Safe House
Pairing: FBI!Paige Bueckers x Civilian!Y/n
Fandom: FBI AU
Warnings: Trauma response, implied violence, stalking, protective custody, PTSD themes, emotional distress
Summary: fake names, fake rings, fake home but the panic is real
A/N: it’s been a min but we’re back…
🏷️: @aubreygriffin , @authentic-girl03 , @atimelessheaven , @azziswrld , @bueckersbucket , @brunosbrowns , @cowboybueckers , @courtsidewithlani , @defntkaizer , @elalfywhore, @evry1luvzzae , @fairyblossomsav , @gabischeeseballs , @graceeeeeesblog , @iowahawkeyes22 , @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers , @issilovesherself , @italyyy , @jadasogay , @jupitermoonbaby , @k1ttyluvcc , @kaliblazin , @kamspeaks , @latenighttalkinqwp , @lessi-lover , @let-zizi-yap , @lightsgore , @marleymarleymarleymarley ,@melpthatsme , @nicebellee , @paxaz535 , @paigeluvvr , @paigeshirleytemple , @private-but-not-a-secret , @runfor-roses , @sayurireidotcom ,@sitawita , @starfulani , @tenaciousglitternerd , @thatonesuschix , @unknowgirlypop , @vamptizm , @wbbszn , @yailtsv
Welcome to the chapter 2 of Protective Custody. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!!
The morning after they moved me to the safehouse, I barely slept—not because of fear this time, but because of the sheer strangeness of what was about to happen.
A full wedding photoshoot.
A staged ceremony.
Vows.
Rings.
And not the kind that could be brushed off as a joke.
By 8 a.m., the safehouse was buzzing.
A makeup artist.
A stylist.
A photographer.
A coordinator with a clipboard.
Two FBI agents whose entire job seemed to be standing quietly in corners pretending not to notice when I panicked.
And Paige.
Paige leaning against the kitchen counter in black slacks, a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled half back. Minimal makeup. Cool and composed, but her eyes softened every time they landed on me.
She looked… annoyingly good.
And I was in a silk robe about to put on a wedding dress for a woman I’d known forty-eight hours.
“This is insane,” I whispered to the stylist as she zipped me into the gown.
She grinned. “Honestly? You two are kind of cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Sure.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I slept properly without seeing blood behind my eyelids.
When they led me out to the room where Paige was waiting, she straightened the second she saw me.
And for a moment—just one—her face changed. A tiny, startled breath.
“You look…” She stopped. Cleared her throat. “Ready.”
Ready.
Not beautiful.
Not stunning.
Just ready.
But somehow, the way she said it made my chest warm anyway.
“Thanks,” I said, voice thin.
The photographer positioned us beside a fake ceremony arch the FBI had literally assembled in a matter of minutes. Fairy lights. White flowers. A rented backdrop to mimic a venue.
“Okay, wives-to-be,” the photographer said brightly. “Let’s try holding hands. Good. Y/N, angle your chin. Paige, look at her. Softer. Softer. Yes…perfect.”
Soft wasn’t something I expected from her.
But she did it.
And when her fingers threaded through mine, they stayed there warm, steady, firm like she was silently anchoring me.
“Vows?” the coordinator said, lifting a stack of cue cards.
“We’re reading vows?” I whispered.
Paige leaned slightly toward me. “They’re pre-written. Minimal. We just have to sound believable.”
Believable.
Right.
The camera flashed.
The “officiant”—an undercover agent with a suspiciously monotone voice—cleared his throat.
“Do you, Alexandria Sloan, take Paige Bueckers as your wife—”
And there it was.
My fake name again.
Alexandria.
I forced the word out before my throat closed. “I do.”
Paige’s eyes flicked to mine immediately.
It hit me then how serious she looked. How protective.
Like the words meant something to her even if they weren’t real.
“And do you, Paige Bueckers, take—”
“I do,” she said without hesitation. Smooth. Clear. Solid.
My stomach fluttered.
The rings was simple, thin silver bands slid onto our fingers. A camera clicked.
“Now please pose for the kiss.”
My whole body locked.
Paige’s did too.
“No actual kiss required,” the photographer assured quickly. “Lean in. Cheeks. Foreheads touching. Whatever looks intimate.”
Paige exhaled in relief.
She stepped close. Close enough that her breath brushed my face. Close enough for me to smell her perfume—clean, something faintly like citrus and cedar. Her forehead pressed lightly to mine.
“Just breathe,” she murmured.
I did.
And for half a second, it felt almost real.
When the shoot wrapped, we were driven back to the house—the one with the porch, the fence, and the quiet street that felt more unreal than any photoshoot.
Inside, it smelled like new paint and lemon cleaner.
