Discover Top Posts Tagged with #s2 rafe

"Docked"

Content warning: anxiety, kidnapping, swearing, emotional, cannon typical violence, fluff, angst, Ward

Author's note: this took me two months, but we did it also ward didn't fake his death in this one. Don't ask me how that works, idk

Word count 4.5k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You hooked your wrist through the last of the grocery bags, ducking from the cool car into the dry heat, skipping across heated brick tiles as the warmed the sole of your flimsy flip-flops, meeting your dad on the porch.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his hairline with a fist, fanning himself with the other hand. He was all shiny from the heat, his usually sharp features softened under the weight of the day. The sun hung low, casting long shadows that stretched across the porch and into the yard, where the grass had already started to curl under the relentless sun.

"Finally," your dad said, his voice tired but with a note of relief. "Thought you were gonna melt in that car."

You smiled at his attempt at humor, dropping the grocery bags at his feet. He bent over, reaching for a knotted bag, thumbing under the plastic, he fished out a glass bottle, cracking the lid against the windowsill.

“Dad,” you murmured, nudging his side. “This wasn’t our house.” not to be chipping paint under jarred Snapple. He laughed once, taking another sip, “I won’t tell if you won’t” he offered. You shrugged, facing forward. These weren’t your friends to tell anyways.

You waited two more minutes before you knocked again. Maybe they didn’t hear you the first time. Then again, the walls were paper thin. Thin enough to hear singing in the shower from the pool side.

Your knuckles wrapped against the wood with more urgency. Hollow echoes rang out, not so much as a sigh was returned. Your dad reached for your hand, bringing it down to your side, a silent ‘wait’.

A beat passed between breaths and the air remained stilled. Flies buzzed around the porchlight, each whip past you only adding to the hiccup of your heart and the unsettling feeling stirring within you.

Your fingers massaged your palm, brushing sweat against the pocket of your jeans as you leaned over, peering into the inside. There was a glare from the sun, but it felt empty.

No cleaning crew shuffling back and forth, waxing the floors, no cook balancing a microwaved soup, nothing.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just quiet. It was cleared out.

You pressed your forehead to the glass, squinting hard, but the sun glared back, blinding. Your dad shifted behind you, restless, and you could hear him muttering under his breath, words too low to catch.

You looked to your dad, silently pleading for him to do something.

Your dad’s voice cut through the heat, calm in a way that made your skin crawl. “I’ll call Ward, maybe this is a misunderstanding.”

You shook your head before he could even reach for his phone. “It’s not.” The words cracked, brittle and sharp. “This isn’t normal.”

A misunderstanding was forgetting a dinner time. Leaving a porch light on. Not this. Not the suffocating emptiness pressing against the glass, not the way the air itself felt hollow.

You could see the doubt flicker in your dad’s eyes, the same way it always did when something slipped too far from reason. And the idea that this had a simple explanation wasn’t good enough for you.

Your father’s words barely reached you. All you could hear was the hollow in the house, the way the air seemed to suck itself dry the longer you stared through the glass.

You should’ve heard cartoons echoing from the living room, your son’s little voice carrying over, asking for juice, begging for one more round of hide-and-seek.

Instead, there was nothing.

“Ward?” your father called, raising his voice toward the door. Still, no answer.

You rattled the knob before you even realized your hand had moved. Locked.

That was wrong. Ward didn’t lock doors. Not in the middle of the day, not when you’d only be gone half an hour.

And then the worst thing you could hear right now was Ward’s voicemail.

Leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you…

You froze, the sound of Ward’s voice through the tiny speaker too casual, too rehearsed. It didn’t belong here, not against the backdrop of silence pressing in from the house.

Your dad lowered the phone from his ear, thumb hovering over the screen like he wasn’t sure whether to hang up or try again. His jaw flexed, the muscle twitching as though he was chewing over a hundred different explanations and finding none that fit.

You stepped back, putting distance between yourself and the door, because the longer you stared, the more wrong it felt.

You turned towards the sunbaked concrete, stepping over the grocery bags, looking out for a sign of life. “Dad,” you called, stepping back into the open, arms warmed by the rays, but chilled from the heavy feeling that your baby boy was gone. Out there somewhere. And for once, this island didn’t seem so small.

Your dad came up beside you, his shadow stretching long across the driveway, hand resting on your shoulder. He was steady where you weren’t, but even he couldn’t hide the tremor in the way he cleared his throat.

“Maybe they went out,” he said, voice pitched low, like he was afraid to spook the air itself. “Maybe they took him to the beach, or–”

“No.” You couldn’t explain why, but that wasn’t it.

“Okay,” he whispered, lassoing an arm around your shoulder, but the hug felt empty, a gesture meant to anchor both of you when nothing else could. You leaned into it, just barely, the warmth of his arm failing to push back the cold knot settling in your stomach.

There was a quick jingle, your head snapping back, but the door had stayed shut. The false hope sank into the mix of dread within you, the corners of your eyes stinging with tears you didn’t let fall.

Instead, your dad flipped your hand, giving the car keys over. Your hand closed around the leather tag on it as you stalked towards the car, flinging the front door open.

You slid into the driver’s seat, the leather warm under your palms, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Your dad climbed in beside you, muttering the engine to life, the rumble beneath you feeling loud and threatening in the heavy, hot air.

You backed out slowly, eyes darting to every shadow along the driveway, every glint of sunlight across the sand, searching for a small, familiar figure. Nothing moved. Not a bird, not a dog, not the boy who should’ve been racing past the yard with a squeal of laughter.

“Where do we start?” your dad asked, voice tight, low, as though speaking too loud might shatter the fragile bubble of hope you were clinging to.

You shook your head, fumbling for words. “Anywhere. Everywhere. He could be… he could be anywhere.”

The island seemed to stretch infinitely as you drove, the sun dipping lower, painting everything gold and orange, a cruel contrast to the panic twisting inside. Streets that once felt cozy now felt alien, each corner and path a question mark. The houses glimmered in the dying light, windows reflecting the sun, but none gave the comfort of life.

You drove for what felt like hours, each neighborhood emptier than the last. Clearly the main roads weren’t gonna lead you to him, you pulled off the road, cutting through patches of dirt. Twigs snapping beneath the weight of your tires, you looked across the window, catching the sight of your dad, clutching his seatbelt with a sunken expression.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, a mirror of your own panic, each twist of his knuckles a silent testament to the fear neither of you wanted to voice. The trees and scrub rolled past, the shadows stretching longer, deeper, twisting in ways that made the streets look unfamiliar. Every turn of the wheel made your chest tighten, every rustle of leaves made your head snap toward the window.

The car hit a patch of sand, tires crunching, and you slowed, heart hammering. You scanned every glimpse of the shoreline, every shadow near the dunes, every glimpse of water. The beach should’ve been dotted with umbrellas, towels, kids running, the scent of sunscreen and salt heavy in the air.

You gripped the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the road, every shadow twisting into the wrong shape. Your mind kept spiraling, useless loops of what-ifs, until–

God, why didn’t you think of it sooner? You could’ve texted him. Rafe. He always answered.

“Dad-” your voice wavered, a silent plea for this to not be false hope. “Can you call my phone?”

His fingers twitched at the case facedown on his lap, he turned the cracked screen over, a glare hitting you from the sun. He scrolled once, tapping your name, letting the phone buzz against his knee.

Your phone rang in a matter of seconds, vibrating against the back of your seat . You reached for it declining your dads call, flicking the lockscreen up. You almost forgot your password, thumbs hot against the glass.

After all these years, Rafe was still your emergency contact. You never thought you’d need it, not when you had your dad with you always.

You sent a quick text, auto correct working overtime at your frantic typing.

The text you sent was a blur of words, each one tumbling out in a frantic rush of fear and confusion. Where are you? I need you. Something’s wrong. Call me.

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a second too long, and then you pressed it, the weight of it sinking in with every second that passed without a response. Your heart was thumping in your chest, each beat a reminder that you were sinking deeper into the unknown.

The car bounced slightly as it hit another rough patch of dirt, and your dad let out a low sigh beside you, but neither of you spoke. The silence between you felt heavier than it had a few minutes ago, like the air itself had grown thick, pressing down on your shoulders.

You kept your eyes glued to the road, the headlights cutting through the early evening haze as you drove past familiar landmarks that now seemed alien under the weight of panic. Your phone rested on your lap, screen dark, no response from Rafe, just the ghost of a vibrating heartbeat in your hand.

