebikes because they rode through campus way too fast, and he vowed to never ride one himself, until he started bike commuting through sf and realized that biking the hills are so much worse than walking them; bought an ebike after like his first week of doing it. loved davis so much and still visits for picnic day every year, but also went home a lot while in school because he missed the city. GO AGS!
lives in an apartment right next to ocean beach, even though he really can't afford it, but he missed the beach too while in school, and did not want to be separated from it again.
california sober. canon does not affect me. this is the most california sober man i have ever seen.
favorite food comes from local mexican and japanese restaurants.
even though he bikes almost everywhere, he does still own a car. this one.
not a huge sports guy, but he ran cross country in middle and high school and made some really good friends through that, kept running club XC in college, but isn't a "runner" anymore. he stays in just good enough shape to participate in the escape from alcatraz triathlon annually. also has a soft spot for the sf giants and the 49ers, goes to at least one game a year, and stays pretty up to date with them.
a girl dad, cannot wait for the day he's able to reasonably buy a cargo bike to take his daughter(s) around the city, pointing out all of his favorite spots.
sf is his favorite city in the world, and he'd never live anywhere else. sf and greater bay area culture is so unique and special to him, and will share his feelings about it with anyone. even though he's a white nerd, he's extremely well-versed in the diverse cultures and their contributions (food, music, celebrations) that make the bay unique: black, hispanic, chinese, filipino, etc, and emphasizes their importance to the bay in the classroom all the time.
about me!
lover of sports, tv, film, music, and comics
especially: baseball, indycar, f1, basketball, chicago fire, the rookie, the pitt, johnnyswim, kneecap, zach bryan, nightwing, captain america, and the flash
dni: racist, homo/transphobic, maga, zionist
my works:
Animal Kingdom (2016)
High School Baseball Star - Andrew Pope Cody
Chicago Fire (2012)
With All the Weight of What We Could Be - Stella Kidd x Kelly Severide: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Chicago P.D. (2014)
Release - Dante Torres x Reader: Chapter 1
The Pitt (2025)
Silence - Jack Abbot x Samira Mohan
Lego Connoisseur Jack Abbot - Jack Abbot x Samira Mohan
Sneakerhead!Frank Langdon
Project Hail Mary (2026)
Bay Area!Ryland Grace - Part 1 | Part 2
The Rookie (2018)
East Side of Sorrow (Tim Bradford Backstory/Character Study) - Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Dante's been trying to repent since he was fourteen. Church, work, volunteering, nothing's worked. He thinks you might give him that chance.
tags: no use of y/n, first meetings, fluff, fem!reader
Stepping away from the train station, the neon lights catch your eye, Mercado del Mar. You’d heard nonstop online that the food was amazing, and the drinks, even better. You’d just moved to Chicago for grad school, and hoped for one final night before school overtook your life once again. An occasion of sorts, so you took the time to get dressed up, a full face, all your jewelry, just for the hell of it. You stepped into the warmly-lit restaurant, settling at the bar.
Dante knew it probably wasn’t the best idea to keep coming to what once was Gloria’s restaurant, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d gotten over her, truly, but this still felt like the one piece he couldn’t separate from, especially when there were other cases that’d hang on his conscience, and church just wasn’t cutting it. He’d settle at the bar, most of the time, just hunched over a glass of water, staring into the void.
Peeling off your coat, you step up onto the barstool, taking in your surroundings. It’s a Thursday night, so not particularly busy. Down the bar, a man catches your eye. He’s hunched over the bar, clad in a tight, black sweater, and some dark jeans . He has a gold chain tucked into his shirt. Hair cut short, but slightly mussed, and you can tell there’s curls fighting to take shape; coming down onto his chin is some stubble, likely a couple days old. You catch the definition in his arms, and see a tattoo peeking out on his forearm.