Our suitcases had already been unloaded.
Two toothbrushes in the bathroom.
Two coffee mugs on the counter.
One picture frame on the entry table containing one of our newly printed wedding photos.
I stared at it too long.
“Creepy,” I muttered.
“Necessary,” Paige said behind me.
Our bedrooms were next to each other; hers on the left, mine on the right. The walls were thin. Close enough that if I whispered at night, she’d hear it.
Close enough that she could rush in if anything happened.
For the first two days, settling in was… strange.
Awkwardly polite breakfasts.
Paige making coffee and sliding a mug to me without a word.
Me tiptoeing around like a guest even though this was supposed to be “our home.”
Paige giving me space but always remaining in my peripheral vision.
Whenever we had to do anything outside. The fake grocery runs, checking the mailbox, she would slip her hand into mine or press a palm against my back.
In public, we were good.
Natural.
Touchy.
Convincing.
At home, we were two ghosts orbiting each other.
Until the nightmares started.
The first night, I woke up biting my fist to keep from screaming.
The room was dark.
My heart was pounding.
I heard the soft thud of footsteps across the hall.
A knock.
“Y/N?” Paige’s voice was low, firm, but gentle. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just… a dream.”
She hesitated. “You’re sure?”
No.
But I lied anyway. “Yeah.”
Her footsteps faded.
The next night, I woke up again—shaking, sweating, tangled in the covers.
Another knock.
“Y/N?”
Her voice was closer this time.
Like she’d waited by the wall.
“Can I come in?”
“I’m fine.”
A silence.
Then… with a sigh she went. “You don’t sound fine.”
However, she didn’t push, but she stayed outside my door for a full minute before going back to her room.
And the next night?
Worse.
I saw the alley again.
Except this time, the man wasn’t behind the dumpster.
He was behind me.
Breathing against my ear.
Saying my name.
Only… it wasn’t exactly the same voice.
It shifted.
Distorted.
Somewhere between growling and whispering.
But the last words were the same. Always the same.
“You’re next.”
I jerked awake, choking on air.
The scream tore out before I could swallow it.
Paige was at my door instantly.
“Y/N?” Her voice sharpened. “I’m coming in—”
The door opened.
She rushed to my bedside, eyes wide, hair messy from sleep, her shirt thrown on wrong, loosely fitted sweat pants hung dangerously low. She looked human for the first time.
“Hey—hey, look at me,” she whispered, crouching beside the bed. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Breathe.”
I did the opposite actually, I sobbed.
Ugly. Panicked. Half-delirious.
“I can’t— I can’t—he was—he said—he said—and”
Paige reached out instinctively, then froze like she wasn’t sure if she had permission. I grabbed her wrist first, a desperate, trembling hold.
“Don’t leave,” I whispered.
Her entire body softened.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I won’t.”
“Stay,” I croaked. “Please.”
Something flickered across her face full of concern, protectiveness, something warmer she tried to hide.
She moved slowly, so slowly…climbing onto the bed beside me, staying above the covers at first until I nodded that it was okay. She slipped under the blanket and let me curl into her side like I’d break if she breathed too hard.
Her arm wrapped around me.
Steady. Warm. Strong.
“Sleep,” she murmured against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since the night of the attack, I actually did.
When I woke, sunlight filtered through the blinds.
Paige was still beside me.
Fully awake.
Still holding me.
She didn’t move when I stirred. Just whispered:
“You scared me.”
I swallowed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
We lay there for a moment in silence.
Then she asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare.”
I nodded.
She adjusted so we were face-to-face, legs brushing under the blankets, her hand resting on my forearm like a grounding weight.
“It started like before,” I said. “The alley. The scream. The words. But this time… something was different.”
“What was different?”
I inhaled shakily. “Him.”
Paige’s eyes sharpened instantly. “How?”
I stared past her shoulder, voice trembling. “He felt… familiar.”
Her brows furrowed. “Familiar how, Y/N?”
“I don’t know. His voice. Or the way he moved. I can’t explain it. It’s like…” I struggled for the words. “Like I’ve heard him before. Not that night. Before that.”
Paige’s jaw clenched.
She didn’t speak for a moment.
Then she tightened her arm around me, pulling me closer—not romantically, but protectively. Meaningfully.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Whatever your mind is trying to piece together—we’ll get there. And you’re not doing this alone. Not now. Not ever.”
The words shouldn’t have meant as much as they did.
But they did.
More than anything.
And as I lay there in her arms, morning light warming our faces, I understood something I wasn’t ready to say out loud yet..
Somewhere between the photoshoot, the vows, and the nightmares…
Fake was starting to feel real.
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-Thank You For Reading!💚💙
-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗
