This will probably only be like 2 chapters im fucking COOKINGGG on the Fantasy Au for Damian!
At precisely 10:17 on a Tuesday morning, the classroom erupted.
“That’s mine!”
“It isn’t! We were both using it!”
A tower of brightly coloured wooden blocks crashed onto the carpet, sending children scattering with dramatic gasps that only eight-year-olds could manage.
The teacher looked up from the guided reading table immediately.
“What happened?”
Twenty-two tiny fingers pointed toward one child.
“Damian!”
“He pushed Noah!”
“He said we’re all idiots.”
“He called Olivia a moron.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Of course he did.
Damian Wayne stood in the middle of the construction corner, perfectly composed despite the chaos surrounding him. His dark school jumper was immaculate. His tie hadn’t moved a millimetre. Every strand of black hair sat exactly where it had that morning.
Noah rubbed his shoulder dramatically.
“He shoved me.”
“I moved him aside,” Damian corrected flatly. “He lacked the coordination required to build a structurally sound castle.”
Noah frowned.
“…What?”
“He broke my wall.”
“He said I couldn’t play!”
Damian folded his arms.
“Because you couldn’t.”
The teacher stood.
“Damian.”
Grey-green eyes met hers without even the slightest hint of guilt.
“Yes?”
“Can we have a chat?”
He sighed like she’d asked him to write a university dissertation instead of talk about playground manners.
“…Very well.”
—
Five minutes later Damian sat opposite her at the small horseshoe table while the teaching assistant supervised the rest of the class.
She had become very familiar with these conversations.
“Can you explain why Noah was upset?”
“He was incorrect.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He attempted to alter my design.”
“You were building together.”
“I was building.”
She waited.
“…He was observing.”
“He thought he was helping.”
“He was mistaken.”
She resisted smiling.
It wasn’t funny.
It absolutely wasn’t funny.
Damian had an extraordinary vocabulary, remarkable intelligence and handwriting better than most adults she’d met.
He also possessed the emotional flexibility of a brick.
“Damian…
“What?”
“People like feeling included.”
“I included him.”
“You told him to stand over there and remain silent.”
“Exactly.”
She stared.
He stared back.
Entirely serious.
“That’s… not really including someone.”
“It is if they’re present.”
She closed her eyes for exactly two seconds.
“Let’s try again.”
—
Lunchtime wasn’t much better.
Damian refused to let anyone sit next to him.
“It’s too loud.”
“You’re at a table with twenty children.”
“An unfortunate design flaw.”
He corrected someone’s grammar
He informed a dinner supervisor that mashed potatoes looked”aesthetically disappointing.”
And when Olivia asked if she’d like to swap apple slices-
“No.”
“You didn’t let her finish asking.”
“I had already reached my conclusion.”
—
By three o’clock she had completed another behaviour report.
Not because Damian was violent.
Not because he swore.
Not because he disrupted lessons.
Because he simply…
…didn’t understand people.
He wasn’t cruel for the sake of being cruel.
He genuinely believed everyone should simply think the way he did.
Which, unfortunately, nobody else in Grade Three did.
She looked at the growing folder with “Damian Wayne” written neatly across the front.
It was becoming alarmingly thick.
With a reluctant sigh, she reached for the telephone.
—
Wayne Enterprises.
Bruce Wayne looked up from the board meeting as his mobile vibrated.
pairings: poly!superbat x fem!reader, superman x reader, batman x reader, superman x batman, parental!reader x batkids, parental!reader x superkids
chapter summary: Healing brings old bonds to the surface, testing love, loyalty, and the strength of a family learning how to grow together again.
chapter content: conversation, hurt, comfort, mission gone wrong, wound, distressing scenes, wounds, blood, inaccurate healing, inaccurate wound descriptions, the love of a parent, angst, healing, smut, SMUT, fingering, oral (m, f), dirty talk, praise kink, mating press, no condom, breeding (accidental since no pull out), cursing, terms of endearment: angel, sweetheart, maybe a baby, unreilable narrator, fluff, happy ending,
wc: 11.9k
a/n: I know I said earlier that there will be a part four, but as I was writing and formatting it, there just wasn't enough that wouldn't be stretching it out, at least to me. and I wanted to get to the fucking. yeah they fucking. but there's conversations, feelings, hurt and comfort. yeah this chapter is a bit all over the place, so i'm sorry if it doesn't make sense1 but thanks for reading anyways!
also, i have no medical experience nor was i aiming for accuracy. whenever i write for a superhero reader, they will be magical because it helps to smooth over the inconsistencies, at least to me.
check out my masterlist! | buy me a ko-fi!
part one . part two
You’ve been cleaning for hours. The apartment was spotless already, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Wiping down the kitchen counters for the third time, straightening throw pillows no one had touched, lighting and then re-lighting candles until the air was thick with lavender. It wasn’t just about the space looking homey; it was about control, about giving your hands something to do while your heart rattled in your chest like a bird desperate to be free.
When the knock finally came, you nearly jumped out of your skin. You smoothed down your dress, exhaled, and opened the door.
Clark stood there first, broad and bright, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth and lighting his whole face. He looked devastatingly good in a soft sweater and slacks, casual but tailored just enough to frame him the way he knew it would. His eyes were practically sparkling, giddy with hope at what was to come from the day..
Beside him was Bruce, sharp as ever in a dark suit without his tie, the first couple of buttons of his dress shirt undone just enough to give you a glimpse of his chest, with the faintest curve at his lips. But it was his eyes that stopped you. They were soft, warm in a way that left your throat tight. That smile was for you and you alone, and you felt it like a weight pressing gently on your chest.
“Hi,” you managed, stepping back to let them in.
They followed you into the living room, Clark’s excitement so tangible it seemed to hum in the air, Bruce’s quieter but no less potent presence steady at his side. You gestured to the sofas, and they sat together, close enough that their shoulders brushed. You took the chair opposite, suddenly aware of the space, of the way it felt like a gulf between you.
You clasped your hands in your lap, forced a breath, and broke the silence. “So…” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “You’ve been courting me?”
Clark leaned forward almost immediately, his hands gesturing as if he could push sincerity into the air. “Yes, we have. We’ve wanted to for years, actually longer than I think either of us could admit back then.”
Bruce’s tone was lower, steadier. “Our feelings are real. Genuine. They always have been.”
Your chest tightened, the warmth of their words sparking something you’d tried so hard to bury.
Clark’s voice softened. “When we think about what we want … we always go back to that beach day. To Jon asleep between us, to the three of us on that blanket. That was…” he broke off, smiling almost wistfully, “That was everything. We were already a family, we just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”
Bruce nodded once. “And then we were sent away. It was…complicated. We knew what we wanted, but when we came home —”
“It wasn’t simple anymore,” Clark finished for him. “Earth, the kids, different cities, our lives here. We didn’t know how to make it work. Not without breaking something.”
You swallowed hard, your gaze slipping from them to the window where the city lights shimmered in the distance. A silence stretched, heavy, before you finally found your voice again, still avoiding their gaze.
“It hurt,” you admitted quietly. “Because it felt like we were on the edge of something. After so long, I thought that it was all finally going to happen. My every thought, my deepest desires, a future I didn’t think I could ever have. And then you came back, and everything felt different.” You paused again.
Clark opened his mouth, but Bruce stilled him with a look before leaning forward, his eyes attempting to meet yours. “You thought that what had changed was that we didn’t want you.”
Quickly, you looked at him, and he saw it all. The way the words broke something open in your chest. Your shoulders curled inward, your body folding in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, as you forced the truth out.
“I tried to wait. I tried to hold on to hope. But as the weeks passed and neither of you said anything, I…” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “It hurt too much to be around you all the time. And I thought you needed space. To settle in as a couple without my face lurking in the background. So I left. I needed to…to breathe again. To find a way to go back to being just your friend, after being so close to being more.”
Your eyes stung, but you didn’t let the tears fall. Not here. Not now.
“I buried myself in the missions. In my magic. In the kids — God knows I couldn’t have gotten through it without them. But I did what I had to do to survive it.”
The silence that followed was brutal, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond your window.
Clark’s expression was pained, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach across the room and hold you, but didn’t know if he was allowed. Bruce sat utterly still, jaw tight, but his eyes — dark and wounded — looked at you like you’d just torn open his chest.
The silence pressed in until it hurt. You sat perfectly still, your eyes fixed on the window, as if you could lose yourself in the blur of city lights rather than face the weight of what you’d said.
Clark broke first.
“God,” he whispered, his voice rough, choked at the edges. His hands raked back through his hair, then pressed against his mouth as though he could hold the grief in. “We did that to you.” His eyes glistened, his chest rising and falling too fast. “We made you think we didn’t want you when all I could think about was you. Every mission, every night. I would lie awake next to Bruce and wonder if you were sleeping, if you were safe, if you even knew how much I—” He cut himself off, breath hitching.
You finally turned toward him. His face was laid bare, open and desperate, and it shattered something inside you to see the strongest man you knew look so undone.
Bruce hadn’t moved, but his silence was sharp, his gaze fixed on you with such intensity you almost flinched. When he finally spoke, it was low, raw.
“He’s right. We failed you.” His hands flexed against his knees, as though restraining himself from reaching for you. “I thought — I thought I was protecting what we had by keeping quiet. That if I didn’t risk saying it out loud, I couldn’t break it. But in the process, I hurt you worse than I ever imagined.” His voice caught, and for once, Bruce Wayne faltered. “You’ve carried us through so much. You held us together when everything else was falling apart. And instead of giving you the one thing you deserved, we left you standing there alone.”
Your throat tightened, the tears threatening again. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“Yes.” Bruce’s answer came without hesitation, and his voice cracked on it. “I know because I felt it too. Every second you were gone, I felt it. The house was quieter. The kids were restless. Clark and I…” His eyes fell shut, his jaw tightening as though the memory itself was unbearable. “We missed you. We weren’t whole without you.”
Clark leaned forward then, his voice breaking into the space between you. “We love you. Not out of jealousy. Not because you’re dating someone else. Because it’s always been you. You were there before us, with us, after us. And we’ve been fools to think we could go on without making that clear.”
You take a moment to truly look at them. Clark with his wide, pleading eyes, Bruce with his storm-dark gaze unflinching even through the guilt, and your chest ached with everything you’d tried to bury. The love was there. It had always been there.
But so was the hurt.
Your voice came out softer, trembling despite your best efforts. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you fight for me before I broke?”
Neither of them answered right away. Clark’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and Bruce dropped his gaze, the silence thick with all the years lost, all the words unsaid.
Finally, Bruce lifted his head, his eyes burning into yours with a desperation he rarely let anyone see. “We’re fighting now.”
And Clark, voice hoarse but steady, added, “We won’t stop. Not this time.”
The room went quiet again, your heart hammering in your chest, the air thick with yearning, remorse, and a love so heavy it felt like it could pull all three of you under.
Clark moved first. His chair scraped faintly against the hardwood as he stood, then lowered himself down, kneeling before you like it was the only place he belonged. His large, warm hand slipped gently into yours, his thumb brushing the back of it reverently.
His blue eyes caught yours, shining with unguarded love. “You don’t have to doubt it anymore,” he whispered. “Not one second more. You are everything I’ve ever wanted — everything we’ve ever wanted. I love you. I’ve loved you for years. And if you let me, I’ll spend every day proving it to you.”
Your throat closed up, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you tried to speak. Finally, the truth broke out, raw and trembling. “I want this. More than anything, Clark, but I won’t survive it if you break me again. I can’t.”
Clark’s hand tightened around yours, firm but gentle. “Then we won’t, I swear it.”
Bruce moved next slowly, like every step was chosen with care. He knelt beside Clark, his tall frame folding with surprising grace, until he was level with you. His hands rose to cradle your face, broad palms warm against your skin, thumbs sweeping gently across the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. His gaze was steady, but achingly sincere.
Eyes that have seen more of you than most. That you know the type of grief you’ve faced with the death of Jason, the darkness that stays within you.. Eyes that love you more because of all the complexities you contain, not despite.
“You won’t have to survive it alone anymore,” he said softly, firmly. “We’ll carry it. We’ll carry you. No more distance. No more silence. Only us. Forever.”
The words stole your breath.
Clark pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, slow and tender. Then another, at your palm, his lips lingering as though he was imprinting the moment into memory.
At the same time, Bruce leaned in, brushing a kiss against your damp cheek. Then the other. Each one slow, reverent, his thumbs still sweeping softly across your skin. The gentleness of it undid you completely.
You let out a shaky breath, leaning into Bruce’s touch, into Clark’s warmth. The love and the devotion radiating off them were almost unbearable. So sweet, so all-consuming, you didn’t know how you’d lived without it.
Then Bruce’s lips found yours.
The kiss was soft at first, cautious, almost trembling. A question more than a demand. But when you leaned into him, when your hand rose to rest against his jaw, he deepened it. Slow but certain, pouring years of restrained longing into the press of his mouth against yours. When he finally drew back, your lips tingled, your chest heaving with the weight of it.
And then Clark was there, leaning forward, his hand cupping yours tighter as he claimed your mouth in a kiss that was just as reverent, but thicker with passion. Deep, slow, molten with everything he’d held back, everything he wanted to give you.
When he pulled away, his forehead stayed pressed against yours in the intimate moment created. His lips curved into a smile that was equal parts tender and triumphant. His voice was husky, full of wonder.
“It was worth the wait.”
Bruce kissed you again, slower this time, like he couldn’t believe you were real beneath his hands. His lips moved with care, every touch deliberate. As though he was afraid that if he pressed too hard, you might vanish.
Clark wasn’t so cautious. He leaned in again the moment Bruce broke away, his mouth claiming yours with heat and hunger. His kiss was deep, rough with desperation, pulling a soft moan from you that made him groan in return. His free hand slid along your thigh, gripping firmly like he couldn’t bear to let you slip even an inch away.
You gasped into him, your head tilting back, only for Bruce’s lips to find the curve of your jaw, then your neck, his hands steadying you with a tenderness that stole your breath. His touch was grounding, the complete counterbalance to Clark’s intensity.
The sound of both of them — Clark’s deep, ragged breaths, Bruce’s low hums of restraint breaking apart — blurred your thoughts until all that existed was heat, hands, mouths.
And then— beep.
All three of you froze, breaths mingling, lips parted. The shrill chime of your communicator cut through the haze like cold water.
You dropped your forehead against Clark’s shoulder, exhaling a broken laugh. “We should retire. Maybe then these damn communicators will finally give us some peace.”
Both men laughed. Deep, genuine, chest-shaking laughter that rumbled against you where you leaned. Bruce pressed one last kiss to your temple, while Clark nuzzled his nose against your hair before stealing another kiss to your mouth.
“Go,” Bruce murmured, his voice rough but warm. “We’ll be here when you get back.”
Clark cupped your cheek, kissing you once more, slower now, tender. “Be safe. We love you.”
Your heart swelled at the words. With one last kiss, you pulled away, the faint shimmer of your magic curling around you.
And then you were gone.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The Watchtower’s briefing room was alive with motion when you reappeared, the glow of your arrival fading against the cool metal walls.
At the table stood four familiar figures: Dick, Conner, Jason, and Cass. They straightened when they saw you, their faces brightening — not just because you were their commanding officer tonight, but because you were theirs. Their parent, their anchor.
You smiled, warmth replacing the lingering ache of the moment you’d left behind. “Guess I’m leading this one, huh?”
Dick gave a wry grin. “For now. But don’t get too comfortable. A couple more runs like this and you’ll be sitting back while I take point.”
There was no bitterness in his voice, only pride and quiet confidence. He was ready. And as much as the thought tugged at your chest, you knew it was right. Soon, Dick wouldn’t need you here on the field.
But right now? He did. They all did.
You stepped up to the table, nodding toward the mission readout glowing on the screen. “All right, team. Let’s get briefed.”
Because you could never say no to being at their side.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
It was supposed to be simple. Observe, report, maybe intercept a few smugglers if things went south. But nothing about the docks that night felt simple.
The air reeked of salt, oil, and smoke, and the shadows moved wrong — too fast, too sharp. These weren’t normal men. Their movements were heavier, faster, and their strikes landed like sledgehammers. Enhanced. Augmented. And far too many of them.
You fought hard, your magic weaving through the chaos in bursts of light and binding force. Two were already down by your hand, pinned and groaning. But your limbs felt heavier with each spell, your chest tight from exertion. These weren’t fights meant to drag on; they were meant to overwhelm.
Still, you held your ground. You had to.
Your eyes flicked constantly toward the kids. Cass and Jason had fallen into their own rhythm, covering each other’s blind spots, moving with silent, precise coordination. Conner was tearing through the crates, ripping them apart with sheer strength while simultaneously scanning for hostages. Dick’s voice carried over comms, firm and calm as he ushered civilians through escape routes, clearing the way for them and law enforcement.
They were holding their own, your kids. And pride swelled in your chest even as sweat stung your eyes.
You had one of the bigger ones pinned, your magic forcing his body into an invisible bind, when Dick’s voice came sharp over the line: “Superboy’s clear with the civilians. Orphan, go with him. Keep the pressure up, we’ve almost got this.”
Relief flickered. Almost.
“Go,” Jason barked at Cass, jerking his chin toward the exit. His voice was rough, but his eyes were steady. “Make sure none of ‘em sneak out the back. We’ll finish this.”
Cass hesitated, gaze darting between him and you, but Jason gave her that look — hard, commanding, every bit his father’s son. She dipped her head once, then darted after Conner.
That left three: you, Jason, and Dick.
Your hold on the man in your spell wavered as fatigue crept in, and you ground your teeth, pushing harder. “Move, Nightwing. Take him.”
He didn’t hesitate. Dick launched forward, trading blows with the second enhanced thug, while you lifted your restrained one bodily with your magic, hurling him into Dick’s opponent. The crash shook the dock, wood splintering under the impact. Both men went down and didn’t get back up.
You exhaled hard, turning just in time to hear Jason mutter, “Shit.”
He was out of bullets. The empty click of his gun echoed in your ears as a fresh wave of thugs closed in around him. He fought like hell. Fists, blades, raw ferocity, but he was surrounded, and you could see his arms shaking from exhaustion.
“No.” Your voice cracked, the memory of another night, another failure ripping through your chest. Not again. Never again.
You surged forward, dragging what magic you had left into a brutal, desperate burst. The villain in your grasp went flying into Jason’s attackers, knocking two flat. Dick was already moving, flipping into the fray to cover Jason’s flank. Together, the three of you cut the numbers down, striking with brutal efficiency until finally — finally — the last one dropped.
The docks fell quiet but for the sound of your own ragged breathing.
“Hell yes,” Jason laughed, chest heaving. He reached out and clapped Dick’s shoulder, who was already on comms with Cass and Conner, coordinating handoff to ARGUS and GCPD.
You allowed yourself one shaky smile, stepping forward to join them. Relief was thick in your chest, sweet and dangerous.
And then the air shifted.
Your body stilled, instincts screaming. Something glinted in the corner of your eye—a jagged length of sharpened metal, glinting under the floodlights as it spun through the air. Its path was clear, straight for Jason’s chest. Time slowed.
You didn’t think. You moved.
Your magic surged outward, seizing the weapon midair and flinging it aside with a burst that rattled your teeth. Jason’s head snapped toward you, his eyes wide. You had just enough time to register Jason’s relieved grin, just enough time to feel the victory in your bones, before the air shifted behind you.
Too slow.
The strike came fast and merciless, the blade burying itself deep into your side. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as white-hot pain seared through you. Your knees nearly buckled, blood spilling warm across your hand as it flew instinctively to the wound.
“NO!” Jason’s scream cracked through the night, raw and guttural, the kind of sound that shredded everything in its path. He lunged toward you, gun discarded, rage twisting his features. He put himself between you and the attacker, every movement wild, brutal, desperate to make him pay.
“Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me…” Dick’s voice was sharp in your ear, his hands already catching your shoulders, keeping you upright as your legs faltered. His mask couldn’t hide the sheer panic in his eyes. “Don’t you dare go down on me now. Please.”
You tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. Every inhale rattled, shallow, your vision flickering at the edges.
“ARGUS isn’t fast enough,” Jason barked, shoving the thug to the ground with a vicious kick. He whipped his head toward Dick, eyes blazing. “She needs help, NOW!”
“I can’t leave the scene—”
“You think I give a damn about protocol?!” Jason roared, his voice breaking. He quickly approached you, kneeling at your side. His hands shook as he pressed them against your wound, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. “She saved me. I’m not losing her again. Not like this, not like last time!”
Your chest clenched at the sound of it, even through the haze of pain. Jason’s voice cracked on the words, and you knew, you knew he was seeing another night, another body, another grave.
“Boys,” Your voice came out hoarse, weak, but their frantic energy snapped quiet at the sound. You reached shakily toward Jason, brushing his arm with trembling fingers. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
But the blood on your hands told another story. Still, you tried your best to smile at them.
“Cass, Conner, get here now!” Dick’s voice tore through the comms. “We need you back here yesterday, it’s…it’s mom, she’s hit bad!”
Oh, how your heart hurts. Your boys, your children. You never wanted to be part of the reason they stayed up at night, to be part of their nightmares. And God help you, if it meant Jason lived, you’d do it a thousand times over.
The sound of feet pounding the dock followed moments later, Cass sliding to your side with a swiftness that nearly toppled Dick out of the way. Her hands were steady, but her lips pressed tight, the sharp focus in her eyes betraying how scared she was. Conner landed hard, the dock groaning under his weight, his face pale as his gaze locked on the crimson staining your side.
“No,” Conner whispered, horror in every line of his face. His hands twitched helplessly at his sides. “Not you. Please, not you too.”
Jason’s jaw clenched so tight it shook, his own hands still pressing desperately against the wound, his chest heaving. “She saved me,” he repeated, as if saying it aloud would undo the trade. “She took the damn hit for me. Why would you do that?”
Your eyes fluttered, your strength waning, but you forced the words out, barely a whisper. “Because I won’t lose you again. I couldn’t.”
Jason’s breath hitched, his head bowing as his grip trembled harder, his forehead nearly pressing against your shoulder like he could hold you here by sheer will alone.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Dick said sharply, his voice cracking under the weight of command. “Don’t you dare. Help is coming. You’re not leaving us, not like this.”
The last thing you registered was Cass’s firm hands replacing Jason’s, her voice calm but urgent as she barked orders, while Jason and Conner hovered like thunderclouds and Dick shouted into the comms for med evac.
The world tilted. The pain swallowed you whole. And all you could think, even as darkness pulled at the edges of your vision, was please, let me get back to them.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The Watchtower corridors blurred as Bruce and Clark stormed through them, every step fueled by the frantic call they’d just received from Dick.
She’s down. It’s bad. We need you here now.
They arrived at the medbay doors breathless, despite their training and years of discipline, and were stopped cold. Diana was waiting. Her hand pressed firmly to Bruce’s chest, her gaze steady but full of sympathy. Barry hovered at her side, unusually somber.
“Wait,” Diana said softly, steel beneath her tone. “She’s still in surgery.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “How long?”
“Two hours.”
Clark swallowed hard. “Her condition?”
Diana exhaled, her eyes flicking briefly toward the closed doors behind her. “Stable, for now. The blade missed anything vital by inches, but the damage is extensive. She lost a lot of blood.”
Bruce forced himself to breathe evenly, though every word was a dagger. “What happened?”
“She threw herself in front of Jason,” Diana answered simply. “Stopped the strike. Took the second one instead. Seems like some version of Bane’s venom enhanced them, so the blade had a lot of force when going through her body and out again.”
Clark’s hand curled into a fist, trembling at his side. His voice cracked. “Of course she did.”
Diana’s gaze softened. “But listen to me, you need to breathe. Your children are inside, and they need you to be steady. She would want that.”
The words struck home. Bruce and Clark both knew she was right. They shared a glance; Clark’s wide, stricken eyes locking with Bruce’s darker, strained ones. Bruce reached out, squeezing Clark’s hand once, grounding him, grounding them both.
When Diana and Barry finally stepped aside, the two men entered together.
The room was in chaos.
Dick, Jason, Conner, and Cass looked wrecked — sweat-streaked, bloodied, their costumes torn. Tim, Damian, and Jon had already arrived, their faces pale with worry, every inch of them taut with fear. It was a disaster in the air, the kind that pressed heavily and suffocated every chest.
The moment the children saw them, they were swarmed. Jon rushed forward first, his small body burying into Clark’s chest as tears soaked his sweater. Damian followed stiffly, as though refusing to cry but unable to stay away. Tim wasn’t far behind. Clark tried — God, he tried — to wrap them all into his arms, holding them together even as his own voice cracked with whispered reassurances.
Only Jason didn’t move.
He stood back, arms crossed, jaw set tight, his expression dark in a way Bruce hadn’t seen since before. Since before the crowbar, before the grave.
Bruce crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until he stood in front of his son. For a long moment, neither spoke, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between them.
Then Jason’s voice broke, rough and strangled. “This is on me.”
Bruce’s breath caught.
Jason’s arms dropped, his fists clenched at his sides, his voice rising in anguish. “I ran out of bullets, I got sloppy, and she, she took it for me. She saved me, and now—” His voice cracked, his whole body shaking as the dam finally broke. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I keep screwing everything up. I’m sorry I might’ve cost us her.”
Bruce didn’t let him finish. He surged forward, pulling Jason into his arms with a force that startled even him. Jason stiffened — always stiffened, always resisted — but then the sob broke out of him, raw and shattering, and for the first time in years, Jason let himself collapse into his father’s embrace.
Bruce held him tight, his hand cradling the back of his son’s head, his voice low but firm. “No. No, listen to me. This is not your fault. Do you hear me? It’s not your fault.”
Jason shook against him, choking out broken sounds that made Bruce’s chest ache.
And then Bruce realized that the others were listening.
He lifted his head, his voice steadier and louder, even though it caught in his throat. “This is the life we live, and these are the risks we all face. She knew that; she’s always known. And she still chose to fight and protect. That’s who she is.”
His gaze flicked across the room, locking on Dick. The man — no, his son — stood with his arms wrapped around himself, tears streaking silently down his face. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on him, heavier than it should.
Bruce tightened his arm around Jason and spoke directly to his eldest. “She made her choice, Dick. Not because you failed, not because Jason failed. Because that’s what love looks like to her. She would rather take the pain herself than see it touch any of you. That’s not a weakness. That’s her strength.”
Dick broke then, the tears spilling freely. Clark reached for him, pulling him into his chest, wrapping an arm around Conner at the same time. He tried his best to hold all of them, the whole trembling mess of them, against his broad frame. “She’s going to be okay,” Clark murmured, his own voice breaking. “She has to be. We’re not losing her, not now. Not ever.”
So they waited.
Hours passed in the sterile light of the medbay. Heroes came and went. Diana, Barry, Hal, even Oliver — all offering what comfort they could, though none lingered long. The room was a revolving door of worry, quiet prayers, and restless pacing.
And still the surgery doors stayed closed.
When the doors did finally open with a hush of hydraulics, every head snapped up as the surgeon stepped into the waiting room, mask hanging loose around her neck, eyes tired but not unkind.
Clark was on his feet in an instant. “How is she?” His voice trembled despite the effort to steady it.
The surgeon’s expression softened. “She’s stable.”
The air shifted, as though the whole room exhaled at once.
“It took longer than expected,” the surgeon continued, “because her body was exhausted. She’d pushed herself beyond what most could sustain. Her energy reserves, her powers, were nearly depleted, and that made everything harder. But…” She smiled faintly, glancing around at the gathered family. “She fought. Harder than I’ve seen in a long time. People have succumbed to far less. The only reason she made it through was her will to survive, and perhaps,” her gaze warmed, “knowing she had so many waiting for her.”
Tears stung your children’s eyes, though most of them tried to blink them back.
“You can see her,” the surgeon finished. “She’ll be unconscious until tomorrow. The anesthesia was strong, and she needs rest. But she’s out of danger now.”
They didn’t have to say more. The kids bolted for the door, relief making their footsteps pound down the hall.
Clark and Bruce stayed behind, their feet rooted even as their hearts pulled forward. “Thank you,” Bruce said, his voice rough but steady, offering his hand. The surgeon clasped it firmly before moving off with Barry and Diana.
For a moment, the two men stood alone. The adrenaline had drained, leaving behind only the trembling weight of what could have been.
Clark turned to Bruce, his hands flexing at his sides. “I thought we’d lost her,” he whispered. His voice cracked on it, wide blue eyes raw and wet. “I — Bruce, I don’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.
Bruce’s hand came up, resting briefly at Clark’s cheek, grounding him. “We didn’t,” he said simply. His own voice was hoarse, threaded through with emotion. “She’s still here.”
For a long beat, they just stood there, and then Clark moved first, pulling Bruce into a hug. Bruce stiffened, then gave in, his arms wrapping tightly around the man he loved. They held on until they could breathe again.
When they finally pulled apart, Bruce gave one slight nod. “Let’s go to her.”
The medbay door opened quietly.
You lay in the hospital bed, pale against the sheets, tubes and wires snaking around you. Machines hummed softly, the steady beep of your monitors filling the room. Around the bed, the kids clustered close. Jason at the foot, arms crossed but eyes glassy; Cass seated at your left, her hand near yours but not quite touching; Jon curled against Conner’s side, Damian perched stiffly in a chair with Dick standing near him, a hand on his shoulder.
But your right side, the one closest to the door, had been left empty. Waiting.
Bruce and Clark moved silently into those spaces, lowering themselves into the chairs as though afraid to disturb the air.
Clark’s hand trembled faintly as he closed his eyes, focusing on listening. The faint, steady rhythm of your heartbeat reached his ears, and relief broke over him like sunlight. “She’s here,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “She’s still with us.”
Bruce reached for your hand. He pressed it carefully between his palms, his thumb tracing over your knuckles before lifting it to his lips. He pressed a long, reverent kiss there, his other fingertips brushing the pulse at your wrist, grounding himself in the proof that you lived.
And then, your heartbeat picked up. Just slightly, but unmistakably. The room stilled, eyes darting toward the monitors as the rhythm quickened.
Bruce froze, staring down at you. His voice was rough, thick with something he couldn’t name. “…She knows we’re here.”
For a long time, the room was quiet.
Then Tim spoke softly from the foot of the bed. “I read once that people can hear you when you’re in a coma.” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “She’s not in a coma, but…I feel like she’d still like it. If we talked to her.”
Silence followed, then Cass was the first to start. Her voice was low, recounting the moment you shielded Jason without hesitation, how brave it was. Conner followed, sharing how you’d teased him the week before about needing to eat more than Pop-Tarts to keep up with patrol. Jon piped up with a story about the karaoke songs, his voice breaking when Damian quietly added, “She always made the pancakes better than Alfred.”
Soft laughter mingled with tears, the stories spilling out, one after another.
The night bled into morning. When the first pale rays of sunlight filtered through the medbay window, Bruce and Clark finally convinced the kids to wash up, maybe grab something to eat. None agreed to sleep, but they relented enough to step away, freshen up, and come back ready.
Because they knew the moment you opened your eyes, they wanted you to see them strong. Together.
And so the family waited. Passing blankets, trading food, whispering stories. All of them together kept vigil at your side until you woke.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You woke slowly, the world swimming into focus in pieces. The steady beep of a monitor, the faint antiseptic tang in the air, the weight of blankets tucked carefully around you. Every muscle ached, but the pain was duller now, muted.
The first thing you did was turn your head, your voice rasping with urgency. “Jason? Dick?”
Two shadows moved before you even finished. Jason surged forward from his corner, his arms crossed tight over his chest, but his eyes red-rimmed, haunted. Dick was already leaning over the bed rail, gripping your shoulder gently, his face wet with tears he hadn’t let you see until now.
“I’m fine,” Jason muttered, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.
“Are they? Cass, Conner—” You tried to push yourself up, panic spiking.
“We’re here!” Cass’s soft voice cut through the air, steady, grounding. She and Conner stepped forward, Conner’s broad shoulders tense, his hand resting lightly on Jon’s head as if anchoring them both.
And then the dam broke.
They crowded around you all at once, pressing close, their voices overlapping as they tried to reassure you. Jason’s hand found yours first, rough and trembling, even as he muttered, “I’m sorry, I should’ve—”
“No.” Your voice was firm, though weak. You turned your gaze on him, sharp even through exhaustion. “Don’t you dare. You did nothing wrong.”
“But if I—”
“Jason,” you cut in, squeezing his hand. “The only reason you’re standing here is because we all had each other’s backs. That’s what matters.”
Dick swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he whispered, “I should’ve made a different call—”
You shook your head firmly. “That’s why these missions have a senior member. To make the hard calls so you don’t have to. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.
His lips trembled, but he nodded, eyes wet as he wipes his tears before moving forward to get closer to you..
The chaos, the tears, the rush of love — it all melted into something steady in your chest. They were safe. That was more than enough.
Your eyes drifted past the tangle of your children, and suddenly, time went quiet.
Bruce and Clark sat on your right, just beyond the flurry of kids. The sight of them hit you harder than the pain. Their eyes told you everything — the fear, the agony, the helplessness they’d endured. You could read it all, and your heart broke for them.
You softened your voice, turning to the kids. “Would you grab the doctor for me? And some water, maybe another blanket?” You offered a small smile, brushing Jason’s arm when he hesitated. “Please. It’ll give me a chance to clean up before you all come back.”
They exchanged glances, but they knew what you were really asking. And one by one, they slipped out. Some faster than others, but all obedient, Jon clutching Conner’s hand, Damian muttering something about efficiency as he tugged Tim after him.
The door clicked shut.
And both men broke.
Clark was at your side in an instant, sinking to the edge of the bed, his hand covering yours as he bowed his forehead against you. His shoulders shook as he whispered, “I thought we lost you. Before we ever had the chance—” His breath hitched. “It felt like Lois all over again. And I can’t — God, I can’t lose you, too.”
You turned your hand, cradling his cheek weakly, your thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”
On your other side, Bruce sat stiffly, his eyes locked on your vitals. Both of his hands wrapped around yours, his thumbs stroking rhythmically over your knuckles, but you knew it was to soothe himself more than you.
“Bruce,” you called softly. His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, wet at the edges.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “But the kids needed saving. And I’d do it again.”
For a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before brushing another against your forehead. His voice was rough, choked but steady. “We know. But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”
The door opened again, and your family spilled back in, arms full. Tim with water, Damian with a folded blanket, Jon clutching a small bunch of flowers he’d insisted on grabbing from the hall. They noticed the tears on their fathers’ faces, but said nothing, simply easing back into the room with the quiet reverence of a vigil.
The doctor followed, smiling softly as she checked your vitals. “She’s stable. Healing will take time: months, not weeks. You’ll need help with mobility until the wound closes, and no magic for the first two weeks. Energy depletion this severe needs careful recovery. We were able to kickstart some of your healing with the tinctures you’ve made for emergencies like this, but you’re still a human. You need time to rest fully.”
Before you could answer, Damian’s voice cut through, sharp and confident: “That will be fine. She’ll be moving back to the Manor until she’s recovered.”
You arched a brow, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “Is that a request, or a command?”
A faint flush crept up his cheeks, though his chin tilted stubbornly. “A fact.”
Chuckles rippled through the room, even if briefly. You glanced at the doctor, shrugging lightly. “He’s right. Nothing to worry about.”
The doctor nodded, giving you more details about what you could and couldn’t do, and the kids listened with hawk-like intensity. Plans were already forming: rotations, meals, who would watch over you, and when.
And as their voices filled the room, one thought lingered in the air, unspoken but shared between every one of them — Bruce, Clark, the kids alike.
Maybe this wasn’t just recovery. Perhaps this was you finally coming home.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
After two weeks in the medbay, undergoing careful monitoring and enhanced healing sessions, they were comfortable with letting you go back home to start your healing. You were no longer in immediate danger, and they saw no reason that you couldn’t rest outside the hospital.
As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t help but worry about your transition into the manor. While it might have been easy and straightforward once, a lot of things have changed, and you’re worried about some growing pains.
But in all that planning and worrying, you forget what it feels like to live here.
Not just to visit, not just to sleep over for the kids’ sake, but to be here—to wake up under this roof, to find yourself folded back into the rhythm of the Manor again.
Some of it comes back easily, like muscle memory.
There’s the time Clark insists on helping you hang laundry in the gardens, his sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his hair as he moves with that easy, farm-boy efficiency. You laugh when the sheets snap against him in the breeze, and he pretends to wrestle them down, grinning, while Jon and Damian run maneuvers with Ace and Krypto just a few yards away. The sight warms you even now, the quiet tenderness threaded into every small task with him.
And then there’s the coffee. God, the coffee.
After those first restless nights back, you need it to start the day. Alfred’s pot is always perfect—rich and smooth—but gone by the time you drag yourself downstairs. Leaving it to the men is worse; Clark’s brew comes out syrupy-sweet, Bruce’s so bitter it makes your teeth ache. By the third morning, you take it into your own hands, brewing a second pot exactly the way you like it. Somehow, that becomes a ritual: you at the counter in your robe, Clark padding in barefoot to steal the first mug, Bruce trailing after to grumble about his schedule while quietly reaching for the second. It’s simple, ordinary, but it makes you feel…claimed. Lke you belong here again.
And then there are the ways they show you they want you here.
While you heal, you need your tools. Some plants, herbs, tinctures, and small pieces of your craft. You start slipping them into the Manor slowly, almost shyly. A rosemary pot in a windowsill, lavender tucked by your bed, a row of jars on a shelf in the library. You expect Bruce to frown, Clark to tease. Instead, no one says a word, except Damian, who only glances at the rosemary before watering it when he thinks you aren’t looking.
It isn’t until the second month, after a check-in at the Watchtower medbay, that you come back to find what they’ve done.
Bruce and Clark carve out space. Real space. A corner of the Batcave was cleared and carefully arranged for your plants and tools. A section of the backyard cleaned and tilled, sunlight catching on fresh soil, waiting for you to grow.
You stand there frozen, your hand pressed to your chest, because this isn’t just tolerance. This isn’t just making room.
This is proof. Tangible, undeniable evidence that they want you here. That they aren’t just asking you to heal in this house, they’re asking you to stay.
And God, it warms your heart in a way nothing else can.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The full moon hangs high, spilling silver across the Wayne Manor gardens. The air hums with quiet energy. Magic in the soil, in the leaves, in the pulse beneath your skin. It feels good, like your body is finally starting to knit itself back together, stronger than before.
You sit on a blanket spread across the grass, the cool night air brushing your face. And behind you, warm and steady, Clark is your anchor. His chest against your back, his arms circling you like he could hold the entire world together if it meant keeping you safe.
You sigh, tilting your head against him. “You know, this feels almost unfair.”
Clark’s lips brush your temple, the corner of his mouth curves into a smile. “What does?”
“You get your strength from the sun. I get mine from the moon.” Your fingers trace idle circles against his forearm, where it rests across your waist. “We’re greedy. Taking from the whole sky.”
He chuckles low in your ear, the sound warm and soft. “Or maybe the sky was always ours.”
The words leave you breathless, and for a while, you just stay there. Listening to the crickets and the rustle of the wind in the trees. Safe. Whole. Wanted.
Eventually, you twist slightly, catching his mouth in a kiss. Light at first, then deeper, more insistent as he cups your cheek, his thumb stroking reverently against your jaw. He kisses you like you’re fragile, even now, but there’s no mistaking the heat simmering underneath.
“Clark,” you murmur against his lips, “don’t hold back. Not tonight.”
He pulls back just enough to search your face, blue eyes dark with want but threaded with worry. “You’re still healing—”
“I know.” You press your forehead to his. “But I need this. Need you.”
For a moment, he hesitates. Then your pleading look breaks him. With a low groan, he shifts, his hand sliding down your body until it rests between your thighs.
The first brush of his fingers against you makes your breath hitch, your hips arching into his touch. He kisses you again, swallowing the sound as he strokes slowly and steadily, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your body tremble.
“Clark—” His name breaks from you in a gasp, your hand fisting in his shirt as he builds the rhythm, patient but relentless.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough. “Let me take care of you. Just this. Nothing else. Not until I’m sure you can handle me.”
Your body arches, the tension coiling tighter, pleasure sparking in waves until it overtakes you, your cry muffled against his chest. He holds you through it, his fingers coaxing every shudder, every gasp, until you finally collapse back against him, spent and trembling but safe in his arms.
Clark kisses your hair, your temple, your lips, over and over, like he can’t stop. “God, I love you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.
You smile weakly, still dazed, cupping his face with a shaky hand. “I love you too.”
He kisses you again, slow and sweet, and when he finally pulls back, his arms tighten around you, keeping you pressed against his chest as the moonlight drapes you both in silver.
And for that night, it feels like the sky itself is blessing you.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
It’s weeks later when Bruce scares you late at night when the sound of the clock entrance seals the night behind him. The house is quiet, too quiet for anyone else to be awake, yet when Bruce climbs the stairs, he sees the light still burning under your door.
He hesitates. A part of him wants to retreat, to give you space. But something pulls him forward.
When he pushes the door open, he finds you perched on the edge of the bed, grimacing as you fumble with the bandages at your side. The gauze slips in your hands, your frustration mounting as you mutter under your breath.
“Let me,” he says, voice low but steady.
You look up, startled, then sigh in defeat. “…It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Bruce shakes his head, already moving closer. “No. You don’t.”
He kneels in front of you, calloused fingers gentler than anyone would expect as he unwinds the too-tight wrap. His brows knit as he inspects the healing scar, every line of his body taut with concentration.
For a while, there’s only silence. The soft rip of gauze, the brush of his fingertips over your skin. Then, quietly, he says, “I regret it.”
Your breath catches. “Regret what?”
“Waiting.” His voice roughens, raw honesty bleeding through. “Holding back. Not telling you how I felt from the beginning.” His hands still, resting lightly at your waist, grounding himself. His eyes lift to yours, stormy and unguarded. “I wonder how much would’ve changed if I’d been brave enough then.”
Your chest aches at the nakedness in his tone.
He swallows, his jaw tight, before he forces the words out. “So I’m not holding back anymore. Not one day. Not one moment, not with you. If you’ll let me, I’ll show you every day how much you mean to me.”
Your hand rises, trembling, to cup his face. “Bruce…”
The kiss is slow at first, tentative, but it builds. Years of restraint cracking open in the space of heartbeats. His lips are firm, his hands sliding up to cradle your back as though afraid you’ll vanish.
He eases you down against the sheets, his body hovering close but careful, his mouth tracing down your jaw, your throat, pausing reverently at the scar along your side. He presses soft, lingering kisses there, murmuring against your skin, “Every part of you. Always.”
And then he goes lower.
The first brush of his mouth against you makes you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as he settles between your thighs with the same intensity he brings to everything else in his life. Patient. Focused. Dedicated.
“Bruce—” Your voice breaks, a whimper caught in your throat as he works you with precision, learning every twitch, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath. His tongue strokes, flicks, circles, each movement deliberate, each sound you make pulling him deeper into the rhythm of you.
You’re begging before you realize it, your hips arching, your words tumbling out, “Please, Bruce, don’t stop. God, you’re perfect, so perfect—”
His hands pin gently to your thighs, steadying you, coaxing you through as the pleasure crests. Seems like you’re not the only one who’s affected by praise.
His right hand moves higher, enough so his thumb can start applying slight pressure over your clit as he leans back and against your left thigh, still close enough to feel his breath against you. He moves his thumb lower, teasingly entering you, before pulling back and curling again your clit.
“You look like a fucking angel. It’s not fair, how can you look like that, and taste like that? Won’t you come for me, angel? I’ve been good to you, haven’t I? Gimme my reward.”
With that, he attached back to your clit and sucks harshly as his fingers slide down, and his index finger barely enters you. Once, twice, then you lose it when he curls it just right. The climax rips through you hard, your cry muffled by the back of your hand, your body shuddering under his relentless devotion.
He doesn’t leave you adrift. His hands stroke your thighs softly, grounding you as he kisses his way back up your body, taking his time, his lips pressing against every tremor, every gasp, until he reaches your mouth again.
When he kisses you, it’s deep and unhurried, your taste still on his lips, his body pressed close, his heart wide open.
“Every day,” he whispers against your mouth, a vow as much as a promise.
And in that moment, you believe him.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The morning is bright, with warm sunlight spilling through the tall kitchen windows. Music hums from the old radio on the counter, some upbeat, familiar tune that has you singing under your breath as you move between stove and table, twirling spatulas and whisking bowls like it’s choreography.
The kids are everywhere. Jon and Damian at the counter, mock-arguing over toppings; Dick sliding across the kitchen in his socks with plates stacked high; Jason attempting to sneak bacon before Cass smacks his hand away. Even Tim is there, bleary-eyed with coffee, hiding a smile behind his mug as he watches the chaos unfold.
And you’re in the center of it all, moving through the kitchen like a conductor, laughter spilling free, your dress catching the light as you twirl once, twice, spatula raised like a baton. The kids fall into step with you easily, as if this kind of happiness has always been inevitable.
When you catch sight of Clark and Bruce in the doorway, you grin widely and stretch your hand out.
“Clark,” you call, warmth in your voice, “come on, don’t just stand there!”
Clark steps forward without hesitation, his cape swapped for a soft button-down, his smile as bright as the morning sun. He takes your hand, twirls you once, and leans down to kiss your temple before moving to ruffle Jon’s hair, pressing a kiss to Cass’s forehead, and patting Damian’s shoulder. He makes the rounds like he belongs, because he does.
And Bruce stays in the doorway, frozen in place.
The sight steals his breath. The music, the laughter, the way your smile softens when you look at Clark, the way the kids buzz around like a hive, safe and happy. The Manor feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years.
“You know,” Alfred murmurs beside him, appearing as silently as ever, “I had almost forgotten what this house sounded like.” His gaze lingers on you, on the swirl of life in the kitchen. “Laughter and joy. A family unafraid to take up space.”
Bruce swallows, his throat tight. “It’s been a long time.”
Alfred hums. “Far too long.” He rests a hand on Bruce’s arm, firm but gentle. “But now, now it feels whole. For the first time since you were ten years old, Master Bruce, the house feels complete. I’m proud of you, my boy, for allowing yourself to love again and be loved in return. It looks good on you, Master Bruce.”
Bruce can’t answer, not right away. His eyes stay locked on you as you laugh, head tipped back, Clark spinning you in the middle of the kitchen while the kids clap along to the radio. His chest aches with it. This quiet, impossible happiness he never thought he’d feel again.
And for the first time in decades, Bruce lets himself believe Alfred is right.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You stand before the tall mirror in the bedroom, sliding earrings into place. The dress Bruce bought hangs perfectly against your curves, silk catching the light. You smooth your palms down your hips, murmuring to yourself about the fit when a familiar warmth brushes your back.
Clark.
He doesn’t announce himself. Instead, he slides his hands around your waist, his reflection filling the glass behind yours. “God,” he whispers against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”
A shiver runs through you as his mouth trails lower, kissing along the slope of your shoulder. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, bright and reverent. But there’s something darker behind them too, something simmering. “All those nights I dreamed of you looking just like this. All mine.”
You open your mouth to answer, but your words die when his hands slide higher, framing your breasts through the silk, his touch just shy of indecent. He kisses you again, slower this time, and murmurs, “Look at you. Look how perfect you are. I’ve been so damn patient with you.” His teeth graze your ear, his breath hot. “Do you have any idea how hard it was? Watching you heal. Knowing how badly I wanted to tear these little dresses off you and remind you who you belong to.”
Heat floods your cheeks, your thighs clenching.
He smirks against your throat at your silence, his voice dropping lower. “Do you remember what I told you? That night in the garden, when you came apart so beautifully on my fingers?”
Your body trembles. Your reflection is flushed, eyes wide, lips parted. Slowly, shakily, you nod. “You said…” You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You said I had to be ready for you.”
Clark hums, satisfied, his teeth nipping at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “That’s right. And now? You’re healed. You’re ready.” His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you back against the hard line of his body. “And I’ve been waiting, sweetheart. Waiting to ruin you properly.”
The sound of the door makes you gasp.
Bruce leans against the frame, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his eyes dark and heavy as they sweep the scene. You, flushed in silk. Clark pressed against your back, mouthing your throat like he can’t stop.
“I leave you for ten minutes,” Bruce says, his voice low and sharp-edged, “and he’s already got his hands all over you.”
Clark smirks against your skin, lips curving against your throat. “Can you blame me?” His hands tighten at your waist possessively. “Look at her. She’s stunning.”
“Stunning doesn’t mean helpless,” Bruce counters, stepping inside, his gaze never leaving yours in the mirror. He comes up close, his hand lifting to your throat, tilting your chin until your eyes lock with his. His touch is firm but reverent, grounding you differently. “You don’t need him pawing at you like you’re going to vanish.”
You shudder under the twin intensity of their gazes, your reflection caught between them, trembling with the weight of their attention.
“Please,” Clark murmurs against your neck, voice low and rough, “just really quick, sweetheart. We’ve been so good, so patient. Let us have you.”
Bruce’s hand tightens at your chin, tilting your face to his in the mirror. His mouth brushes your ear, his tone velvet and sinful. “Say yes, angel. Let us take care of you.”
Your resolve cracks instantly. “Yes.”
That one word undoes them both.
Clark grins, greedy and boyish, his hands already sliding the silk of your dress higher. “Come on then,” he whispers, “bed. We’re not ruining this. Too pretty to tear.”
The world blurs until you’re settled on the mattress, Bruce behind you, his chest solid against your back as his hands steady you. Clark kneels between your legs, already stripping down, tossing clothes aside until only his underwear remains. He smirks when he catches your stare.
“Don’t worry,” he teases, voice thick. “Wanted to be ready for when you make a mess. It’s okay, don’t worry about it!”
Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, tongue working slow and devastating while his fingers stroke along your folds. He pushes one inside, steady, patient, curling just right until your breath stutters and your thighs tremble against Bruce’s.
You whimper, tipping your head back against Bruce’s shoulder. “I want, Bruce, I want to see him.”
Bruce hushes you, lips grazing your temple. “Patience, angel. He’s worth waiting for.”
Clark hums against you, the vibration sparking heat low in your belly. “Listen to him,” he murmurs, sliding a second finger inside, stretching you, filling you more. “You’ll thank us for it.”
Your body arches as Bruce whispers filth into your ear, his voice sharper than Clark’s reverence. “Look at him, angel. On his knees for you, desperate for your taste. And you, so wet and needy, you’re going to make him lose his mind.”
Clark groans at the words, his hips jerking against the mattress unconsciously.
Your breath breaks into a cry when Bruce’s hand slides lower, circling over your breast, his thumb brushing across your peaked nipple through the fabric. He growls into your ear, “So greedy, aren’t you? Taking Clark’s fingers like this while you sit in my lap. God, you’re perfect.”
Clark pulls back suddenly, his mouth glistening. His fingers never stop, pumping steadily as he looks up at you, eyes dark. “Gonna help him now, sweetheart? He’s been patient with you. Hasn’t said a thing about his cock, and I know he’s dying.”
Before you can answer, Bruce shifts, his hand leaving your breast to free himself. He hisses softly as he fists his cock, thick and flushed, so close your hand twitches toward it on instinct.
But Clark beats you there. He leans forward, spits directly onto the head of Bruce’s cock, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Then he guides your hand to wrap around it, his smirk wicked. “There you go. Take care of him while he keeps you steady. Fair’s fair.”
You do, clumsy at first from the sheer intensity of it all, but Bruce groans low, his restraint cracking as your hand works over him. Above you, his eyes flutter closed, jaw tight as he breathes out, “Fuck, angel…”
The sight of Bruce breaking, the sound of Clark’s filthy encouragement, the relentless stretch of Clark’s fingers—it overwhelms you. Your body trembles, the release tearing through you again as you cry out, clinging to Bruce while Clark works you through every shudder.
Your chest heaves as the tremors fade. Clark kisses your thigh, his fingers slipping free. His eyes are molten as he crawls higher, shedding his underwear, his cock heavy and flushed.
You bite your lip at the sight. Large and thicker than most men, but not impossible. Just perfect.
He strokes himself once, coating the head with your slick, but then he freezes, panic flickering in his expression. “Wait a condom—”
A laugh escapes you, breathless, as you pull him into a kiss. “Magic’s got that handled. You’re good.”
Clark groans against your lips, relief and hunger tangled together. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Then I’m not waiting another second.”
Clark grunts as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. His hands tremble where they grip your thighs. “Christ, so wet for me already. You want this, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your whole body taut with need. “Please, Clark—”
That’s all he needs. With a low, broken sound, he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you wide until your breath catches in your throat.
“Fuck—” He drops his head to your shoulder, kissing, nipping, reverent and desperate all at once. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect around me. Taking me so well, sweetheart. So good for me.”
Your back arches against Bruce’s chest, your fingers clutching at Clark’s shoulders as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips are flush against yours. Both of you moan at the fullness, the stretch, the obscene rightness of it.
“Good girl,” Clark murmurs against your jaw, kissing up to your lips, swallowing the gasp that escapes you. “God, you’re such a good girl for us.”
You’re shaking, already so close to unraveling, when Bruce’s arm slides around your waist, steady and firm. His other hand presses against your lower stomach, just above your pelvis, his thumb rubbing slow circles as his palm flattens.
“Feel that, angel?” Bruce’s voice is rough velvet, low against your ear. He presses harder, and you gasp as you feel Clark, thick and deep, through the thin barrier of your body. “That’s him. That’s Clark inside you. Filling you up. Exactly where he belongs.”
The sound Clark makes is nothing short of feral. His hips twitch, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans, “Fuck, Bruce, don’t, don’t say it like that. I can’t—”
“You can,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, his mouth brushing your temple as his hand presses again, forcing another strangled moan from you. “She can take it. She wants it.”
“Please move,” you beg, every nerve alight, every muscle trembling. “Clark, please!”
Clark kisses you hard, swallowing your words, and then finally pulls back before thrusting forward again, slow at first, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. He sets a rhythm, steady and deep, the sounds of your bodies meeting obscene in the quiet room.
“Oh God—” you cry out, your moans spilling free with every thrust, beyond control now, lost to the sheer sensation.
Clark buries his face in your neck, groaning low as his pace builds. “That’s it, just like that. Fuck, you’re perfect, taking me so deep. I’ve dreamed about this, about wrecking you like this. Having you like this. God, you’re better than any dream I could have. So close, sweetheart, I know you are too, but it’s not right yet.”
He’s hitting your g-spot almost every time, but it’s not quite enough. You whimper, desperate, nails raking across his back.
And then, suddenly, he stops.
You whine, broken, trembling. “No, Clark, please don’t stop…”
Bruce hushes you, his lips at your ear. “Calm down, angel. He’s just trying to help you. Let him.”
Clark growls low, pulling out only to grip your thighs, unyielding, shifting your body until your lower half is lifted, folded tight in his arms. Your knees press toward your chest, Bruce steadying you from behind as Clark presses you into a perfect, brutal angle — a mating press.
Clark’s eyes burn as he lines himself up again. “You deserve the best, sweetheart. Every time. Let me give it to you.”
The first thrust steals your breath, slamming into that perfect spot with devastating precision. You cry out, your nails digging into Bruce’s forearm as Clark drives into you again, and again, each stroke deeper, harder, angling to hit your g-spot every single time.
“Look at her,” Bruce murmurs, his voice ragged now, his hand still pressing at your lower stomach so you can feel every inch of Clark pounding into you. “So beautiful, so desperate. She was made for this, for us.”
Clark groans, his thrusts stuttering at the words, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. His eyes lock on yours as his voice breaks, filthy and reverent all at once: “I swear to God, sweetheart, you’re going to ruin me.”
And then there’s nothing but the sound of your cries, the slap of skin on skin, the rush of pleasure building again as Clark fucks you open like he was made for it. Like he’ll never let you go.
Clark’s pace turns erratic, hips snapping into yours harder, deeper, until your vision blurs. Your body clenches around him, desperate, and when his thumb brushes your clit, the pressure shatters.
You cry out as you come undone, shaking around him, your release dragging Clark over the edge with you. He groans your name into your shoulder, his cock pulsing deep inside as he spills into you, clutching your hips to his.
But even as your body trembles in the aftermath, Clark doesn’t pull out. Instead, he breathes raggedly into your neck, then carefully shifts you forward, rolling until you’re on hands and knees with him still buried inside you.
And Bruce, already flushed and straining, is there in front of you. His cock is heavy, flushed, his hand stroking himself once before he grips your hair instead, steady and deliberate. His other palm cradles your cheek.
His voice is rough velvet. “Is it alright if I take control for a little bit, angel?”
You nod immediately, eyes shining, and open your mouth for him.
“Good girl.”
He slides in slowly, giving you time to adjust, but once he feels your throat relax, he widens his stance, planting his feet against the mattress, and starts to move. Steady thrusts at first, then deeper, his hand firm at the back of your head, guiding you.
Clark groans low at the sight, his hips jolting as he feels you tighten around him. “Fuck, you’re getting off on this. You’re so wet, sweetheart. Taking me so deep while you’re swallowing him down.” His hand grips your hip, keeping you steady as he gives shallow thrusts, angled perfectly against that spot inside you. Each push makes you moan around Bruce, the vibrations pulling a curse from him.
“Perfect,” Bruce grits out, his thrusts quickening. “Absolutely perfect, taking us both like this, like you were made for it.” His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, his voice breaking into something almost tender. “You’re incredible, angel. Ours.”
Clark’s voice joins his, rough and hungry. “She’s amazing, so fucking amazing. I can feel her tightening every time you fuck her mouth, she’s loving it, Bruce. You’re making our girl feel good.”
It builds too fast. The angle, the pressure, the obscene chorus of their voices, your body trembles violently as another orgasm rips through you, smaller but sharper, leaving you clenching tight around Clark. The sensation drags him over again, his groan muffled against your back as he spills into you a second time, his hips pressed flush to yours.
Bruce pulls free at the last second, stroking himself with quick, harsh tugs before coming across your chest, his groans ragged, his hand still tangled in your hair.
And then, silence.
The only sounds left are harsh breathing, pounding hearts, and the rustle of sheets as Clark finally eases out of you, kissing down your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting you gently onto your side, arranging you between them. Bruce collapses beside you, still flushed, still trying to catch his breath, while Clark stretches out at your back, one arm draped across your waist—his other hand strokes slowly up your thigh, grounding, soothing.
“You did so well,” Clark whispers, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. “So good for us. Perfect.”
Bruce hums in agreement, his hand sliding into yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. “You’re everything, angel. Everything.”
Between them—warm, loved, safe—you let your eyes close, the world quieting into nothing but their voices, their touches, their steady devotion.
Clark is the first to move, though it takes him a moment. He slips out of bed with a groan and pads into the adjoining bathroom. When he comes back, he’s holding a damp cloth and the softest towel he could find.
“Stay put,” he murmurs when you start to shift. He settles back beside you and takes his time, careful and thorough as he cleans you up, dropping a kiss to your thigh when you squirm shyly. “There. Perfect again.”
Bruce is already at your other side, pressing a glass of water into your hands. “Sip.” His tone is gruff, but the hand at your back is steady, his thumb brushing small, grounding circles.
Between them, you feel, cared for. Worshipped in the quiet, domestic ways as much as in the fire of their touch.
“You did so well for us,” Clark says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as you hand back the empty glass.
Bruce hums in agreement, leaning down to kiss your knuckles, still holding your hand tight in his. “You’re ours, angel. Always.”
You sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows as they each curl around you, your head on Bruce’s chest, Clark pressed warmly against your back. For a blissful moment, all you can hear is their breathing, their hearts. Two steady beats wrapped around your own.
And then a quiet laugh escapes you. “We really should’ve waited until after the potluck.”
Clark chuckles against your shoulder, sheepish and unrepentant.
Bruce only smirks faintly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We wanted to make sure you understood our intentions this time. No more confusion.”
That draws a laugh from you. Soft, helpless, full of affection. You tip your head back to look between them, and for the first time in years, there’s no ache behind it. Just love. Just certainty.
You can’t believe how much has shifted, how much you’ve shifted. The subtle confidence in your body, in your heart. The way your lives have always been bound together by children, by duty, now woven tighter still by choice, by love.
What began as years of near-misses had finally settled into something solid, something real. A love that felt like coming home.
a/n: ahh and that's it! I quickly gave this a once-over after adding the last part (healing act). i knew the aspect i wanted to included, but i didn't really have any interest in writing the healing act detailed or accurately, so i sped it up. all sexual acts happened toward the end of her month healing. also, don't know if it was clear, but reader left jackson after the overnight. she realized her heart wasn't in it, and didn't wanna keep pretending. pretty sure i never said that explictly.
i'll go over this and edit it for consistency one day, but for now, that's it! thank you to everyone who liked it, commented, reblogged, or messaged me about it! You all made my heart happy, and made me super excited! i have other writing plans coming out, i have a separate post for a poll so you guys can help me decide what i should write next, as i'm open to your writing suggestions!
note that i can say no if i want to for no reason needed!
anyways, love each and everyone of you, big smooches for everyone! and a cookie, your favorite flavor!
you woke up expecting the phone to ring. it didn’t. at first, you didn’t think much of it. michael had said he’d call tomorrow. technically, tomorrow had only just started.
you’d only been awake for an hour. so you went about your morning. you ate breakfast. you got dressed. you checked your phone. you even laughed at yourself when you caught yourself looking toward the old telephone every few minutes.
it was completely ridiculous. he probably had a busy day. maybe he’d fallen asleep. maybe rehearsal had run late. maybe— you stopped yourself. he’ll call. he always did.
8:26 p.m .
nothing. you sat cross-legged on your bed, staring at the telephone. “come on…” nothing. you sighed. maybe he was busy.
you tried to convince yourself that you weren’t worried. you picked up your laptop and started watching something, forcing yourself to pay attention.
every few minutes, your eyes wandered back to the phone. still nothing.
11:52 p.m .
you were lying in bed now. the room was dark except for the small light coming from your bedside table. you glanced at the telephone.
“you said you’d call.” you laughed quietly at yourself.
“you’d better not be breaking your promises already.”
nothing. you turned over and closed your eyes. maybe tomorrow.
1:17 a.m .
it was almost impossible to sleep. again. you sat up and stared at the phone.
something about it felt wrong. you reached over and picked up the receiver.
“…michael?”
static. your heart jumped. “michael?” nothing. you held the receiver closer to your ear. usually there was something. a faint hum. static. his breathing. anything.
but this time—nothing. the line was completely dead. you slowly put the receiver back.
your stomach twisted. “no…” you stared at the phone. maybe it was broken. maybe whatever strange thing had connected the two of you had finally stopped. maybe— suddenly, the phone rang.
you nearly jumped out of your skin. you grabbed it immediately. “hello?!”
static. your heart was pounding.
“…michael?”
silence. then—“…hello?”
your breath caught. you knew that voice.
“michael?” a quiet laugh came through the receiver.
“yeah.” you closed your eyes.
“oh my god.” “i’ve been trying to call you all day.”
“what?” you sat down on the edge of your bed.
“the phone wouldn’t work.” you frowned.
“what do you mean it wouldn’t work?”
“i don’t know.” he sounded just as confused as you felt.
“every time i picked it up, there was nothing.” you swallowed.
“that’s exactly what happened to me.” silence. “…really?”
“yeah.” neither of you spoke for a moment. then michael laughed nervously. “maybe the phone doesn’t like us.” you smiled.
“maybe.” there was another pause. then you noticed something. the static sounded different. not louder. just…stranger. almost like there was something underneath it. a faint crackling. a distant noise.
you frowned. “michael?”
“yeah?”
“where are you?”
“in my room.” you sat up straighter.
“are you sure?”
“…yes?”
“because i can hear something.”
“what?” you listened carefully. music. very faintly. your eyebrows furrowed.
“there’s music playing.” michael went quiet. then you heard him move. “…wait.” “what?”
“i’m not playing any music.”
the sound became clearer. a melody. you couldn’t quite place it. then michael spoke again. “can you hear that?”
“yeah.”
“what is it?”
“i don’t know.” you listened. then suddenly—the music stopped. the line went silent. you waited.
“michael?” no answer. “michael?” static. then his voice returned. but something about it was different.
“…what time is it?” you glanced at your digital clock.
“1:24 a.m.” he was silent. “what?”
“what day?”
you frowned. “december thirtieth.”
another pause. “…it’s december twenty-ninth here.” your stomach dropped.
“what?”
“december twenty-ninth.” you looked at the calendar beside your bed. december 30, 2026. “no…”
“what?”
“michael, yesterday was the twenty-ninth.”
“i know.”
“no, i mean…” you swallowed.
“when we talked last night, it was december twenty-ninth for me too.”
“i know.”
“and now it’s the thirtieth.”
“yeah.”
“but for you…”
“it’s still the twenty-ninth.” neither of you spoke. you looked at the old telephone sitting in your lap. the same phone. the same impossible connection. except now, something had changed.
“…michael?”
“yeah?”
“do you think…” you hesitated.
“do you think the phone is changing time?” he didn’t answer immediately. then, quietly—
“i don’t know.” a pause. “but…”
“what?”
“i think we might be getting closer.”
your heart skipped.
“closer?”
“not like…” he laughed nervously.
“not physically.” you smiled despite yourself.
“i know what you meant.” another silence. then you heard him whisper, “wouldn’t that be something?”
you looked down at the telephone. “…yeah.” neither of you knew it yet, but the phone had stopped connecting december 29, 1982 to december 29, 2026.
it was starting to connect moments that shouldn’t have been able to meet. and tomorrow—neither of you would know what year you’d wake up in.
december 31, 2026 .
you woke up before your alarm. the first thing you did was look at the telephone. still there. still silent.
you reached for it. nothing. you sighed and dropped back against your pillows.
“okay…” you stared at the ceiling. “maybe tonight.” you’d spent the entire day thinking about what michael had said.
i think we might be getting closer. you couldn’t decide whether that was comforting or terrifying.
10:43 p.m .
the phone rang. you grabbed it before it could ring a second time.
“hello?” static.
then— “hi.” you smiled immediately.
“hi.”
“you sound happy to hear from me.”
“i’ve been waiting all day.” there was a small silence.
“…me too.” you smiled.
“so, what day is it?”
he laughed. “you’re checking?”
“obviously.”
“december thirtieth.”
you frowned. “…what?”
“december thirtieth.”
you looked at the calendar beside your bed. december 31. your stomach tightened.
“michael.”
“yeah?”
“it’s december thirty-first.”
silence. “what?”
“it’s december thirty-first here.” neither of you spoke. again. you could hear his breathing through the line.
“…that’s weird.”
“very.”
“maybe the phone’s just confused.”
“you think?” he laughed. you did too, but neither of you really found it funny. you talked for a while anyway, about nothing and everything. he told you about rehearsal. you told him about your day. you explained something you’d seen online that made absolutely no sense to him. he asked you to explain it three times.
eventually, you gave up. “never mind.”