He can feel your eyes on him, and he turns his head to meet your gaze, finding your eyes for a split second before you turn away. There’s only one barstool between you two. Now it’s his turn to take you in. You’re extremely put together for this restaurant that literally used to be the front for one of the largest drug rings in Chicago, but he feels like your poise isn’t you trying to fit in, or demand attention. You do anyway though, because there’s an air of confidence in the way you’re seated, the way you called the bartender over, ordering the night’s special. He watches you settle back into your seat, before receiving your drink, taking a long sip.
“What do you usually get here?” You inquired. There was a beat, and then you turned your head to meet his eyes again, seeing specks of green and brown shining in the yellow lighting around the bar. His mouth, slightly open, continuing to stare.
“What? Sorry.” He shakes his head, turning to re-align himself with the bar, hating there’s a chance that he made you uncomfortable.
His response throws you off-guard, but you continue, “If you’re going to keep staring at me, the least you can do is give me a recommendation.”
“The pozole,” he said with a nod, “it’s nice when the weather gets like this.”
His addition gives you the confidence to scoot into the barstool beside him. You reach out a hand, introducing yourself, to which he looks stunned that you’d want to do so, but he responds, “I’m Dante,” emphasizing the Spanish pronunciation with a slight smile.
“How often do you come here, Dante?”
He stutters out, “a few times a week, probably.”
You hum, “where are you from?”
“Chicago, here in Pilsen,” he nods toward you again, prompting your own answer.
“I just moved here for grad school at UChicago, I’m brand new. Just trying to explore a bit, meet people.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It seems really nice, everyone I’ve met has been really helpful. Midwest nice I guess,” you shrug.
Dante lets out a rough chuckle, as if he doesn’t believe you, causing you to raise a brow. He sucks in a breath, before continuing, “I’m sure you’ll love it, but, this city changes people…”
His statement brings a silence across the bar that remains until your pozole is set on the bartop. You quietly thank the waiter and grab your spoon, diving into the warm, meaty stew. While you’re distracted, Dante takes his chance to look at you again. Catching every detail on your face that he could. It wasn’t often that he got approached in public, especially by those not from his neighborhood, and especially not ones as pretty as you. He watches you bring the spoon to your mouth, hearing you slurp, then moan in delight as the flavors fall on your tongue. As if following the liquid, his eyes then fell to your throat, watching you swallow, the muscles in your neck working, wishing he could taste you. Get a better idea of the perfume you had on, that’d caught his attention immediately when you first sat down. Suddenly, he realized that his mind was running a hundred miles a minute, but this time not with cases, but you. A desire to know you more, taste the pozole off your lips, feel you around him–he had to stop. He knows he’s quick to fall into things, doesn’t think things through all the time, probably why he’s so quick to turn to the lord even though the streets of Chicago have shown him time and time again that there probably is no God.
You continue your pozole, out the corner of your eye you see Dante quickly turn his whole body towards the bar once more, bringing his gaze down to his glass of water, still full, catching a glimpse of his own reflection. The more you sit next to Dante, the more his minute motions intrigue you. He moves with immense hesitance.
“What are you studying?” He asks, still looking down, playing with the condensation rolling down his glass.
“I just started my PhD, I’m in the ethnic studies department, and interested in the justice system, but I don’t know my research topic quite yet,” and as you finished speaking, you see him freeze up, rounding and raising his shoulders even more, like he’s trying to protect himself. From what? You have no clue.
You place your left arm flat on the bar next to him, flexing your hand as you fight to try and comfort this man you just met. You lean forward slightly, seeing that he has his lips pursed. His thumb though is now moving faster up and down the side of the glass, causing some of the water to now drip down onto it. You just watch his thumb for a moment, the muscles in his hand flexing rapidly.
Before Dante can notice, he feels your hand close around his, immediately settling his body and mind. Shoulders straightening, letting out a deep, shaky sigh. You glide your thumb across his knuckles, beaten down from something, a gleaming red against his pale skin. Dante’s focused on where your hands meet, and for the first time in a while, he can feel his head slowly clear, solely focused on what his hand feels like in yours. “Are you okay?” you ask quietly.