As you passed the docks, something caught the corner of your eye, a massive silhouette, dark and imposing against the fading gold of the sunset. A ship, anchored with slow, deliberate stillness. For a moment, your mind tried to dismiss it, rationalize it. But something in the way it loomed made your chest tighten, your pulse spike.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles white. Without a word, you jerked the wheel, tires squealing slightly as the car swerved. The familiar hum of the road gave way to the uneven crunch of gravel and rusted metal under your tires as you looped back toward the docks.

The ship came into sharper focus now, enormous and silent, the fading light glinting off steel sides, ropes creaking gently in the warm breeze. You pulled the car up to the edge of the pier, the smell of salt and oil thick in the air, your heart hammering so loud it felt like it might echo off the water.

You cut the engine, the sudden quiet making every little sound around you sharper the lapping of waves, the distant call of a gull, the whistle of wind through the rigging. You leaned forward, eyes scanning the deck of the ship, searching for anything, any sign, any movement, a shadow that could mean life, or at least a clue.

Everything felt suspended in that golden-orange twilight, and the weight of the unknown pressed down harder than ever. You could feel the pull of the ship, like it was calling for you, and your fingers itched to grab the door handle, to step out and see if it held the answers, or the danger, you needed.

Your dad’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, grounding you in the present, but his eyes mirrored your unease. You didn’t need to speak. He knew what you were thinking.

Slowly, deliberately, you opened the car door, the scrape of metal against the pier loud in the evening stillness, and stepped out, heart racing, toward the ship that now felt impossibly close and impossibly necessary.

You stood in front of the car, hoping, wishing even that this wasn’t what you thought it was, but the odds of finding the Camerons anywhere else but on that ship were slim to none. They would’ve at least called if they were going to go out, leave a note. Nobody cleans house before lunch.

From what you could see on deck were three men – one clutching a clipboard, another armed, and the third…

Your stomach dropped. The sea air turned sour on your tongue.

Ward.

Why a ship? Why now? And more importantly why your little boy?

“What is it?” Your dad calls from the car. “What do you see?” You turn back to see him waiting expectantly over the armrest, worry wrinkled in his expression that drops the face of calm.

Your heart stutters at the reality you may be fighting for something you’ve already lost, at least that’s how it feels right now .

“The docks, there’s workers, it’s crawling with them.” There’s a crane being lowered to something, but you can’t see much behind the drums stacked through open shipment containers.

Then your phone buzzed. Rafe, you thought immediately. You turned it over to see that he finally texted you back.

What?

You wanted to scream. Did he not see the thread of messages telling him to call you?

Pick up. You responded, pressing the call button. The line rang, vibrating against your hand in sync with the racing of your heart. It thrilled. Once. Twice. Picked up on the third. The call scratched before his voice came clear through the speaker, “I got your texts. ”

His tone isn’t panicked, which makes it worse. He sounds distracted, like he’s half-listening, half somewhere else.

You hear the creak of wood and a distant clang of metal behind him. He’s on that dock.

The phone slipped from your fingers before you even knew you’d let go. It tumbled, screen-first, skittering over gravel and catching on a rusted bolt. The glass spiderwebbed. For a second your mind registered the small, obscene clarity of that break, like something inside you had fractured in the same pattern, and then you were moving.

You ran.

Your dad was right behind you, breathing a ragged counterpoint to your own, his hand a hard anchor on the small of your back when the pier dipped. The odors hit you full: diesel and fish guts, wet rope and hot metal. Men shouted somewhere down the line.

You hid behind a crate, your knees popping as you crouched, ducking under a fishnet. Your eyes darted between crates, trying to stay out of sight. The air was thick with tension, your chest tight as you moved, not wanting to be seen. The metallic sounds of the docks felt like they were closing in, a suffocating rhythm that had nothing to do with the world you knew. What were they doing with your boy? Was he somewhere on this ship? Crying out for you in the dark?

You couldn’t let your mind spiral. Not yet.

Then you saw him. Rafe.

He was standing by a stack of crates, tall and lean in a black button-down shirt, talking to one of the workers. His face was unreadable, but something in the curve of his mouth, the way his jaw was clenched, made you pause. For a moment, your heart hammered faster, and then there was something else, a flicker in his eyes, a glint of pride, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you question everything you thought you knew.

What was he doing here?

You flinched at the feeling of your dad’s hand on your shoulder, drawing your attention to him. He looked like he wanted to hug you, to promise you the world wasn’t over, for you or him, but he couldn’t.