“i’m trying.”
“i know.”
“i don’t understand how people in the future communicate.”
“you called me from 1982.”
“…fair.” you laughed. for a few minutes, everything felt normal again. like the phone hadn’t started bending time. like there weren’t forty-four years between you. then michael went quiet. “what?”
“nothing.”
“you’re thinking.”
“i am.”
“about?”
he hesitated. “…you.” your smile faded slightly.
“me?”
“yeah.”
“what about me?”
“i was just thinking about what you said.”
“what did i say?”
“you said you wished you could meet me.”
your chest tightened. “oh.”
“and i said i wished i could meet you.”
“yeah.” another pause.
“i wonder…”
“what?”
“if the phone can make us hear each other…” he stopped.
you waited. “…maybe it can do more.”
your heart began beating faster.
“what do you mean?”
“i don’t know.” his voice became quieter. “maybe we could see each other.”
you looked at the receiver. “michael…”
“i’m not saying it will work.”
“still.”
“i just want to try.”
you swallowed. “how?”
“i don’t know.”
you laughed softly. “that’s not very reassuring.”
“i’m sorry.”
“no, it’s okay.” you looked around your room. the old telephone. the tangled cord. the laptop sitting beside you. everything looked completely ordinary. and yet somehow, on the other end of that telephone, was a person living forty-four years before you. “okay.”
“okay?”
“let’s try.”
he laughed. “really?”
“really.”
“how?”
you thought for a moment. “i don’t know.”
he laughed again. “that’s not very reassuring.”
“shut up.” you both went quiet.
“okay,” michael whispered.
“okay.”
“put your hand on the phone.”
you hesitated, then placed your palm against the receiver. “done.”
“me too.” nothing happened. you waited. five seconds. ten. twenty. you almost laughed.
“this is stupid.”
“maybe.” you started to pull your hand away. then—crackle. you froze.
“michael?”
“did you hear that?”
“yeah.”
the static grew louder. not like before. this time it sounded almost like a radio searching for a station. your bedroom flickered. you sat completely still.
“michael…” “i can hear something.”
“what?”
“i don’t know.” then the static stopped. silence. you looked down at your hand. your palm was still pressed against the receiver. and for just a second, you could have sworn you felt another hand pressing back.
you pulled away. your heart was racing. “michael?” no answer. “michael?” static.
then, faintly—“…i saw you.” you stopped breathing.
“what?”
“i saw you.” your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“…what did you see?”
he was silent. then—“your room.” you looked around.
“how?”
“i don’t know.”
“michael, what did you see?”
a pause. “…you.”
your heart dropped.
“but i couldn’t see you.”
“i know.”
“why?”
“i don’t know.”
the line crackled again. then michael whispered, “i think you were standing in my room.”
you stared at the phone. neither of you spoke. because suddenly, this wasn’t just a telephone call anymore. somehow, for a few seconds, you had crossed the distance between 1982 and 2026.
“what do you mean?”
“i mean exactly what i said.” michael’s voice was quiet. “you were there.”
“but i’m not.”
“i know.”
you looked around your bedroom, almost expecting something to have changed. nothing had. your bed was still unmade, your laptop was still sitting beside you, and the old christmas lights were still tangled in the corner of your room. everything was exactly where it should be.
“what did i look like?” you asked.
there was a pause. “you were wearing a white shirt.” you looked down. your stomach dropped. you were wearing a white shirt.
“what else?”
“you were standing beside your bed.” you slowly turned toward the empty space beside you.
“michael…”
“yeah?”
“that’s where i’m standing right now.” silence.
you could hear him breathing. “i know.”
“how?”
“because i can still see you.” your heart stopped. “you can?”
“not properly.” he sounded confused. “it’s like… you’re there, but you’re not.”
“what does that mean?”
“i don’t know.” you moved your hand slowly through the air beside you.
“can you see me now?”
“yeah.”
“what am i doing?”
“you’re looking at your hand.”
you swallowed. he was right. “okay…”
you sat down on your bed. “what about now?”
“you’re sitting down.”
a nervous laugh escaped you. “this is creepy.”
“a little.” you could hear him laughing too. then his voice softened. “but you’re real.”
you smiled faintly. “so are you.”
“i know.” for a moment, neither of you said anything. then you heard him inhale sharply. “wait.”
“what?”
“come closer.”
“to what?”
“the phone.”
you frowned. “why?”
“just do it.” you leaned closer to the receiver. “okay.”
“closer.”
you rolled your eyes. “i’m practically inside the phone.”
he laughed. “i can see you better now.”
you smiled. “really?”
“yeah.” there was something different in his voice, softer, almost amazed. “you look different than i imagined.”
your heart skipped. “you imagined me?”
“of course i did.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. “what did you imagine?”
he laughed quietly. “i don’t know.”
“michael.”
“okay, okay.” he paused. “i imagined someone who looked… older.”
you laughed. “well, i am older than you.”
“not by much.”
“forty-four years.”
“don’t remind me.”
you both laughed. then the line crackled. your smile disappeared.
“michael?”
“i’m here.” the image of you began to fade.
“wait—” “i can’t see you anymore.”
the static grew louder. you gripped the receiver. “don’t hang up.”
“i won’t.”
“promise?” a pause.
“promise.” the static suddenly stopped, and for the first time since you’d met him, there was nothing between you. no voice, no breathing, no faint hum. just silence.
you held the receiver against your ear for another few seconds. then, very faintly—“i’m still here.”
you froze. “michael?” nothing. you waited. then you heard him again.
“i think…” his voice sounded distant. “…i think i can hear you from tomorrow.”
your eyebrows furrowed.
“what?”
“you just said something.”
“what did i say?”
“you said goodnight.” your stomach dropped.
“i haven’t said goodnight.” silence.
then michael whispered, “you will.”
you stared at the receiver, completely silent. “how do you know that?”
michael didn’t answer straight away. the line was quiet, almost peaceful now. “because i can hear it.”
“hear what?”
“you.”
your eyebrows furrowed.
“but i’m talking to you right now.”
“i know.” he laughed softly. “but i can hear you saying goodnight too.”
you looked around your room, suddenly feeling like you were being watched by your own future.
“michael, i haven’t said it yet.”
“i know.” his voice was almost a whisper. “but you will.”
you swallowed, your fingers tightening around the receiver. “what happens after i say it?”
there was a long pause. “i don’t know.”
you closed your eyes. somehow, that answer scared you more than anything else.
“maybe this is the end of the line.” michael was quiet.
“maybe.” neither of you wanted to say it. after everything—the late nights, the laughter, the stories, the forty-four years between you—it felt impossible that it could just stop.
“do you remember when we first spoke?” he asked.
you smiled sadly. “how could i forget?”
“you thought i was lying.”
“i thought you were some weird guy pretending to be michael jackson.” he laughed.
“and you told me you were rihanna.. whoever that is..”
“i was joking.”
“i know.” his laugh faded into silence.
“i’m glad you answered.”
your chest tightened. “me too.”
“even though i’m from 1982?”
“especially because you’re from 1982.” he laughed quietly.
“i wish i could’ve met you properly.” you looked down at the old telephone.
“maybe you did.”
“what do you mean?” “maybe this is what meeting was supposed to be.”
he didn’t respond for a while. “maybe.” the line crackled softly.
you knew what was coming before it happened.
somehow, you knew.
“michael?”
“yeah?”
“i think i should say it.”
“say what?” you smiled through the tears gathering in your eyes. “goodnight.”
he was silent for a moment. then, softly, “goodnight.”
you held the receiver against your ear. “i’ll never forget you.”
“i won’t forget you either.” you closed your eyes.
“goodnight, michael.”
“goodnight.” the line went quiet. you waited. nothing. no static. no breathing. no voice from 1982. just silence. slowly, you placed the receiver back on the telephone. you sat there for a while, staring at it, wondering if it would ring again. it didn’t.
eventually, you climbed into bed and pulled the blankets around yourself. the room felt strangely empty. you glanced at the calendar on your bedside table.
january 1, 2027. you smiled sadly.
maybe that really was the end. maybe the phone had only ever been meant to bring two people together for a little while, just long enough for them to find each other.
you reached over and switched off your lamp. then, just before you closed your eyes, you heard something. faint. so faint you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.
ring.
your eyes opened. you stared at the telephone in the darkness.
it didn’t ring again. you smiled.
maybe it was nothing. maybe it was everything. either way, you knew one thing for certain. some people spend their entire lives never finding the person they’re meant to meet. somehow, forty-four years apart, you had found yours. and if the phone ever rang again you knew you’d answer.
(i’m open to another part of this if anyone wants one👀👀👀)
Summary: Something feels off. You try to ignore it at first, brush it off as stress, lack of sleep, anything but what your mind keeps circling back to. But the days keep passing… and nothing changes. Eddie notices before you say anything, and once you finally do, there’s no going back.
a/n: This is part one of a four-part series 🖤 I've been thinking about this idea for a bit, and I’m really excited to finally start it. This is more on the soft + emotional side, with a little angst and a very protective Eddie (my favorite version of him). The reader is Dustin's older sister in this series, so there’s going to be some fun dynamics with that as it goes on. Everything is set in an AU where nothing from season 4 happens <3 Please let me know what you think!! And seriously, tell me who else you want me to write for next 👀 oh I also want to add I have no idea if Dustin is fifteen in season 4, so.
Little metalhead
MASTERLIST
Chapter two
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The first time I noticed it, I told myself not to be stupid. That was the problem, really. Not the date circled on the little calendar by the fridge, not the low uneasiness that had been sitting in my chest all week, not even the dull nausea that kept rising at the strangest times. The problem was that the second the thought slipped into my head, I couldn't get rid of it.
So I ignored it on Monday when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror before school, staring at my own reflection with my toothbrush hanging uselessly out of my mouth, mentally counting backwards and trying not to let my mind wander somewhere I didn't want it to go.
I ignored it on Tuesday when I fell asleep on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with a back half-open on my chest and woke up an hour later disoriented and warm, Dustin standing over me like I'd committed a crime. I ignored it on Wednesday when the smell of eggs made my stomach twist so hard I had to step out onto the back porch and breathe through my mouth until the feeling passed.
And on Thursday, when I found myself back in the kitchen with the calendar and the pen and the same horrible creeping feeling, I realized ignoring it wasn't working.
The house was quiet in that hollow late-afternoon way it only ever was for maybe twenty minutes out of the whole day. My mom wasn't home yet. Dustin wasn't back from school. But for now, it was just me, the humming fridge, and the ugly yellow light spilling in over the sink.
I stared at the date. Counted once. Counted twice. Then again, because maybe I'd somehow forgotten how numbers worked. No. Still late. Still enough days late that my stomach sank a little further every time I looked. I tapped the pen against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I told myself there were a million reasons why my cycle could be off. Stress. Sleep. Eating weird. The weather. The universe being crule for fun. I'd read somewhere that bodies changed all the time, that sometimes things just happened for no reason, and it didn't automatically mean. The front door slammed. I jumped so hard the pen flew out of my hand and clattered onto the floor.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pressing a hand over my chest. A second later, Dustin appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair windblown, backpack half-open, expression suspicious before he'd even fully looked at me. "...why are you sitting in the dark?" I blinked at him
Then looked around. He was right. I hadn't turned the actual kitchen light on. Just the one above the stove, leaving the rest of the room washed in muted gray and gold. "I'm not sitting in the dark." He gave me a look so flat it would've been funny any other day. "You literally are." I bent to grab the pen from the floor. "Okay, well, I didn't realize." He dropped his backpack by the wall and squinted at me the way he did when he thought he was on the verge of solving something.
"You're weird." "Thank you." "No, like, weird-weird," he said, stepping closer. "You've been weird all week." I forced my attention back to the calendar and shoved the pen into the little cup by the microwave. "Can you be more annoying, or is this your limit?"
"I'm serious." "So am I." He folded his arms. "You keep falling asleep in random places." "I took a snap." "You hate naps." "I don't hate naps." "You said naps make you feel gross and disoriented and like your soul left your body." I turned and stared at him. "Why do you remember things I say only when they can be used against me?" "Because I'm smart."
"Debatable." That got the finest twitch out of his mouth, but it didn't last. He kept looking at me with narrowed eyes, all nosy younger-brother concern hidden under his usual dramatic nonsense. His gaze drifted to the calendar. Then back at me. "... are you sick?"
"No." "You sure?" "Yes." He took two steps closer, still studying me. "Because mom thought maybe you were coming down with something." I frowned. "Mom said that?" "She asked why you hadn't touched breakfast." My stomach rolled at the memory of scrambled eggs.
"I wasn't hungry." "Which is also weird," Dustin said. "You always steal my toast." "You say that like 'I've been robbing you at knifepoint." He shrugged. "You kind of do." Despite myself, a laugh almost made it out. Almost. But then the laugh got caught somewhere behind the knot in my throat, and Dustin noticed that too. Not teasing now. Just watchful. "...did something happen?" he asked quieter. The softness in his voice caught me off guard.
I looked away before he could see it. "No." "Are you and Eddie fighting?" My head snapped up so fast my neck hurt. "What? No." Dustin lifted one shoulder. "I don't know. You're acting weird. He's been acting weird, too." My heart skipped. "What do you mean, he's been acting weird?"
"He asked me three times if I seemed okay." I blinked. Of course he did. Of course, Eddie noticed. Something warm and terrible bloomed in my chest all at once. "Oh." "Yeah, oh," Dustin said, eyes narrowing again. "Is something wrong?" Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door, two quick raps, then one louder one that sounded less like knocking and more like somebody hitting the wood with their ringed fist.
Dustin's whole face changed immediately. "Oh, thank God." I didn't have to ask who it was. He was already halfway out of the kitchen when he shouted, "It's open!" The door swung wide, and then Eddie Munson's voice drifted through the house, warm and familiar and fairly comforting.
"Nice security system you got here, Henderson. Real alright." I stayed where I was, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. There was the usual shuffle of Dustin grabbing at Eddie's denim jacket, asking if he brought the campaign sheets, Eddie saying something about respect and personal space, both of them bickering all the way into the front hall. Familiar. Easy. Normal.
I wanted normal so badly my chest ached with it. Then Eddie came into view in the kitchen doorway, and everything else dropped away. He had one hand braced on the frame, curls a little frizzed from the wind outside, Hellfire shirt half-hidden under a faded flannel.
His eyes found mine immediately. And changed. Just a little. But enough. There it was, that look he got when he clocked something off in me before I'd even spoken.
Concern tucked beneath softness. Attention sharpened by affection. "Hey," he said. "Hey." Dustin looked between the two of us. Then, with zero subtlety: "...I'm gonna go set up my stuff in the living room." Neither of us answered. Dustin pointed a finger between Eddie and me. "Don't do anything weird." I stared at him. "Please leave." "Gladly." He disappeared, muttering to himself. The second he was out of sight, silence settled between Eddie and me. Not awkward. Just full.
Eddie stepped into the kitchen slowly. "Hi," he said again, quietly this time. I tried to smile. "You already said that." "Yeah, well." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I felt like the first one didn't really hit." That earned the tiniest huff of laughter out of me.
His mouth softened in response, but his eyes stayed fixed on my face. "You okay?" There it was. Simple. Gentle. Impossible to answer. I looked down at the counter. "I'm fine." He waited for a beat. Then, "You keep saying that." I glanced back p. "Maybe because it's true?" "Maybe." He tipped his head, studying me. "Or maybe because you don't wanna tell me what's actually going on."
"Eddie—" "I'm not trying to pry, sweetheart." His voice gentled further. "I just know you." That was the problem. He did know me. Better than anything, sometimes, in the small, frightening ways that made my ribs feel too tight. He knew the difference between my real smile and the one I put on when I was tired. He knew when I was pretending not to be upset. He knew every version of my silence.
And lately, he'd been looking at me like he could hear what I wasn't saying. I reached for a glass in the sink, even though it was already clean, just to give my hands something to do.
"I'm tiered." "Mhm." I looked over my shoulder. "What does that mean?" "It means," Eddie said, leaning one shoulder against the doorway now, "you've apparently entered your mysterious Victorian heroine era, and I'm not buying the act."
I rolled my eyes, but weakly. He pushed off the frame and came a little closer. "You've been quiet all week. You barely touched lunch yesterday. Henderson says you keep falling asleep on the couch. and you look..." H based, like he was trying to choose a word I wouldn't immediately hate. "...off." A hard wave of emotion rose so fast I almost hated him for noticing.
"I'm not off." His expression softened. "Okay." "Don't do that." "What?" "That voice." His eyebrow lifted. "What voice?" "The one where you act all calm because you think I'm about to freak out."