He meets your eyes, nodding again, and you feel him squeeze your hand a bit tighter. You hear Dante clear his throat, waiting for his next words: “I’m a cop,” he murmurs. Cat’s out of the bag. This is where you get up, leave your drink and pozole behind, not wanting to be near him anymore, afraid of him now. He can’t pinpoint what compelled him to reveal so much right now, but it feels like you’re just pulling everything out of him.
His answer definitely shocks you. Obviously, your thoughts on cops were…complicated to say the least. Dante noticed you sit up straighter, but to his surprise, you didn’t let go of his hand. You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it, unsure of what to say.
Next to you, Dante was fighting every doubt in his body, fighting to not pull away, because as scared as he was of you leaving, there was no way he was going to be the first. He held your grasp, and forced his head up to meet you, taking another deep breath. You open your mouth again to speak, but are interrupted: “Excuse me, so sorry to interrupt, but we’re closed.”
You looked all around, and the few other bodies that were in the restaurant had entirely cleared out. You pull your hand away from Dante, standing in a rush to grab your things from the bar, murmuring an apology to the restaurant staff for holding them back. As you stand, you swipe a hand lightly across Dante’s shoulder. Beginning to walk toward the exit, Dante thinks that’s it. He leans back on the barstool, watching you walk out, taking in every last detail he can, accepting that he’ll probably never see you again.
As you reach the door, you pull it open, turning back towards him, “walk me to the train station, Dante?”
You’d come to learn that Chicago in September was clearly no joke. Dante jogged to join you on the sidewalk outside Mercado Del Mar, trying to hold back a smile.
“Does the cold get any easier?” You asked, jumpstarting the conversation.
Dante chuckled, finally seeming a little bit lighter than he was at the bar, “not really. I think anyone who says so is lying to you.”
The two of you walked side-by-side down the block, Dante had made an effort to get on the outside of you, closest to the street when you started walking. Both of you had your hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying to shield from the air’s bite. You take another second to fully look Dante up and down. He’s now covered up with a black puffer jacket, and he’s donning a sharp pair of Air Force Ones. You look back up at the street ahead, it feels shockingly empty considering it’s not even 10PM yet, but it’s also peaceful; the nighttime wind largely filling the silence on the street.
“Dante,” he meets your eyes again, and you pause, “I think you know what I’m going to ask you next.”
You watched Dante’s smile fall again, but he didn’t collapse in on himself like he had earlier. He wavers, taking a few times to frame his words before answering, “I went to juvie when I was younger, because P.D didn’t do their job,” he sees you raise your brow, imagining you’re questioning his swiftness to absolve himself of responsibility, so he cuts back in to continue: “My former stepdad used to beat my Ma, and I tried calling the police, but uh, they never came. One night, it got so bad that I beat him, and he ended up in a coma,” murmuring the final words. His admission caused you to stop in your tracks, drawing your hand to his shoulder sympathetically; “I think when I got older, I wanted to join and believe that I’d be able to be there for someone, do something about it.”
Dante didn’t let his sight leave you, itching to see your reaction. Your touch felt like a good sign, but he didn’t want to get too excited before you formed an actual response.
“I’m really sorry. How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
You give him a slow nod while you process his words, starting to walk again, Dante immediately in tow. As much as his answers jarred you, you truly felt for him, “how long have you been with CPD?”
“Almost four years now, I’m with Intelligence,” he replied. Silence fell upon the street again, continuing your walk to the station, “Can I ask more about you?” You giggled softly, prompting him to continue, “Why’d you pick UChicago?”
