Summary: in your worst hour, Baptiste is there to comfort you
CW: panic attacks, allusion to depression, allusion to PTSD, very fluffy and cute after I promise
i am once again writing hurt/comfort lol. baptiste is such a cutie & ive wanted to write him again ever since he came out so here’s something lol <;3 also omfg the OW pride midtown gifs are so cute
————
Baptiste glares at the glowing of his laptop screen, the words on the page starting to blur together. He’s been working on this research for hours but he doesn’t feel any closer to getting it done. He sighs, his thoughts wandering back to you.
You’ve been in bed for hours now but he’s almost certain you haven’t slept a wink. You haven’t been yourself lately, and no matter how many times he prompts you to talk about it, you refuse. He only wishes there was more he could do to help.
You stare blankly at the tv screen in front of you, fists clenching in the blankets. You squeeze your eyes shut and attempt a deep breath, but the air won’t enter your lungs. You try to take another breath in a panic but it feels like all of the air in the world is gone.
Your heart races almost as much as your thoughts, and every breath you get less and less air. It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re fine, you try to reassure yourself. But you’re not fine and it’s not fine and it hasn’t been fine in a long time.
You move your hands from the covers to your hair, tugging hard on the strands. Anything for the pressure you so desperately need right now.
You don’t even notice the door open or your boyfriend kneeling at your side.
“Y/n,” his voice is soft, reassuring. The one you’ve heard him use a thousand different times with a thousand different patients. “Y/n, look at me.”
His words are an empty echo in your ears, drowned out by the crippling weight of your own thoughts. You shake your head, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. You want to tell him you’re okay, but you can’t get the words out, and even if you could, that would be a lie.
Seeing you like this, he’s vaguely reminded of himself. Of nights much worse than this, with thoughts just as bad as yours. Of the days before he met you when he would curl up and hide and wish he could take back everything he ever did.
He remembers what he needed then, how he desperately wanted someone to hold him and tell him things would be alright.
He climbs into the bed with you, pulling you close so that you’re sitting between his legs. Your back rests against his chest, his strong arms holding you tight against him. You’re so close you can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart, feel each warm breath against your neck.
He squeezes you between his legs and his arms, cocooning you within his whole body. He wishes he could keep you here forever—safe and warm and sheltered within him. He keeps his breathing slow and steady, keeps the pressure on you constant. The logical part of him knows that your body will begin to mimic his breathing and heart rate after a while, but the emotional part just wants you to be better now.
The smell of his cologne washes over you. His body heat warms you, his touch consumes you. You shut your eyes and rest your head against him, listening to his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. You don’t even realize how much his touch calms you until you can suddenly breathe again, until your heart stops pounding and your head clears.
Baptiste squeezes your upper arms, gently rubbing his hands up and down. “How are you feeling?”
“B-better,” your voice is raspy and your mouth is dry. “Thank you.”
“Let me get you a drink.”
You nod slowly, watching as he unfurls himself from around you and makes his way out of the room. You lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling until he comes back.
He has a cup of tea in one hand, a cloth over his shoulder and a granola bar in the other hand. “I thought you might be hungry,” he admits.
He places the cup and snack on your nightstand before settling into the bed next to you. He pulls the cloth off of his shoulder and starts to dab the warm fabric across your face.
You look up at him with those sad, puffy eyes while he wipes away the salty trails left over from your tears. His touch is so gentle, so careful—it’s like he’s done this a million times.
He pulls the cloth away from your face. “There, all better,” he smiles and kisses your forehead.
You wrap your fingers around his index, tilting your head at him in admiration. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“For you? Always.” And you can tell from the glow in his eyes and the kind smile on his face that he really means it.
He grabs the remote off of the bed and turns on your favorite tv show, letting you lay between his legs once more. He gently tugs on your hair, traces circles on your thighs, subconsciously touches you while he watches the tv.
You let yourself relax into him, knowing that as long as he’s there, things really will be okay.