A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Maybe because you look like you're about to freak out." I set the glass down harder than I meant to. The sound cracked through the room. Immediately, guilt followed. Eddie stilled. Then, very carefully, he said, "Hey." I shut my eyes. "Sorry." "Don't apologize." "I snapped." "You're allowed." I laughed once under my breath, humorless. "Not really." He took the last step between us before I even realized he'd moved. On warm hand.
settled against my upper arm, feather-light, like he was giving me every chance to pull away if I wanted. I didn't. "Talk to me," he said softly. My throat tightened.
From the living room came the muffled sound of Dustin dropping a pile of books and complaining loudly to no one. It made everything feel even more normal, which somehow made the panic worse. "I don't know what to say." "How about starting with why you look like you haven't taken a full breath in three days?" I stared at the button on his flannel instead of his face.
He waited. Didn't rush me. Didn't fill the silence just because he could. It made something in me crack. "I think something's wrong," I whispered. The hand on my arm tightened just enough to be grounding.
"What kind of wrong?" "I don't know." "That's okay." "No, it's not." My voice thinned. Because I should know." "Why?" "Because it's my body." He was quiet for half a second. "And bodies do weird, terrifying, unpredicatble things all the time. That doesn't mean you're supposed to have all of the answers.
I swallowed hard. He dipped his head slightly, trying to catch my eyes. "Are you sick?" "No." "Do you feel sick?" "Not really." That earned a look. I sighed. "A little. Sometimes." "Since when?" "A couple of days." "Nauseous?" I hesitated. That was enough for him.
"Okay," he said gently. "Anything else?" I looked away. He followed my silence again, not with impatience but with understanding that somehow made it worse. "Tired?" I nodded. "Anything hurting?" "No." He was quiet. Then his gaze flicked towards the calendar on the fridge. The one I hadn't hidden. The one I should have moved the second I heard the door open. His expression changed, subtle but immediate.
His eyes dropped back to mine. And in a voice so careful it nearly undid me, he asked, "Are you late?" The room seemed to tilt. My heart pounded once, hard enough to make my fingers tingle.
I hadn't said it out loud yet. Not really. Not in a way that made it real. I looked at him, and because it was Eddie, because it had always been Eddie, I couldn't lie. "...yeah." He went very still. Not scared. Not angry. Not anything bd. Just processing. "How late?" I crossed my arms over myself, suddenly cold. "Enough."
His jaw shifted. Then he nodded once, more to himself than to me, "Okay." That word shouldn't have felt comforting. It did anyway. I laughed shakily and scrubbed a hand over my face. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" "Say okay like this, somehow okay." He frowned a little. I didn't say it was nothing. I said okay because I heard you." "Oh, sweetheart—" "Don't," I said quickly, embarrassed now. "I'm not—I'm not crying." "You are a terrible liar." "I know." He moved closer, both hands on my arms now, thumbs brushing over my sleeves. I let myself lean into him for exactly one second before forcing myself upright again.
"Have you taken a test?" he asked. "No." "Have you bought one?" "No." "Do you want to?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because that was the question, wasn't it? Not whether I should. Not wether I eventually had to. But whether I wanted to know right now, tonight, while the kitchen smelled faintly like dish soap and Dustin's voice carried in from the living room and the world still looked mostly the same.
"I don't know," I whispered. He nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense. "Okay." I let out a weak laugh. "You keep saying that like it's helping." That like it's helping. "Is it?"
A tiny bit. I hated that he could tell. Before I could answer. Dustin yelled, "If you two are secretly making out in the kitchen again, I'm burning all my campaign notes!" Eddie and I both jerked apart on instinct. Eddie barked out a laugh, loud and real, the sound filling the room in a way that loosened something in my chest.
"See?" he said, looking toward the doorway. "Nothing says romance like the threat of arson." I wiped under my eye quickly. "Shut up." His grin softened into something gentler. "You wanna tell him?" My eyes widened. "Absolutely not." "Yeah, I figured."
"Not until I know. And not in this house. And definitely not while he's already being weird." 'In fairness, Henderson was born weird." "That's true." Eddie glanced toward the living room, then back at me. "You want me to stay after Hellfire?" The answer rose in my throat instantly. Yes. Always, yes.
But Dustin's camaign ight had been planned for days, and if Eddie stayed here after, he'd either have to sneak around my house or face my endless interrogation from my brother, who had somehow become both his biggest fan and his biggest menace.
Still, the idea of being alone with my thoughts tonight felt unbearable. So I nodded. "Yeah," I said softly. Please." His face changed at that one word, all the teasing gone. "Yeah. Of course."
I stared at him for a second too long. Then Dustin shouted again, "MUNSON!" Eddie sighed dramatically. "Duty calls." I almost smiled. He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Soft. Familiar. Grounding. His lips lingered a second longer than usual. "W'll figure it out," he murmured.
My eyes closed. I wanted to believe him so badly. When he pulled back, he gave my hand a quick squeeze, then headed toward the living room. I followed a second later, forcing my breathing to even out before I crossed the threshold.
Dustin was sprawled on the rug, surrounded by notebooks and dice, looking deeply offended by the entire universe. He pointed at both of us. "You took forever." Eddie dropped onto the floor beside him. "Maybe because some of us don't treat roleplaying games like military operations, Henderson." "It starts in twenty minutes."
"It starts when I say it starts." "It starts at six thirty!" Eddie looked scandalized. "Who died and made you king?" Dustin opened his mouth with an answer immediately. "My intellect." That one got a real laugh out of me, and both boys looked over.
Dustin's eyes narrowed. Eddie's softened. He knew that laugh was for him. I hated how much that heled. For the next hour, I did my best to pretend everything was normal. I hovered at the edge of the living room with a book I wasn't reading while Dustin and Eddie argued over campaign notes and miniatures and which monster encounter was "narratively earned."
Eddie kept glancing at me whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I caught him every time. When Mom arrived from work, she kissed the top of Dustin's head, told him to stop yelling like somebody was dying, then turned to me and frowned.
"Honey, you look pale." My whole body went rigid. "I'm fine," I said too quickly. From the floor, Eddie coughed into his hand to hide what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. I shot him a look. He raised both hands innocently. Mom pressed the back of her hand to my forehead before I could dodge her. "You sure you're not getting sick?"
"No fever," I said. "Mhm. Still. Get some rest tonight." Then she swept back out as suddenly as she'd come, leaving behind a casserole dish and the smell of perfume. The second the front door shut, Dustin turned dramatically toward me. "That's what I said."
I stared at him. "Are yoy keeping score?" "Yes." "Please don't." He pointed across the room at Eddie. "See? I told you." "You did," Eddie said mildly. My eyes widened. "You two talked about me?" "In a concerned way," Dustin said. "In a very normal, non-creepy way," Eddie added. "That somehow made it worse." Dustin shrugged. "You started it by being suspicious." I pressed the book to my chest and turned away before either of them could see the smile threatening at the edge of my mouth.
They loved me. That was the worst part. They loved me, and if the fear in my chest turned out to be real, their lives ould changed too. By the time Hellfire actually started, the house was louder. Two more boys had shown up. Somebody tracked mud onto the rug. Dustin was in full dramatic mode, yelling over a rule, arguing while Eddie lounged back against the couch like a smug dictator in a flannel shirt.
I sat curled in the armchair nearby, knees tucked up, trying and failing to pay attention. Every now and then, Eddie would lean over the makeshift board to ask if I wanted water.
Or crackers. Or for him to "accidentally" kill Dustin's favorite character in retaliation for being annoying. That last one got him smacked in the shoulder with a notebook. By eight, my head hurt. By nine, I was struggling to stay awake. And by the time the last of the boys left and Dustin started stacking his books with all the tragic energy of a war survivor, my whole body felt heavy.
Eddie noticed immediately. "You okay to drive me home?" he asked, voice low enough that Dustin wouldn't hear from across the room. I nodded. "Yeah." "I can bike," Dustin said suddenly, somehow hearing everything despite being on the other side of the room. "You don't have to leave."
I blinked. "What?" He rolled his eyes like I was the stupidest person alive. "I'm not an idiot. You clearly want him to stay." I almost choked. Eddie made a strangled sound that was definitely him trying not to laugh. "Dustin—" "And I'm fifteen, not five," he continued. "I can bike to Mike's if Mon says it's okay." I stared at him. He stared back. Then Eddie, very carefully, said. "That is... weirdly mature of you, Henderson." "I know." "You're still weird," I said faintly.
He pointed at me. "And you're still suspicious." But fifteen minutes later, after a quick call to my mom and enough assurance that yes, Dustin would lock the back door and no, he wouldn't burn the house down while I was gone, Eddie and I were in the van with the windows cracked, Hawkins passing by in dark, sleepy blurs.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence in the van was different from the silence in my kitchen earlier. Not sharp. Not waiting to break. Just full of everything we were both thinking and hadn't found the words for yet.
Eddie drove one-handed, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. His other hand rested on the seat between us. After three stoplights and one turn past the dimmed storefronts downtown, I finally reached over and took it. His fingers curled around mine instantly.
He didn't look away from the road, but his thumb brushed over my knuckles. "You're quiet," he said. "So are you." "Yeah, but I'm driving. It looks more mysterious on me." That got a tiny smile. He glanced over just long enough to catch it, then squeezed my hand once. "Wanna come back to the trailer?" he asked. "Wayne's at work. We can just...be there for a while." I nodded.
His trailer had never scared me the way it seemed to scare half the town. To them, it was the wrong side of everything, too loud, too shabby, too much proof that life didn't always come out neat. To me, it was warm lamps and mismatched blankets and the smell of coffee and metal and old books. Wayne's boots are by the door. Eddie's guitar is leaning in the corner. A place where nobody expected me to be anything except exactly what I was.
When he parked outside, the whole trailer park was quiet except for a distant television and a dog barking somewhere down the row. Eddie killed the engine but didn't move. Neither did I. He looked at our joined hands.
Then at me. "You don't have to say anything right away." I exhaled slowly. "I know." "But?" "But if I don't say it, it feels less real." His face softened. "Yeah." I stared out the windshield. The inside of the van smelled like old vinyl, peppermint gum, and Eddie's cologne. Familiar enough to make my chest ache. "I'm scared," I said finally. It came out so small I almost wished I could take it back. Instead, Eddie answered just as quietly. "I know."
"No—" I shook my head. "I'm really scared." He leaned back in his seat, giving me space instead of rushing in. "That makes sense." I should've been more careful." He was silent for a second. "We both should've." I looked at him then.
He didn't say it defensively. Didn't throw it back at me. He just took it too. My eyes burned. "I keep replaying everything in my head," I whispered. "Like if I think hard enough, maybe I can undo it somehow." His mouth pulled tight for a second. "You can't think your way backward." "I know." He nodded once. "Still gonna try, though?" I huffed out a laugh that turned shaky at the edges. "Probably." "Yeah." He lifted our joined hands and pressed my knuckles to his lips. "Sounds like you."
That almost broke me. I stared at him, at the curve of his hair by his cheekbone, at the dark seriousness in his eyes that only ever showed itself when it mattered. "You're not mad?" His head jerked back slightly. "Mad?"
"Or I don't know. Freaked out. Regretting things." He stared at me like he couldn't believe that question had come out of my mouth. Then he leaned closer, not touching my face yet, just making sure I was looking at him. "Listen to me," he said. "Am I scared? Yeah. A little. A lot, maybe. But mad at you? No. Never that." My throat tightened. "And regretting you?" he added, softer now, like the idea itself offended him. "Not even a little bit." The tears came before I could stop them.
"Hey, hey." He unbuckled and shifted closer, one hand cupping the back of my neck. "Come here." I went. Of course. I folded into him across the middle console with a half-laugh, half-sob of frustration, and he aught me easily, wrapping both arms around me until my forehead rested against his shoulder.
His flannel was soft under my cheek. He smelled like smoke, cold air, and something warm beneath it that was just him. He held me like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. And for one long, quiet moment, the world narrowed down to that.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back. "You don't have to do this part alone," he murmured into my hair. "I know." "You can still be scared." "I know." "You can cry as much as you want. Even though your brother would one hundred percent roast you for it." A wet laugh escaped me.
"There she is," he said softly. You stayed like that until your last breath evened out. When you finally pulled back, embarrassed and blotchy and exhausted, he didn't say a word about your face. He just handed you the crumbled napkin from the glove box and waited while you wiped under your eyes. "Came inside?" he asked. I nodded. Inside the trailer, everything felt softer under the low yellow lamps.
Eddie kicked off his shoe by the door and went straight to the kitchen corner, grabbing two glasses and filling one with water before setting it in front of me like he'd done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.
I sat at the small table while he rummaged through the cabinet. "I have crackers," he announced. I groaned. "Do not say that like I'm pregnant." He froze. Then turned slowly, box of saltines in hand. We both stared at each other. And then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor, we both started laughing at the same time.
Quiet at first. Then harder. Not because it was funny exactly, but because the tension had to go somewhere. Eddie dropped into the chair across from me, shaking his head. "Okay. That one was my bad." "That was awful."
"It was objectively terrible." "I kind of hate you." He pushed the crackers toward me. "Eat one before you pass out, and I'll forgive the hostility." I took one mostly to prove I could. It sat better than expected. He noticed that too. I hated that he noticed everything. The laughter faded. Silence returned, gentler now. Eddie picked at the peeling label on his beer bottle, though he wasn't drinking it. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
I looked down at the cracker in my hand. "That I don't know what will happen next." "That's fair." "I don't know if I wanna know tonight." "That's also fair." "But if I wait, I'm just gonna keep spiraling."
"Probably." I looked up. You're not comforting right now." He gave a small smile. "I'm trying this new thing where I don't lie to you." I rolled my eyes, but fondly. Then my gaze drifted toward the little window over the sink where darkness had fully settled outside. A reflection of the trailer glowed faintly in the glass lamp light, the table, and the two of us suspended in this strange in-between.
"Eddie?" "Yeah?" "If it is..." He didn't rush me. "If it is," I tried again, voice thin, "everything changes." Hi face went soft in that deep, serious way that made him look older. "Yeah." The honesty of it hurt more than reassurance would have. I swallowed hard. "And that terrifies me."
"I know." He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "But everything changing doesn't automatically mean everything ends." I stared at him. He held my gaze. "I'm not saying it's easy," he continued. "I'm not saying it won't be hard or messy or scary as hell sometimes. But if that test says what you think it's gonna say..." He exhaled slowly. Then we deal with what's real. Together. One thing at a time."
My eyes burned again. He huffed softly. "You gotta stop doing that." "What?" "Looking at me like I just handed you the moon because I said the bare minimum decent boyfriend thing." A laugh escapes me. "Sure it was." "It really wasn't." He shrugged like he didn't believe me, and that made my chest ache in a completely different way.
I reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. He flipped his palm over instantly and laced our fingers together. "Stay with me tonight?" I asked. He didn't even hesitate.
"Yeah." I knew he couldn't actually stay all night without causing questions from both Wayne and my mom, but I also knew what I meant: until I fell asleep, until my breathing calmed, until the thoughts stopped biting at me for a little while. He understood anyway. "Do you wanna go get one?" he asked quietly. I looked at him. "A test," he said, even quieter. The room seemed to shrink around the words. The answer should have been no.
It should have been tomorrow, or next week, or after one more day of pretending. Instead, to my own surprise, I heard myself say, "Yeah." His fingers tightened around mine. "Okay." I laughed once, shaky. "There it is again."
He stood, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door, then came around the table and held a hand out to me like this was some strange terribel dance and he was asking me to trust him through it. I took it. The drugstore on the edge of town was nearly empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier looked half-asleep.
Somewhere in the back, a radio played a song too tiny to recognize. I stood just inside the doors for a second with my arms folded tight over myself while Eddie looked around like he was expecting the shelves to start mocking him.
"This feels cursed," he muttered. Desiote everything, I snorted. "There she is again." "Stop saying that." "No." We walked the aisle together in awful silence until we reached the section we needed. There were too many choices. Too many boxes. Too many smiling women on packages that made it all feel fake and distant and impossible to connect to my own body. I stared at them until the words blurred.
Eddie came up beside me, careful not to touch unless I invited it. "Want me to pick?" "No." "Good, because I have no qualifications." I let out a breath. Then I reached for the painest box I could find, one with too much pink on it and promises printed across the front in cheerful letters that made me want to throw up.
My hand trembled a little. Eddie saw that too. Of course he did. Without saying anything, he took the box from me and carried it to the register so I wouldn't have to.
That made my throat ache. The cashier barely looked up. Just scanned it, named the price, and slid the bag across the counter. I wanted to be grateful for indifference. Instead, it made the whole thing feel eerie. Back in the van, the little plastic bag sat between us on the seat like a third presence. Neither of us touched it. By the time Eddie pulled up outside my house, every window was dark except the lamp in the front, which Dustin always forgot to turn off.
"Do you want me to come in?" he asked. I looked at the house. Then back at him. "Yeah." Inside, Dustin was sprawled asleep on the couch with one sock off and a comic book over his face. Eddie and I froze in the doorway. Then Eddie whispered, "That kid sleeps like he pays rent."