“They gave me the biggest stipend,” slightly rolling his eyes, but bringing a smile to his face, “I stayed in-state for undergrad and my masters, so I needed something new, wanted to be in a city…”
When you looked back up, you saw Dante already staring at you, bringing a rush to your cheeks. You directed your gaze straight ahead, and found yourself slowing your pace when you saw the staircase leading up to the “L” platform. “Um,”
You noticed the smile that Dante had held for a minute, continuing to look at you before falling when he realized you were at your destination. Hands still in his pockets, you noticed he was lifting them over and over from within. Still keeping eye contact, you and Dante stood at the base of the stairs, “Are you sure you want to be getting on the train by yourself this late?” pointing toward the platform through his pockets. You bite your bottom lip, trying to hold back a smile as you start to see a little more of Dante.
Trying to hide the blush creeping on your own cheeks, you look down before murmuring, “Dante, you know if you want to keep walking me home you can just ask?”
Note: Thank y'all so much for your support on this little story! This is my first time writing for Stellaride, but this really showed me that I know these characters well and can write for them, so I'll be aiming to do it more in the future! As always let me know your thoughts!
Their drive back to the loft was so quiet, unusually so. Kelly and Stella hadn’t spoken a word to each other since leaving Chicago Med. All they could bring themselves to do was hold each other’s hand, and let the Mustang roar underneath them.
Once getting home, Kelly tossed his keys into their dish, and took a seat on the couch, pulling one of the throw pillows into his lap, beginning to pick at the edge of it. Closer to the kitchen island, Stella pulled off her coat and started to pace, back and forth across the loft, trying her best to find the right words.
“Stel,” Kelly spoke out, looking up to grab his wife’s attention. Stella stopped, and saw Kelly patting the open space next to him on the couch. She walked over and sat down, running her hands up and down the expanse of her thighs, still leaving a bit of space between them. Determined to not let his wife pull away any more, Kelly let go of his pillow and shifted right next to Stella, pressing their legs together and reaching his arm around her, rubbing up and down her shoulder. “Stella,” he said again, this time a bit more firmly, “talk to me, please.”
Now leaned over, Stella murmured, “I didn’t mean to Kelly.”
“Hey,” softening his voice again, Kelly turned around to face her now, trying to find her eyes, “talk to me.” He reached up to brush some loose hair out of her face, wanting her to explain, but also not wanting to make it seem like he was angry at her, because truthfully no part of him was. All he wanted was to know why she didn’t come to him with something as precious as this, something as difficult as this.
Stella blew out a rough breath, and Kelly saw tears begin to roll down her face, “Kelly, there is…I know it’s not rational, I know it’s not, but there is still a part of me that blames myself…”
“Hey. Hey,” Kelly could now feel his own tears pool in his eyes. Seeing his wife, the beautiful, strong, confident, spirited, Stella Kidd, like this, it made his stomach churn, ripped him apart. He moved to press a kiss to her temple, while tightening his grip around her, urging her to continue.
“I can’t. I can’t do this again.”
“Stella, what are you talking about?”
Stella met his eyes that by this point were fully red, and strained at the edges, begging him to not make her spell it out. Their tears met each other’s, and Stella realized that Kelly wasn’t going to save her this time. “Kelly, I can’t lose another one, and I know you can’t either.” Kelly brought both arms around Stella now, pulling her tight into a hug that was just as much for him as it was for her. Everything Stella was keeping in broke free, now bawling in Kelly’s arms, and he followed shortly after. The burden of it all brought them down. Today’s shift, Stella’s smoke inhalation, the reveal by Dr. Asher, time, nearly a year since they started trying to build a family of their own. Exhausted by it all, the two fell into the couch, in each other’s arms, letting sleep take over.
Stella woke up feeling a weight on her back, and Kelly’s arms wrapped around her, falling on her stomach. She knew that it was done unconsciously, that didn’t change the effect, but after the tears and after the rest, she was ready to talk, ready to confront it all. So she did.
She shifted in Kelly’s arms, and began to lightly run her nails along them. Kelly had always been a light sleeper, so she knew he was destined to wake up soon. She took a deep breath and began, “I still want a family with you Kelly. A family that’s ours, nothing is ever going to change that.” Immediately, she felt Kelly’s grip around her tighten, then a soft kiss pressed below her ear, he was already awake.