“What’s the plan?” he whispered, turning his head towards the ship, then back to you.

You didn’t have one, not really. Just the pounding of your heart, the burn of the air in your lungs, and the conclusion that the only person you could possibly trust was in on it.

Your mouth opened, but no words came. The thought of confronting him, of demanding answers while your son was still out there, made your pulse spike. But doing nothing was worse. Every second felt like one more you were losing him.

You glanced at your dad. ”I need to get up there” you breathed with uncertainty knowing that wasn’t much of a plan.

He didn’t argue, even if he should have. He just nodded once, scanning the maze of crates and machinery. The dockworkers moved in steady rhythm, shouts swallowed by the groan of metal and the churn of water against the hull. There were openings, gaps between stacks, dark corners where the light didn’t quite reach, but each one felt like a gamble. Getting closer meant getting caught, and you were running out of choices.

“Those boxes,” he whispered, pointing toward a line of crates being hoisted up the ramp. The label was half-torn, black stenciled letters bleeding into rust. You swallowed hard at the thought, being locked inside one, knees pressed to your chest, praying the men lifting it didn’t drop it or worse, look inside. But it was better than standing still. Better than doing nothing while your son was somewhere on that ship. You nodded, wiping your palms on your jeans, and started toward the shadows.

You barely felt your feet hit the ground by the time you reached the crate, lungs burning, pulse sharp in your ears. You pressed yourself flat against the side, the smell of salt and engine grease heavy in the air. Just a few more steps and you’d make it, but the shout came before you could move.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be here!”

Two guards, cutting the distance fast. You froze. Your dad didn’t. He stepped forward before they could draw closer, his voice low and steady. “Keep walking,” he said to you, barely more than a breath.

The first guard reached for his holster, but your dad was faster, an arm snapping up, fist connecting with a crack that echoed off the metal hull. The second swung, but your dad ducked, twisting him by the shoulder and driving him into the wall. It was fast, brutal, over before you could even flinch.

He yanked at the first guard’s jacket, tearing the uniform loose, his breath heavy and quick. “In the crate,” he ordered. You hesitated only long enough to meet his eyes, just long enough to understand this wasn’t a choice. You climbed in, curling your knees tight, the wood rough against your skin.

A moment later, the lid shut. Darkness. Muffled thuds. Then motion. You felt every step as he hauled the crate toward the water, each sway making your stomach lurch. Voices shouted somewhere above, orders, machinery, but it was drowned by the creak of rope and the grind of the hoist.

The crate tilted sharply, and for a heartbeat, you were weightless. Then the sound changed, the low slap of water against wood, the hum of a small engine sparking to life. You held your breath as the crate settled into a steady, gentle rock.

The world tilted again as the crate landed with a thud, the sound of rope scraping against metal echoing overhead. For a few long seconds, all you could hear was the pulse in your ears and the low slap of water against the hull. Then, quiet footsteps, your dad’s voice through the wood.

“Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “We’re up.”

The lid creaked open just enough to let in a stripe of orange light. You blinked against it, the air outside thick with salt and heat. Your dad’s face appeared in that narrow slit, sweat streaked down his temple, his jaw set like stone. The guard’s cap shadowed his eyes, but you could still see the fear flickering there, the silent promise that he wouldn’t let you fall.

“Come on,” he murmured, sliding a hand in to help you out. You caught it, your limbs stiff, the boat rocking beneath you as you rose. The water swayed dark and deep around you, and the ship loomed above like a mountain of rust and steel.

He steadied you, guiding your fingers toward the rope ladder strung down the side. “When it’s clear, you go,” he said, eyes flicking toward the deck above. “Straight to the top. I’ll be right behind you.”

You wanted to tell him no, to refuse, to say you weren’t leaving him down here with people like them, but the words jammed in your throat. You could only nod.

The wind picked up, whipping into your face, carrying with it the sound of shouting somewhere on the upper deck. You tightened your grip on the ladder, your dad’s hand still braced at your back.

“Now,” he said, and his voice was steady in a way that made your stomach twist.

You climbed.

You were almost at the top when the sound of footsteps made you freeze. Heavy, measured steps, someone coming fast down the deck. You flattened yourself against the metal, praying the wind and the low groan of the ship masked your breathing. But then–

“Dad, I think we should–”

Rafe’s voice.

