Hi I'm Katy and this is my blog! I'm 20+ yrs old, she/her. I mainly write fluff, hurt/comfort and angst, all SFW.
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Main Masterlist
Character Masterlist
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Hobie Brown Masterlist
TASM Peter Parker Masterlist
Simon 'Ghost' Riley Masterlist
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick Masterlist
Jason Todd Masterlist
Ekko (Arcane) Masterlist
Aaron Davis (ITSV) Masterlist
Robert Robertson III (Dispatch) Masterlist
Lyonel Baratheon (AKOTSK) Masterlist
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Apothecary Event --1 year anniversary -closed-
Octobie '24 event
Summer flick screening -- 2nd year anniversary event
Octobie '25 event
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Synopsis: You go to work like normal even though you don't feel normal. But a Co-worker is ready to lend a shoulder to cry on.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Part 6 of my series, mockumentary AU, the office AU, Co-worker AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it, hurt/comfort.
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Co-worker AU Masterlist
Part 6 >>> Part 7
Miguel calls for a meeting right at the start of the shift, and Hobie finds you already sitting up front. Looking just like how he remembered— pretty, sunshine kissing your cheeks with a smile worthy of a portrait.
He maneuvers over to you, or tries to anyway but Lyla and Jessica get to sit by your side before he could.
You couldn’t even pretend that you didn’t see him as Hobie goes to sit at the back together with the lunch club. Feeling eyes on you, you see the camera right on you as you act casually despite your fingers tapping incessantly at your thigh.
“Did you see that she’s back?” Pavitr exclaims excitedly to the lunch club. “Do you think she brought us exotic snacks?”
“She didn’t go to some far flung country, Pav.” Gayatri says, hands intertwined with his. “But she did say that she got us something. What do you think, Hobie?” Her brown eyes look at him teasingly. “I missed her, did you miss her?”
The rest of the lunch club stifle their laugh, even Miles turns his head away to have a giggle.
“She got you guys keychains and magnets, she told me.” He casually answers to annoy them, they’re not getting a reaction out of him.
You did tell him in a text when you showed off your haul of souvenirs that were haphazardly placed on top of a hotel bed. Hobie won’t tell them that he zoomed in on each one to look for his souvenir.
“Oh, fuck off, the surprise is ruined.” Gwen sighs, shaking his head at Hobie. “She does look great though.” Tilting her head, the others join in, simultaneously tilting their heads at an angle to get a better look at you. “I bet Hobie thinks so too.” She cheekily jabs his bicep, earning an annoyed yet flustered grunt from him.
“Yeah, she’s glowing.” Miles remarks as the other three agree wholeheartedly. “Man, we should’ve volunteered instead.”
“Please, as if we could sit still during a boring ass conference about electric toothbrushes.”
Their banter falls in the back of Hobie’s mind in favour of seeing your smile and hearing your laugh. After months of missing you, wanting to see that same smile again after Peter said something stupid to you like today, Hobie was so close to volunteering to join you on the road. He almost did, but Lyla, in all her kind-heartedness hidden underneath all that perfume and faux fur lined around her stilettos, told him that it’s for the best to leave you alone. To leave you to your soul searching. Hobie didn’t understand it at first, why you would leave and prefer to be all alone for months on end going from boring conferences to another. Until he remembered the night he followed you after what happened during your birthday.
Maybe he buried that moment deep in his heart because the hurt and pain he saw on your face almost broke him. You didn’t deserve it, MJ didn’t deserve you.
MJ tried to get him into her band and join them on their record label, but despite his dreams, despite his wants, he declined. Not after what he witnessed.
He blinks and he’s standing back on the hill with your car parked haphazardly, lights opened as the night chill lingers in his bones.
The camera crew found you first, he would credit them in following you before he could but they have their cameras pointed right at you as you sit still inside the driver’s seat. As if you’re in a catatonic state, as if MJ’s betrayal took a part of your heart that makes it tick.
He exclaims your name, and he could hear the camera lenses whirr right behind him. He ignores them in favour of you, it’s a good thing that they’re not invading the already volatile tension or else he’d be shoving them on their asses, and breaking their equipment, contract be damned. Hobie doesn’t even shut off the van nor close the door when he’s urgently making his way over to you. The headlights illuminate his way to you, shadows dancing on the grassy ground.
“Love.” He makes it to your car, knocking on the window as you stare blankly at the view in front of you.
The stars are out, and the moon shines in a cloudless sky. It’s beautiful out, and the city skyline below blinks at him whilst the sounds muffle from where he stands above. It would’ve been a romantic spot, and it might’ve been a prime make out point for teenagers but he doesn’t feel the love tonight when tears are still streaming down your frozen expression.
Instead of banging at the windows, he stays right there, leaning on the door, all the while keeping an eye on you. He doesn’t speak when he knows that no words could ever make you feel better.
You just lost your best friend, and unfortunately, he knows the feeling.
The lock clicks, and the squeak of the windows has him moving away from the door.
You meet with his eyes, a calming brown, a familiar sight, one that you needed most. You open your mouth to speak, to say anything, but no words come out.
So he speaks for you. “Can I sit with you?” He asks, soft, gentle and understanding.
You nod, and it’s enough for him to move. He goes around the hood of the car and opens the door.
Hobie sits in silence, your car smells like lemon, freshly cleaned, and the bobblehead of a cat on the dashboard bobs up and down in greeting. The car feels like you, warm, comforting, just like the crocheted blanket draped on the backseat, and the easel and paint brush keychain dangling right on the rearview mirror. Just like everything in your life, you carved a place of yourself in it the moment you finally could. The moment you finally feel at ease and just breathe.
The barbed wire bracelet hangs loose around your wrist, the metal catching the moonlight as it dangles aimlessly. You feel like the bracelet, just dangling there, holding on by your teeth.
Hobie thinks that he should've given you a better present for your birthday, something sweeter, something more meaningful, not a five year old bracelet he bought on a whim at a flea market. What MJ did to you was awful, he feels awful, today was supposed to be your day, something to smile and reminisce about in the future. Not like this, ending up in the middle of nowhere with your heart broken into pieces with someone who has no right words to say to you.
It feels easy to sink into the plush of the seat, and Hobie thinks that it should be easy for you to relax in your own space, but instead he sees your shoulders taut, and knuckles shaking around the steering wheel as if you don’t belong here, as if you’re about to be yanked by the collar and tossed right outside and kicked down the hill for intruding.
You were happy, and you were finally coming out of your shell, only for that shell to be bashed and broken down into pieces with a hammer. You can never go back.
The whirr of the engine sings as it hums, and what seemed to be for hours, he stayed there with you in silence.
The cameras keeps a long distance away from the two of you, capturing the scene from behind as they could see the two silhouettes through the glass. Then, your hands leave the steering wheel, and the crew captures the moment you lay your head against his shoulder. No words exchanged, just a simple comforting gesture that means the world to you, that he gladly lets you have.
It’s been like that ever since your birthday, just a quiet yet gentle reassurance that he’s there for you, whether you’re willing to talk it out or just to be in someone’s presence. He’s there, a nod at you in the hallways as you pass by, hands grazing along the other, or a smile tossed at you from across the bullpen. And you’d give him that tight lipped smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, the one that you regret giving him when he deserves more than a half-hearted smile, when you want to smile at him fully like before.
Sometimes he lets you know that he’s there with you through food, making sure that you’ve at least eaten something for that day. Hobie meal preps for two, and has to wake up an hour earlier than usual, but that’s alright for him, you’d usually eat it, sometimes you won’t, either way, it’s all worth it just to see your shoulders relax and your fists unfurl the moment you take the first bite or just to see that someone still remembers you.
He would offer words, but when he was in your shoes all those years ago, all he wanted was for someone to understand, to just be there and not talk about the pain of being left by someone you once loved. So he stayed, lingered and kept an eye on you at the office, until the day you didn’t come to work, only to find out through Miguel that you volunteered to leave for months.