By this point, the loft was completely dark, just soft light coming in through the windows, but other than that it was quiet, her safe space. Behind her, her person, fully supporting her as he always did. Finally, these simple facts made everything clear. Her voice was still strained, her lungs still tainted, her heart still bandaged, but she persisted.
“I told you before that I didn’t want to get pregnant, but then it just happened, and when I read those first two lines on my own all the hesitation…the fear, it all just faded away. When I was confronted with starting a family with you, like that, it became so clear to me. And then your reaction, knowing how long you’ve wanted this. How happy we were those first few days…and then I lost-” Stella felt a squeeze at her side, “we lost that baby and it was like my worst fears were finally coming true. They just had to show face after that moment,” forcing out a thick chuckle. She took a pause, a few more breaths to re-center herself, still running her hands down Kelly’s arms to soothe, she continued.
“I knew my period was late right away, but I thought it was just stress or something. And then…I kind of forgot about it? I otherwise felt fine, a little bit of nausea here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary? I don’t know Kelly. I was so scared, it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t even want to tell myself. It was easy enough to ignore, so I did. And then today, the second Dr. Ripley told me that he’d be doing a blood test, I knew what it was going to say. I wanted to tell you myself, but you got there right on time. Now, I'm in the middle of the second trimester, I guess. It all went by so fast” she finished, coming to rest with a soft smile on her face.
Kelly had kept his hold around Stella, rubbing small circles into her side, then he stopped, “Babe,” he wavered, “Is this…still, something you want to do?” At that, Stella jumped, turning in his arms to face him. She could see that he was slightly dissociated, not looking at her like usual, fearful of what her answer would be. She reached up to palm his cheek, drawing his attention back to her, “Wanting a family with you, is something that is never going to change. There’s nothing I want more. I was so scared of everything that could come with pregnancy, I still am, really scared. But, Dr. Asher did say I’m in the second trimester, so it’s more stable. My stats look good. The…baby’s… stats look good. We can get an ultrasound. I want to work as closely with Dr. Asher as much as I can because I trust her the most;” Stella paused, caressing her thumb over her husband’s cheek, letting a wide smile spread across her face, “I think we got this, Kelly Severide.”
Tim Bradford - East Side of Sorrow - Chapter 3 - Don't give it a reason to follow.
inspired by a song of the same title, by zach bryan :)
tags: Abandonment, Angst, Army, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Military Backstory, My First Fic, Song Lyrics, Zach Bryan - Freeform
read on ao3
The sun's gonna rise tomorrow
Somewhere on the east side of sorrow
Don't give it a reason to follow
Let it be, then let it go
Let it be, then let it go
Tim left his childhood home that night, with plans to never return. Just like that, his things were stuffed back into his Army-issued duffle bag, and he had no destination in sight. Luckily, his mom hadn’t gotten rid of his truck from high school, so he was able to snag the keys and storm out the front door before Cynthia could say anything about it. He jumped in and started driving, up through the LA hills, down Hollywood boulevard, along the 1 near Venice Beach, across to Irvine, and even to Long Beach. The entire time with a vice grip on the steering wheel, grateful for the fresh air streaming in through the windows even if his breaths remained shallow. As he drove, memories of home came through his mind in flashes, his dad unintelligibly screaming at him, a punch going through the wall inches away from his head, his mother hugging him and smoothing her hand down the back of his head, his sisters sobs from another room, the taste of his own blood permeating his tongue; but, they were much calmer than when he was in that house.