He rounded the corner before the thought could even finish, the sun framing him in a halo of gold and shadow. His words died mid-breath, the sound catching in his throat as his gaze landed on you—half over the railing, one leg hooked on the ladder, hair stuck to your face with salt and sweat.

“Shit,” you said, the word rough and dry, more nerve than humor.

For a second, neither of you moved. He blinked once, slow, like if he opened his eyes again you’d be gone. But you weren’t. You were there,on solid ground now, feet unsteady on the deck, heart pounding.

“Wha–” he started, glancing over the side of the ship, eyes catching on the half-open crate and the empty dinghy rocking below. “What the hell–”

You could see the confusion sharpening in his face, the way his jaw tightened like he was piecing together something he didn’t want to believe.

“I don’t understand,” he stammered, pointing at the box. “What–what are you doing here?”

You swallowed, the heat pressing against your skin. “I tried calling–”

“I answered,” he cut you off, too fast, too sharp.

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“I know,” you said, voice smaller than you meant it to be. “I just–” You took a step forward, and he took one back. The distance stung more than you wanted to admit. “Rafe, where is he?”

“Who?” His tone was flat, but his eyes flickered. That half-second twitch was all the answer you need

“Don’t bullshit me, Rafe.”

You grit the words through your teeth, every muscle in your jaw straining. The humid air pressed down on you, thick with the smell of salt and oil, of the docks and all the lies that lived there. Your ears burned, your chest burned, hell, everything burned. Anger at him, at Ward, at yourself for ever leaving him.

Rafe stood a few feet away, shoulders slouched like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from under you. His eyes darted, flicking between you and the open warehouse door behind him where the sound of water slapped lazily against the dock.

“What the hell else do you want me to say?” he shot back, his voice sharp but detached, like there was nothing deeply wrong about any of this.

“Tell me where he is!” you yelled, the words echoing off the rusted metal walls.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling too fast. “I don’t know how you got here, okay? But you gotta go.”

You froze, blinking at him like he’d just spoken another language. Was he for real right now? You could feel your heartbeat everywhere, in your neck, your temples, your fists. You clenched one tight enough to keep from slamming it into his chest.

“I’m doin’ shit. Important shit, okay?” he said, his tone level, practiced, like he’d rehearsed how to sound unbothered. “If you’re not here to help me, I need you to get the hell outta the way.”

He moved a step closer, gesturing toward the dock door, the same one you’d walked through only minutes ago.

You growled under your breath, frustration clawing its way up your throat. You went to push him, but he caught your wrist midair. His grip was firm, unflinching. You looked up at him and saw it then, the flicker of something unfamiliar in his face. Colder. Harder.

He wasn’t the Rafe you remembered.

“You want my gold,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“The cross. You want it.” His voice was flat, sure, like he was confirming a suspicion he’d been holding onto.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Rafe, I want my damn child back. I don’t care what you’re doing here.” Your voice cracked somewhere between the words “child” and “back,” but you didn’t let it stop you.

He stared at you for a long moment before letting go of your wrist. His hand dropped to his side like you’d burned him. “Well, I don’t have him,” he said, his tone clipped, final.

“Ward does.”

You spat the words out before you could stop yourself, like they’d been sitting in your mouth for years.

He didn’t even flinch. Just tucked his hands into his pockets and looked away, like you were talking about the weather instead of the man who stole your son.

You could hardly believe this was the same family that once welcomed you with smiles and silverware polished to a mirror shine. The same house that hosted you almost every summer while your parents clawed at each other in court. The Camerons, the golden family. The ones who sponsored you into a good high school, paid for books when your mom couldn’t. You could’ve expected this from Rose. She’d always worn her cruelty like perfume, but Rafe?

Rafe had been your first real love.

You dated for two years, but you’d known him for ten. You’d thought you knew him better than anyone.

Now you weren’t so sure you ever knew him at all.

He shrugged, careless. “You can’t be that heartless,” you scoffed, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth that never came.

Rafe’s eyes flicked back to you, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I got shit to do,” he said, turning away.

That was it. The line. The wall between you and the version of him you once loved.

Something in you snapped.

“He’s your son too.”

(To be continued)

#outer banks #obx x reader #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #outer banks x reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron angst #outer banks fanfic #outer banks angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe fic #rafe cameron series #s2 rafe