He was actually happy for you, glad that you have taken the reins and pulled yourself up from the hole of your grief to get out of it. Even if that means he would miss you dearly. He can always text and call you anyway.
And he did a few times, more than a few times. You’d always reply though, despite the time difference. You’d always go out of your way to respond to him, whether it’s just a picture of his lunch, a silly picture of the lunch club during band practice, or a random cat he saw on the street, you’d always reply. And in turn, you send him pictures of your dinner, the boring conferences with a little snooze emoji added in, or where you are occasionally. A hotel you’re currently staying at, a restaurant you’re in, or even a gas station where you have a stop over to grab some snacks for the road, whatever it is, Hobie is there to keep track of you, like a wordless agreement that you two have. Someone has to know your location, and you trust Hobie enough to let him know where you are. Sometimes it’s blatant, where you would actually ping your location and send it to him, that’s when he would always check his phone every two minutes to check on you, and only after you message him that you’re at the airport or that you’re finally in your car, that’s when he lets out a sigh of relief.
The band and the lunch club thinks he has become a lovelorn loser pining for you across the ocean, while the documentary crew thinks he’s irritated like he has a wooden splinter up his ass. He’s both, but he’ll never say it out loud, or to anyone for that matter.
Jared pans the camera to Hobie’s resting bitch face and he flinches when Hobie flicks his eyes at him, flipping him the bird that he has to edit out and take another overtime just to do so.
“Holy shit, Hobie.” Gwen snatches his wrist, fingers digging in that has him waking up from his thoughts of you. “Is that—?”
Leather heels clack from outside as he sees a glimpse of shiny raven hair from the conference room windows. The door opens, and Miguel pauses from his speech about workplace safety.
The man sighs tiredly. “You’re late.”
All eyes are on the newcomer as Hobie and the lunch club’s eyes widen in shock. “What the actual fuck.” They simultaneously say to the delight of the producer.
“Yuri?” You’re the first person to acknowledge her by name. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here now.” She shrugs casually, and the lunch club breaks from their shock to laugh loudly that it makes the boom mics peak. “Oh, hey, you guys are here too.”
“What?” Hobie blinks and rubs his eyes, when he opens them she’s still there standing in her three piece suit and pencil skirt. “You can’t work ‘ere!”
“Why not?”
You look over your shoulder over to them to stifle a laugh, only to realize that it’s the first time you’ve seen him fully. Hobie’s gaze turns to you, and he immediately softens. Giving him a small wave, Lyla interrupts.
“Yeah, why not?” She stands up, giving her chair to Yuri, making a show of it as she raises a brow at Hobie. “I hired her as our social media manager.”
Miles scrunches his face. “We’re an electric toothbrush company.”
“We’re not getting any collabs with that mindset, Mr. Morales.” Yuri says teasingly to irk him. “So this is where you go off to, Hobie, I thought you worked at the diner.”
“That was nearly a decade ago, Yuri.” There’s a blooming headache in between his brows.
She simply rolls her eyes, turning to face you as she sits down. “Oh, hey gorgeous, I didn’t know all the pretty ones get to sit up front.” Winking at Lyla, then over to Jess, she sets her manicured nails onto the first row.
“Hi, I’m Peter—”
“No, thank you, Paul.” Yuri waves him away casually. “So, don’t let me keep you, boss man.”
Miguel looks like he’s about to burst a vein, he’s definitely going to have a stern talking to Lyla about her bias on hiring new people.
“Welcome, Miss Yuri Watanabe.” He greets monotonously to scattered applause. “As I was saying, we will have a union meeting about what happened in shipping…”
—
The day went on as usual despite the little surprise at the start. Turns out Yuri was a great addition to the team, she had great suggestions that would help increase sales. Plus she’s getting along well with everyone, especially Lyla. The downside is that she might call for some people to help in making those said internet content. You’ll probably be hiding from her just like everyone else after hearing that.