So he kept driving, all over the city that he loved so dearly. Los Angeles. That’s home. Not his childhood home, but this city. It’s rich culture, people from all walks of life coming together in one space, it’s part of the reason why he learned Spanish and worked to keep it up (the basics at least). The nature and how it frames the city’s urban areas perfectly, even the beaches and the Pacific Ocean that he’s deathly afraid of; catching a whiff of the salty ocean air is enough to ground him. He passes Dodger Stadium and thinks of all the players that made (and broke) his childhood. He even remembers just enough of the 1988 World Series win, the last time he thinks he felt an ounce of affection toward his dad, watching the Dodgers win game five together in front of their box TV in the living room, with Genny asleep on the couch behind them, and his mom awake, watching father and son from behind. Sports had always been a big part of Tim’s life, starting with baseball, but growing into football, basketball, and even a bit of hockey–the Dodgers, the Rams (even though they moved to St. Louis when he was fifteen), the Lakers, and the Kings. As he’d gotten older they’d become an escape, a way to get away from home, and his mind off of anything he wanted to avoid. Vin Scully’s voice over a crackly radio could calm him like no other.
But tonight, he drives and thinks without Scully’s calls over the speakers. The truck stays silent and Tim continues to just take in the city again block by block, no rush to make a decision for the night. Suddenly, Tim remembers that he’s not 16 driving around LA for the first time with his license, but twenty-six. He steps into a bar near Culver City, snagging a club soda and table in the corner. The bar’s an old one, with the floor and tables lightly sticky, neon signs scattered across the walls, a battered pool table; all of it draped in dim, warm light. Despite the demographic, there’s LA staples decorating every wall, sports pennants and trinkets from different cultures. The music is even going between soft Spanish tunes and rock anthems turned down low. Now, Tim can also hear the faintest hint of Scul’s voice coming from a TV in the background.
Tim nursed his drink for around an hour just taking in the characters, sounds, and thick air of the bar. He’d given up alcohol for the moment, wanting to get his life back in order before he had another incident. As he sat there, Tim walked himself through the last eight years. All twenty-six years of his life. What was the next step? His mind swirled through possibilities. He always thought teaching P.E. could be fun, maybe a bit of coaching on the side, work around kids. Was his destiny a random 9-5 that he’d get thanks to his random degree that he’d stay at until he retired? All the thinking started to make his vision spin. If anything, should he take advantage of his newfound freedom? Find a way to use his benefits? He had so many questions. Tim brings his attention back to the bar’s walls, it’s pushing midnight at this point, so Tim needs to find a spot to park and sleep in his truck for the night. Probably the next few until he finds an apartment.
Standing to tug his coat back on, Tim takes in a final deep breath before leaving. Across the bar next to the front door, his eyes attach themselves to a flyer that’s lightly blowing in the thick air.
Los Angeles Police Department NOW HIRING. KEEP THIS CITY FIT FOR ANGELS.
Tim almost thought he saw a halo around the flyer. It was perfect. He’d stay active, put his military training into something positive, have the potential for some sort of time off–accomplish some of the few boyhood dreams he allowed himself to have.
As he hopped back in his truck, Tim felt anew. With an end in sight, he spent the next week getting everything in order. He’d found an apartment the next morning in Koreatown that just so happened to be down the street from one of his favorite Gyro stands and 2 more blocks away, a Mexican grocery store with a taqueria inside. He drove to the local Ikea to pick up the most basic furniture he could find (except the couch, he gave himself a bit of a splurge on that), drove a bit further away to Best Buy to get the perfect TV. Everything from the Army remained in his duffle bag that he came back with, and it went straight to the corner of Tim’s closet.
After getting everything set up in his apartment Tim continued to drive across the city to eat all of his favorite foods again from the spots that were still open, and finally, he did what little Tim could only wish for–saw all of his favorite teams play that week. Even seeing Kobe play in person. To cap off the week with his LAPD knowledge test completed and passed, Tim sat himself at the very top of Dodger Stadium to watch the boys play, but more than anything to let himself have this moment before the next stage of his life began. As the sun went down behind the valley’s rolling hills, with cracking bats in the background and cheers after a home run Tim took a deep breath and realized, this was it. This was home. Los Angeles was home. Now he’d get a chance, just maybe, to make it a little bit better.