I elbowed him lightly and moved to wake Dustin just enough to send him to bed. He mumbled something about goblins cheating, stumbled down the hall, and disappeared into his room without ever really opening his eyes. The house settled again. Quiet. Dark. Watching. Eddie and I stood in the kitchen staring at the bag. "I can wait outside," he said softly. I looked up. "No."
He nodded once. "Okay." I took the bag and headed for the bathroom with him trailing a few steps behind. At the door, I stopped. My hand on the knob. My breathing is too shallow.
Eddie stood in the hallway, not crowding me. "You don't have to rush." "I know." But I opened the door anyway. The bathroom light felt too bright. I set the bag on the sink and stared at my own reflection. Plale. Tired. Eyes wide. For the second, I was hit by the absurd urge to laugh. How ridiculous that everything could split open in a room with cracked tile and a loose faucet handle and one of Dustin's stupid science fair ribbons still hanging from the corner of the mirror.
Behind me, Eddie's voice came gently through the half-open door. "I'm right here." I shut my eyes. Then I opened the box. A minute later, I was sitting on the closed toilet seat with the test on the edges of the sink, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap they hurt.
Eddie sat on the floor just outside the bathroom door, back against the hall wall like some kind of guardian keeping watch. Neither of us spoke. The whole house felt like it was hodling it's breath. I looked at the little stick. Then away. Then back again. Not yet. Still processing. Still processing. Still. Eddie," I whispered. He was on his feet instantly, but it didn't come in. "Yeah?"
My eyes stayed fixed on the sink. "I can't tell if it's—" My voice broke. He stepped into the doorway carefully, gaze flicking from my face to his tear and back. I looked up at him, panic rising all over again, sharp and hot. "Is that—" He came closer. Slowly. His hand found mine.
And when he looked at the test, the whole room seemed to go still. The room went very, very quiet. Not the normal kind of quiet. Not the kind we'd had earlier in the kitchen, or the soft quiet of Eddie's trailer with the lamps on and the world dimmed around us. This was different. This felt like everything had stopped. Like, even the air in my lungs had paused, waiting. Eddie didn't move right away.
His hand was still wrapped around mine, warm and steady, but I could feel it just the slightest tigehening of his fingers, like something inside him had locked into place.
My eyes stayed on his face. Not the test. Not yet. Because whatever was on that little plastic stick... I'd see it reflected in him first. His eyes flicked down again. Then back up. Then down one more time, like he was making sure he wasn't seeing it wrong. "...okay," he said. But it came out quieter then befpre. Different.
Not the same, okay, he'd been using all night. This one was heavier. My stomach dropped. "Eddie," I whispered, my voice barley was holding together, "just tell me." He swallowed. I saw it. The way his throat moved.
The way his jaw tightened just slightly, like he was trying to keep everything calm for me. For me. God. "...it's—" he started, then stopped. My fingers tightened in his. "Please." And that did it. That one word. His eyes lifted to mine fully now, no hesitation, no looking away. And so gently it almost hurt. "It's positive." The word didn't hit all at once.
It kind of... echoed. Like my brain didn't know where to put it yet. Positive. Positive. Positive. My ears rang. My chest felt tight. I blinked once. Twice. "...okay," I said, but it sounded far away. Like someone else had said it. Eddie's grip on my hand tightened again.
"Hey," he said softly. I didn't look at him. My eyes had dropped to the sink now. To the test. To the two lines that were suddenly the only thing I could see. It didn't look real. It didn't feel real. It was just... was. And that somehow made it worse. "I—" I tried, but my voice broke before anything came out. My breath hitched. Once. Then again. And then it all came at once.
The panic. The weight. The overwhelming, crushing realization of what that meant. My hand flew up to my mouth as a sob slipped out before I could stop it. "Hey, hey, hey—" Eddie was in front of me instantly. I hadn't even seen him move.
His hands were on my arms, then my shoulders, then my face, trying to ground me without overwhelming me, trying to figure out what I needed before I even knew myself. "It's okay," he said quickly. "Hey, it's okay, I've got you—" "I can't—" I gasped, shaking my head, tears spilling over now, "I can't do this, Eddie, I can't—" "Yes, you can," he said immediately, not harsh, not forceful, just certain. I hook my head harder. "No, I can't, I can't, I can't—" "Hey," he said again, firmer this time.
His hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. My vision blurred with tears, but he didn't let me look away. "Look at me," he said. I did. Barely. "I know this is scary," he said, voice low and steady. "I know. I'm scared too." That stopped me. Just enough.
"But you're not doing this alone," he continued. "Okay?" You're not. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." My lips trembled. "You don't know that." "I do." "How?" my voice cracked. Eddie, this changes everything—" "Yeah," he cut in gently. "It does." That wasn't what I expected. I blinked at him through my tears. "I'm not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't," he said. "It does. Everything's gonna be different. But different doesn't automatically mean bad.
"It doesn't mean good either," I whispered. "No," he agreed softly. "It doesn't." The honesty made my chest ache. "But we'll figure it out," he added, "one step at a time. We don't have to solve everything tonight." My breathing was still uneven. Still too fast. "I don't even know where to start." "Then we don't start," he said. "Not yet." I stared at him.
He wiped under my eyes gently with his thumbs, careful, like I might break. "Right now," he said, "we just breathe." My chest hitched again. "I can't—" "You can," he said, softer now. "With me. Okay? Just follow me."
He took a slow breath in. Held it. Let it out. I tried to match him. It didn't work the first time. Or the second. But by the third, my lungs started to cooperate. My shoulders dropped just slightly. My grip on his shirt loosened. "That's it," he murmured. I closed my eyes. Another breath. Another. And slowly, very slowly, the panic dulled into something quieter.
Still heavy. Still there. But not as sharp. When I opened my eyes again, he was still right there. Still watching, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. "I'm sorry," I whispered. His eyebrows pulled together immediately. "For what?"
"For this." His expression shifted instantly. "No." "For everything," I said. gesturing vaguely between us, the bathroom, the test, the whole situation. "I shoudn've been more careful, I should've—" "Stop." The word wasn't harsh. But it was firm. I froze. "That's not all on you," he said, quieter now. None of this is just on you." My throat tightened. "I don't want you blaming yourself for something we both—" He exhauled, shaking his head slightly. "That's not fair. To you."
I looked down. Because part of me still wanted to. Because it was easier than sitting in the uncertainty. Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid from my cheek down to my wrist, gently pulling it away from where I'd started picking at my sleeve.
"Hey," he said softly. I looked back up. "Don't disappear on me now, okay?" My chest tightened at that. "I'm trying not to." "I know." There was a pause. A quiet one. Not empty, just full of everything, neither of us knew how to say it yet. My eyes drifted back to the sink. To the test. Still there. Still real. "Eddie..." My voice dropped again, fragile. "What do we do?" He followed my gaze. Then looked back at me.
And for a second, just a second, I saw it. The fear. Not overwhelming. Not panicking. But real. Honest. And somehow...that made me feel less alone. "We don't decide everything right now," he said slowly. "We don't have to." "But—" "But nothing," he said gently. "Tonight? We just... sit with it. Let it be real. Tomorrow, we'll figure out the next step."
I swallowed. "That sounds impossible." "Yeah," he said. "It kinda is." A weak laugh slipped out of me. He smiled just a little. "See? Still funny." "Barely." "I'll take barely." My hands drifted without me even realizing it down to my stomach. It was instinct. Unthinking. Just... there. Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His eyes followed the movement. Then softer in a way I hadn't seen before. Different than earlier. Different from anything. Not panic. Not confusion. Just... something new. Something quieter. His hand slowly covered mine.
Warm. Steady. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Just stood there, hands resting together over something that hadn't even begun to slow yet, but suddenly felt like it filled the entire room. My breath caught again. But this time... It wasn't panic. Not completely. "I don't feel any different," I whispered.
Eddie's Thum brushed lightly over my kncukles. "Yeah," he said softly. "I don't think you're supposed to yet." I let out a shaky breath. "Everything fels the same." "And completely different at the same time?"
I looked up at him. "... yeah." He nodded. "Yeah. That sounds about right." We both stood there for another second. Then two. Then five. Time didn't feel normal anymore. Finally, Eddie galnced toward the hallway. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get out of the bathroom before it starts feeling like a horror movie."
A small, broken laugh escapes me. "Yeah. Okay." He laced our fingers together again and guided me out into the dim hallway, flicking the bathroom light off behind us. The house felt different now. The same furniture.
The same walls. The same quiet. But everything had shifted. Just slightly. Just enough. I stopped in the middle of the hallway. Eddie stopped with me. "... stay with me tonight?" I asked. His answer came immediately. "Yeah." No hesitation. No question. Just yes. Always yes. And for the first time since I'd seen those two lines. I felt maybe... Just maybe... I wouldn't completely fall apart.
Description: A small argument turns into something bigger when neither of them says what they actually mean.
The gym is loud in that familiar way.
Shoes against hardwood, sharp and constant. Voices layered over each other. A whistle somewhere in the background that no one reacts to right away because everyone’s already mid-motion, mid-thought, mid-sentence.
It’s normal.
It should feel normal.
Paige tells herself it does.
But her attention keeps drifting.
Not away from the game.
Not really.
Just—
pulling.
Every few seconds.
Like something keeps catching her and not letting go.
Azzi is across the court.
That’s not new.
What’s new is how often Paige looks over.
How long she lets herself stay there.
Azzi laughs at something someone says. It’s soft at first, then brighter, her head tipping back just slightly, shoulders loosening like she’s not thinking about anything at all.
Her hand comes up without thinking, brushing someone’s arm as she responds, casual, easy.
It’s nothing.
It’s literally nothing.
Paige knows that.
She knows Azzi is like that. Open. Comfortable. Warm in a way that makes people lean in without realizing it.
It’s one of the things Paige—
She looks away.
Too fast this time.
The ball hits her hands harder than she expects. The impact stings, grounding her back into the moment, into the game, into something she can actually control.
“Paige.”
She barely hears it.
“Paige.”
The second time is closer.
She snaps back, refocuses, moves like she’s supposed to.
Everything after that feels slightly off.
Not wrong enough for anyone else to call it out.
Just enough that it sits under her skin.
Practice ends in a rush of noise.
Someone yelling. Someone laughing too loud. Towels thrown, bags dropped, the usual chaos that fills the space the second structure disappears.
Paige moves through it like she always does.
But she doesn’t stay close.
Not like she usually would.
Not like Azzi notices she’s not.
Azzi catches up to her anyway.
She always does.
There’s a rhythm to it at this point, something unspoken. They end up next to each other without trying. Without asking.
Today—
it takes effort.
And that alone is enough to make Azzi look at her differently.
Paige keeps her hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, fingers curled into the fabric like she needs something to hold onto.
She can feel it building.
That quiet irritation.
That thing she doesn’t have a name for.
It doesn’t make sense.
Which makes it worse.
“…what’s wrong with you?”
Azzi’s voice isn’t sharp.
Just curious.
But it lands heavier than it should.
Paige glances at her.
For a second she almost says it.
Almost.
“…nothing.”
The word feels thin even as she says it.
Azzi doesn’t buy it.
Paige can tell before she even looks back.
There’s a pause in her steps. A shift. Something subtle but obvious if you know her well enough.
Paige keeps walking anyway.
Hoping it’ll pass.
It doesn’t.
“…you’ve been off all practice.”
Closer now.
Not accusing.
Just—
there.
Paige exhales slowly, eyes fixed ahead.
“I’m fine.”
It comes out flatter than she means it to.
Azzi stops walking.
Paige doesn’t notice until she’s a step too far ahead.
She turns back.
There’s something in Azzi’s expression now. Not just curiosity.
Something tighter.
“…you’re not.”
Paige shrugs.
Too quick.
Too automatic.
“I am.”
Azzi watches her for a second longer than usual.
Like she’s waiting for something else.
Something real.
It doesn’t come.
So she turns.
Starts walking again.
And that should be it.
It should stay small.
Unsaid.
Ignored like everything else they don’t want to deal with.
But Paige—
“…you were laughing a lot.”
It slips out.
Soft.
But not soft enough.
Azzi slows again.
Turns.
“…what?”
Paige immediately regrets it.
She feels it in her chest, sharp and immediate.
“Nothing.”
But it’s already there now.
Sitting between them.
Azzi takes a step closer.
“…no.”
Her voice is quieter this time.
More focused.
“Say it again.”
Paige shakes her head, looking anywhere but at her.
“It’s not a thing.”
“…then why did it sound like one.”
Because it felt like one.
Because it didn’t feel like nothing.
Because for a second it felt like she was watching something she wasn’t part of.
She doesn’t say any of that.
Instead—
“…you were just—”
She stops.
The words don’t line up right.
Azzi tilts her head slightly.
Waiting.
“…just what.”
Paige presses her lips together.
Feels the frustration build under her skin.
“Forget it.”
That’s worse.
She knows it the second she says it.
Azzi lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh but without any humor in it.
“…no.”
She steps closer again.
“You don’t get to do that.”
Paige’s shoulders tense.
“Do what.”
“Say something and then act like it doesn’t matter.”
Paige finally looks at her.
There’s something defensive there now.
Something closed.
“It doesn’t.”
Azzi’s expression shifts.
Not fully angry.
Just—
hurt, maybe.
Confused.
“…then why are you acting like this.”
Paige hesitates.
Because explaining it means admitting something she doesn’t fully understand herself.
And she hates that.
“I’m not.”
Azzi doesn’t respond right away.
She just watches her.
And Paige feels it.
That look.
The one that sees too much.
“…you are.”
Paige lets out a quiet, frustrated breath.
“You were just different.”
There.
Still wrong.
But closer.
Azzi’s brows pull together.
“Different how.”
Paige looks away again.
“…you just are.”
That’s not enough.
They both know it.
Azzi’s voice tightens slightly.
“…Paige.”
Paige forces herself to meet her eyes.
“…you don’t act like that with me.”
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not background noise.
Not distractions.
Just the space between them stretching too far.
Azzi processes it slowly.
“…like what.”
Paige gestures vaguely, like she can physically pull the right words out of the air if she tries hard enough.
“Like— I don’t know. You just—”
She exhales.
Frustrated.
“…you’re like that with everyone.”
It lands wrong.
She hears it as soon as it leaves her mouth.
Azzi goes still.
“…so what, I’m not allowed to talk to other people now?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what it sounds like.”
“It’s not.”
Azzi shakes her head slightly.
“…you’re being weird.”
That word.
Weird.
It hits something.
Paige laughs under her breath, but it’s sharp.
“I’m being weird?”
“…yeah.”
Paige looks at her for a second.
Really looks.
And something shifts.
Something colder.
“…okay.”
Azzi notices immediately.
“…don’t do that.”
“Do what.”
“That.”
Paige shrugs again.
But there’s nothing casual about it now.
“You’re the one making it a thing.”
Azzi stares at her.
“…you started it.”
Paige opens her mouth.
Stops.
Because she doesn’t know how to fix it without making it worse.
So instead—
“…it’s fine.”
It’s not.
They both know it’s not.
“…it’s not fine,” Azzi says quietly.
Paige nods anyway.
“It is.”
Azzi steps closer again.
Careful this time.
Like she’s trying not to push too hard.
“…just tell me what you meant.”
Paige looks at her.
And for a second—
everything softens.
Just a little.
“I just—”
The words sit there.
Right there.
Close enough to say.
Close enough to fix it.
But they feel too exposed.
Too real.
So she pulls back.
“…forget it.”
And that—
that’s what breaks it.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Azzi’s expression falls.
“…okay.”
She steps back.
And the distance between them feels wrong immediately.
“…okay,” Paige echoes, quieter.
But it doesn’t mean the same thing.
Azzi nods once.
“…yeah.”
Neither of them moves.
Neither of them tries again.
Paige turns first.
“…I’m gonna go.”
Azzi doesn’t stop her.
“…yeah.”
Paige hesitates.
Just for a second.
Like she might turn back.
Like she might say something that actually matters this time.
She doesn’t.
She walks away.
And Azzi lets her.
Standing there with that same unfinished feeling sitting heavy in her chest.
“…what was that,” she mutters under her breath.
But there’s no answer.
And no one goes after the other.
Which is exactly how this turns into something bigger.
—
I forgot to put this is based off them in college since they are in the w now💔
Fucking finally got this part out. I honestly love it and I’m really happy and proud of it. So enjoy!
WC: 4,002
✿. Suggestive content MDNI
TW: inaccurate medical jargon, slightly jealous Jack Abbot, miscommunication, brief suggestive fantasy, literally one use of Y/N (sue me), manhandling (?), making out, groping
Pt 1, Pt 2
Pt 4. Is probably gonna be mostly smut with a sprinkle of plot
The day you come back to work is the first day in a very long time that Jack Abbot wakes up positively giddy. It was a feeling that he didn’t know he could still feel in his old age after losing so much. After all the secondary trauma he experienced day after day. But you just had that effect on him even if you weren’t around physically. Your infectious energy and positive attitude made him feel like a much younger man. A version of himself before the life changing injury. Someone that his therapist praised and said that he was showing significant progress.
Hell he was practicing skipping into the fucking PITT that evening. His good mood being noticed immediately by everyone and it set the whole place in edge. People glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes, scrambling to move out of his way, stuttering out their answers in cautious clinically structured sentences. The man hadn’t cracked so much as a smile since you’d left and while usually Jack tried his best to keep his favoritism and little work crush towards you in check today he just couldn’t help himself.
“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Robby grunts pausing his charting to glance over at his fellow attending. He peers at him from over the frames of his glasses taking in the way Jack is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with energy. His gaze locked onto the staff doors that lead to and from the ED. The pieces fall into place and Robby can’t help but chuckle as he shakes his head. “Don’t see too eager Abbot you’ll give everyone the right impression.” He’s about to snap back with a witty reply when the doors burst open and the reality of working at the PITT comes crashing down on them.
“We have two patients both males, suffering from multiple GSWs. The first has two to the left shoulder and one the chest. With only one exit wound. Paramedics on scene think there’s at least two bullets somewhere in him. The other has one in the right shoulder and upper arm. Two clear exit wounds.” Jack and Robby abandon their post at the charge desk each taking a patient into separate trauma bays. It was a universal agreement they had made years ago that when a serious trauma came in right at shift change that the fresh attending would take on the more severe trauma. While he works Jack is focused. Methodically falling into a pattern of behaviors ingrained in him that have become secondary to breathing. He’s still in the trauma bay when the door opens and Mateo and you enter the PITT.
You’re met with smiles, greetings, a hug from Dana, a fist bump from Ellis, a pat on the back from Shen. You let out a sigh of contentment feeling like you’re back at home. Well mostly you can’t stop your gaze from scanning the ED looking for silver curls, broad shoulders, and that flirty little smirk that never fails to make your cheeks flush. “If you’re looking for Dr. Abbot he’s in an active Trauma.” Walsh says casually as she steps around you ducking down lowering her voice as she murmurs into your ear. “Between you and me I’m not sure how much longer we would have lasted without you. He’s been insufferable since you left.”
The comment was supposed to make you giggle. A quiet update about how deeply you were missed. Walsh was one of the few people besides Mateo that you suspect knew about your little crush on the older night attending. But with your new found knowledge it causes you to grimace. A shrug of indifference as you bite the inside of your cheek in an attempt to school your expression. “For someone who’s been in the field for over twenty years I’d expect him to have a better handle on his feelings. Especially over some newbie nurse.” The comment causes Walsh to pause her eyebrow raising as she studies you trying to decider what happened to the bubbly, empathetic, and smitten nurse she was used to. She doesn’t have time to ask any follow up as the warm voice of Dr. Robby fills the air. “There she is! The heart and soul of the nightcrawlers!” You can’t help but smile at the day shift attending as he pulls his gloves off and pumps several pumps of hand sanitizer into his palms as he approaches you.
“Hi Dr. Robby it’s good to be back.” You chirp giving him a toothy grin. Moving with open arms to accept the hug he was offering. In the other room Jack responded to Robby’s voice on instinct. His head snapping up his mind still in trauma mode thinking that Robby was coming to join him. But instead he sees the deep set crinkles around Robby’s eyes, the open arms, and just as Jack processes what came from his friend’s mouth he catches sight of you. Just for a second everything goes into slow motion. The sounds of the machines fade away, the warmth from the blood coating his gloves doesn’t bug him, and all he can focus on is how you’re practically glowing. You look good, better than good. Your smile lighting up the room, how you eagerly bounce forward to accept Robby’s hug, the laugh you let out at something Robby says too softly for Jack to hear.
But that’s all he gets before the world slams back to the present as Dr. Langdon’s voice cuts through. “Abbot am I pushing another unit of blood or not?!” He’s back in it moving, barking orders, hands moving to staunch the bleeding and pack the wound. The spike in his adrenaline having nothing to do with the current patient bleeding out in front of him. The second the patient is deemed clear Abbot is ripping his gloves off and making a beeline towards the small group of staff around the charge desk. His prosthetic clicking as he covers the ground, his heart beating against his ribs, his mouth going dry as he slides into the group beside Henderson. Your back is to him as you chatter. Your hands moving energetically as you lean forward slightly.
Jack crosses his arms the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He clears his throat “Well look what the cat dragged back in. You look good kid, refreshed.” His voice a touch raspy as he looks down at you. He watches you whip around your eyes going wide. He expects the shy smile you turned around with to turn into your cheerful grin. The usual slight flush that always seems to color your cheeks when he catches you off guard. His fingers twitch, nails biting into the freckled skin of his biceps as all he wants to do is wrap his arms around you and pull you into his chest. But as you turn your smile falls. For a second it flashes into a pained grimace before it disappears. Instead of stepping forward towards him you step back unconsciously seeking out Robby’s large form hovering behind you. The warmth and infectious joy that radiates from you seems to flatline when you face the night shift attending.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot…” Your voice is soft, strained, colder than he was expecting and it causes his stomach to drop. “Besides the cat didn’t drag back anything. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” There’s a sharpness in your tone that causes Robby’s eyebrows shoot up his gaze flickering between you and Jack. Jack on his part seems shocked by your words. He swallows uncomfortably for once at a loss for words. Robby steps in before the rumor mill starts up and things get worse. He steps forward clapping his hands over the tops of your shoulders giving them a little squeeze. “Trust me sweetheart everyone thought you were coming back. Especially me Dana and Lena don’t just vet anybody in this ED.” his voice is warm and playful trying to smooth the tension that’s building. You subconsciously lean back into his touch something that Jack is starting to realize he’s not the biggest fan of.
“It’s nice at least someone believes in me.” The comment catches both Robby and Abbot off guard. Sarcastic and a witty remarks weren’t uncommon coming out of your mouth but this wasn’t a playful tease. Your voice was flat, the corners of your mouth remained at a slight downwards tilt, and you were already turning your back towards the two attendings as you stalked over to Lena to get debriefed about what you needed to do for tonight. “Alright people this is still and ED. Fun is over let’s get a move on!” Jack’s voice cuts through the uneasy silence as he claps rubbing his hands together. “Fuck so much for trying to control the rumor mill.” Robby murmurs under his breath rubbing the back of his neck as he stands next to the night attending. Jack doesn’t say anything his eyes watching the sway of your hips and the ridged set of your shoulders. “What the hell did you do to her brother?” Jack just shrugs finally looking away from you and to Robby his voice soft. “I have no fucking idea.”
The rest of the night doesn’t go much better. It’s busy as always the constant stream of patients never ending interrupted by incoming traumas that keeps Dr. Abbot busy and separated from you. Every time he tried to catch your attention you were off running like an elopement risk across the ED to assist anybody but him. Whenever he turned to call you into a case with him Mateo seemed to appear. A grin on his face, gloves pulled on, already saying he wanted in before disappearing into the room that you were supposed to be called into. Each time it happened it set him more and more on edge. The few times he was able to get you in a room he might as well have pulled in a ghost.
There was no joking, no witty quips, none of your usual warmth as you worked. He couldn’t even get you to crack a smile no matter what shitty jokes he cracked. Jack was only met with one word answers and grating clinical dialogue. At this point everyone had noticed the shift in dynamic between you and Dr. Abbot. It was impossible to miss. He tried to ignore the sympathetic smile from Shen and the questioning looks from Ellis but it was nearly impossible to ignore when he knew you were only an arms length away. He wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or thankful that Perlah and Princess didn’t work the night shift. On the one hand he was grateful because nobody was openly whispering and talking about the change in dynamic. But at the same time if they were around they would have known exactly what had happened that caused your sudden detachment.
You were exhausted by the end of your first shift back. You trudge your way through rounds the gentle prompts from Perlah and Princess causing you to snap back into reality as you pass off patient information. When you finally stop moving standing still with your coworkers by the charge desk the familiar ache in your feet and weariness in your bones hits you full force. A small noise is pulled from you as you sag against Mateo who chuckles. A small smile crosses your face when you hear Dana’s motherly chastising towards her day shift nurses. You’re barely listening as things are passed off. Finally free from your shift you trudge towards your lockers gathering your things as you make your way to the parking lot.
It was just your luck that your car got a flat tire. You groaned letting your head fall against the steering wheel as you took a minute to center yourself before popping the trunk and sliding out of the seat. The morning sun warmed your back as you desperately tried to clear out all the junk to get to your spare tire and wrench. “Everything alright?” You close your eyes instantly recognizing the owner of the voice. You let your head drop wondering if it would be too late to run off into the sunrise. “Yes Dr. Abbot everything is fine.” You go to stand only to realize he was right behind you peering over your shoulder at your flattened back tire. “Sure doesn’t seem like it kid. Here let me give you a hand.”
He’s already moving before you can protest. His strong chest pressing against your back. His arm muscular, freckled, larger than you remember extends out past your own his large hands and thick fingers easily lifting the trap door in your trunk that you were previously struggling with. You hate the way your body goes hot. Your cheeks flushing at the contact, your breath hitching, a fleeting inappropriate thought wondering what it would feel like to have those hands spreading your thighs apart holding you steady while his head d-. Your fantasy is abruptly cut off by the loud thud of the trap door slamming shut. A grunt from Jack as he lifts the spare out of the trunk his biceps budging as he lowers it to the ground. The sudden space between the two of you feels like being submerged in a bucket of ice water.
“I-I can take it from here!”You flinch at the way your voice catches stuttering through the sentence as you lunge for the tire moving it out of Abbot’s grasp. “Thanks for the help. See you tomorrow.” You hope that your clipped goodbye is enough to shoo him away but as you crouch on the ground in front of him his shadow doesn’t move. The silence between the two of you is suffocating broken only by the sounds of early morning Pittsburgh traffic. Trembling hands moving towards the wrench on a clumsy attempt to appear busy and for a moment you think you’re free when you hear the sigh Jack lets out through his nose. “Listen kid I don’t know what I did b-“ it’s the final straw for your patience.
Something in you snaps when he says it. As if he doesn’t know what he did. He’s not the victim here, he’s not innocent, he’s actively betting against your future. On your failure. As if the late nights studying, the volunteering, the internships, the graduating from nursing school, and the endless dedication to the patients in your care day after day ment nothing. He viewed you how most people in your field viewed you. Young, dumb, overly eager, and naive about the reality of the work you do just because you came to work enthusiastic, empathetic, and with a smile on your face. It was a label you were used to getting something that you always let roll off your shoulders, but for some reason coming from Jack Abbot it cut deeper than you care to admit. So much so that you abandon the tire standing up turning to face the older man.
“For the love of god. Stop calling me that!” You explode your hands balling into fists as your voice cuts through the parking lot echoing over the top of the buildings. “I’m not a fucking kid that needs your constant validation. I’m a grown fucking woman!” You can’t stop the flood that falls from your lips. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. In the back of your mind you’re screaming at yourself for losing it at your attending. You should’ve talked to someone about what Mateo told you. Probably Lena since she is your charge nurse. Hell you probably even could have tried to talk to Robby about it, seeing as he at the very least believed in your abilities. Jack on his part doesn’t move an inch. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscle in his jaw twitches, and he simply raises an eyebrow watching with an infuriating clinical eye at your outburst. Finally after several beats of silence he speaks his tone exasperated and soft “You could’ve fooled me.”
Your jaw drops as a humorless scoff of disbelief is ripped from you. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him. There’s no way he just said that to you. You’ve had to have misheard him. But despite your exhaustion you know what you heard and your frustrations bubble over. You move, surging forward till your chest to chest with the night attending. Your chin tilted slightly as you glare up at him. “You want to talk about childish behavior Dr. Abbot? Then let’s talk about you making a bet with Robby about how you thought I was going to quit after being attacked.”
Jack’s cool clinical facade slips. There’s a moment of confusion brows furrowing, lips pursing slightly as he wracks his brain for what you’re talking about. But then as he realizes what you’re talking about. He realizes that he’s been caught in a shitty situation that is only made a thousand times worse due to a miscommunication. His whole demeanor shifts a look of guilt and expression of shame. His breath catches in his throat. His arms unfold and hands that originally went to cradle your upper arms now hesitate as he stands there feeling helpless as he watches your eyes fill with tears of frustration and sadness. He feels like the ground underneath him just opened up and swallowed him whole. He tried to speak but nothing came out his mouth felt like he had eaten sand. It was as if he was drowning on dry land.
“Y/N wait, I can explain.” But you’re already shaking your head. Looking away so he can’t see the tears that have breached your wetted your lashes and slipped down your cheeks. “Why? Just tell me why.” It’s all you can choke out and by the way your voice breaks you know he knows you’re crying. Embarrassment flares in your belly and in an ugly turn you let it fuel your frustration. You look back up at Abbot jaw tight, eyes narrowed, nose sniffling and without thinking you shove him your hands connecting with his firm chest. “Why?! Is it because I’m young?! Or because I’m kind?! Or let me guess is it because I choose not to be a cynical, pessimistic, person that goes to the roof to ‘take a breath’ like you or Robby?!” He lets you shove him. Staying quite his face twisted in pain as he lets you break down in front of him. It only fuels to piss you off more wishing he would just talk to you. “Which is it Dr. Abbot?! What is it about me that makes you think I’m not going to make it in this line of work?!”
Your hands don’t make contact with his chest this time. Instead he moves, years of tactical combat reflexes finally being allowed to kick in as he gathers both your wrists in one hand. “Stop, take a breath.” He tugs once causing you to stumble closer until you’re pressed right against him. You feel the hum of approval rumble through his chest as you suck in a shaky breath. “Atta girl.” He leans down his breath tickling your flushed cheeks. “There you go sweetheart. Now are you going to let me talk?” You swallow thickly your voice failing you as you nod. “Good. You’re right. I made a bet with Robby about you quitting.” You go to open your mouth but the look Jack gives you makes you shut it. “But it wasn’t over you being attacked. Never would I ever make a bet over something like that. I made that bet with Robby when you first started. Before we really got to know each other.”
He could see the annoyance flash across your face but he pushed forward. “I admit it was childish and stupid. But in all honesty I have seen more students, residents, and CNAs who enter into the Pitt all bright eyed and bushy tailed like yourself, and burn out faster than the rest of them because like you, they all cared too much, and never knew when to take a step back.” A small smile tugging at his lips as he looked down at you. “And that’s just the day shift, they don’t even get the weird stuff.” Despite your attempt to stay annoyed you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you.
“This job will eat you alive and most people let it. But you’ve showed up every night and haven’t let anything stop you from just being yourself. Your kind, energetic, compassionate self…” You realize that at some point Jack had switched from holding your wrists in his grasp to your hands. This thumb rubbing small circles against your skin. “Which has honestly blown me away. Whether you see it or not you’ve made a change on the nightshift for the better.”He hesitates his expression softening and when he speaks his voice is slightly thicker. “To be completely honest, after what happened, I was terrified you weren’t going to come back. I thought about you every day.”
The admission catches you off guard and you notice the faint rosiness that creep up Abbot’s neck, coloring his cheeks. Neither of you move away when his voice drops to a whisper. “As someone that prefers the darkness, you’re a light I’m just not willing to lose.” There’s a pause a split second where you’re both just staring into each other’s eyes. Hearts hammering against rib cages. You take a shaky breath. Abbot’s gaze drops towards your parted lips. He unconsciously licks his own. It’s not quite an invitation but it’s enough for your hands to trail up his chest. Feeling the hard muscles of his pecs beneath the thin layer of fat.
Your hands gently cupping his jaw as you pull him down crushing your lips against his own. There’s a second where he’s frozen and it’s just your lips moving against his and you wonder if you’ve made a horrible mistake. But then this hands move one wrapping around your waist the other tangling in your hair as he tilts his head kissing you back. His tongue tracing the seam of your lip. Silently begging for you to open and let him take control. You melt against him as you part your lips and he licks his way into your mouth.
You’re vaguely aware he’s crowding you, guiding you with firm hands as he forces you backwards. The cold metal of your car against your back causes you arch into the warmth of his body and Jack takes the opportunity to slot his leg between yours. The warmth of his thigh between yours pulls out a whine a from you as heat pools low in your belly. Jack grins against your lips a chuckle escaping from him. “Someone’s needy.” He mumbles against your lips and you swear you feel your knees buckle. His hands are on either side of the car keeping you boxed in. His broad form concealing you from any passersby.
Your hands press against him and as you pull away his teeth catch your bottom lip with a gentle tug. “J-Jack we can’t do this here.” Your voice is a breathy pant as you look at Jack’s blown pupils, mussed hair, and kiss swollen lips. He lets out a pained sigh nodding his gaze never leaving yours. “Come home with me?” You feel your face heat up the implications of what was to come clear if you accepted the invitation. Mustering all the courage you have left you nod sealing your fate.