You’ve seen everyone, greeted and chatted with pretty much every single co-worker, and have given them the small souvenir you stocked for them. Lyla gets a pretty pink scarf that was fully weaved, Miguel gets a novelty mug of mount Rushmore, while Jessica gets a pair of baby booties that have palm trees from your trip to LA. The lunch club gets their keychains and magnets that have their names on it from all the places you stopped, each looking gaudy as the next. And Harry gets the classic souvenir t-shirt that he may or may not wear. Even Peter and Jared get something, but one person hasn’t received theirs, and coincidentally, he’s the only person whom you haven’t spoken to yet since you got here.
It was a busy day for you, and you didn’t have enough time to speak to Hobie, even at lunch when you had to skip it in favour of catching up to some work. Miguel noticed and handed you some vending machine biscuits to stave off the hunger, which you appreciate, but now you’re starving.
You stayed back fifteen minutes after you’re supposed to clock out purposefully. Harry has kissed your cheek goodbye with a promise to catch up next time, and the lunch club has invited you over for a movie night with the band on the weekend.
Whilst you hear the fading giggles of Lyla and Yuri from the closing elevators, you grab your bag quickly and take the present in your hand with one mission in mind— get to the mailroom.
To your surprise, you find the room already empty. You’re sure that he hasn’t left yet when your eyes were glued to the elevators. You’re about to pull out your phone to call him, but you hear rustling from behind his desk.
The place was a convoluted mess, it probably only makes sense to him and Gwen. It’s filled with piles of boxes, manila envelopes, and tons of files haphazardly placed in the corner. The shredder is filled to the brim and probably breathing its last life. There is one thing that caught your eye though, in a sea of boxes and blanched papers, is an orchid. It’s purple and pretty, a sight to behold in the mess.
“You like Terrence?” Hobie pokes his head from under the desk, hair sticking out from all angles, and a few pieces of shredded paper clings to him.
You almost shriek, staggering back as your back hits the wall. “Fucking hell, Hobie!”
Hobie has the audacity to laugh. “Shit, sorry, love.” Standing up, dusting himself, he tilts his head teasingly at you. “You got somethin’ for me to send out?” He gestures for the box in your hands.
“Yeah, wait, no, actually this is for you.” You close the distance, offering the present to him bashfully. “Consider this mail delivered.”
His eyes shine under the humming fluorescent lights as he takes the box gingerly in his hand. He weighs it in his hold, chuckling under his breath, and instead of opening it, he turns to gaze at you with the same smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” You utter with the same warmth.
He still doesn’t open it, and you’re now bouncing on the heels of your feet.
“You look happy.”
Chortling, your head tilts down to hide your bashful smile and your heated cheeks. “Yeah, fresh air and two hours of screentime a day will do that to you.”
“Nah, you did this yourself. I’m happy that you’re happy.” His thumb scratches at the box nervously. “‘m…” he takes a deep breath, and your sweetened familiar perfume wafts in his nose that immediately eases the tension in his shoulders. “It’s good to see you back, really, ‘m happy you’re back.”
Your eyes flick towards him, still smiling. “I heard that you were irritated the whole time I was gone.”
He groans, head tilting back as he runs a hand on his expression. “Damnit, Jared.”
Giggling, you close the distance again, a hand gingerly brushing along the petals of the orchid. “Why terrence?”
“Gwen named him, I don’t know why she picked that though.”
“What would you have chosen instead?”
“Leopold.”
You let out a laugh that has him smiling even more. “Yeah, as if that’s any better.”
“It’s a mighty name for an orchid, love.” Hobie finally opens the present when he notices your eyes kept flicking over to it and then back to him with unbridled anticipation.
A domed glass greets him, and as he gently takes it out of the box, he sees the Colorado mountains inside the snowglobe, perfectly still as snow drifts inside. It’s not some cheap novelty globe, it’s well made, wood and glass with a metal band around it. His thumb feels an engraving up front, and he turns it to read the words, ‘wish you were here, Hobie!’ engraved right on the metal. His heart almost stopped, and his breath hitched in his throat.
“They almost misspelled it as ‘Hobby,’ I made them redo it. I was very brave about it actually.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you look at him with trembling anticipation. “I know it’s gaudy and probably not to your taste but it reminded me of you. I just thought, ‘wow, Hobie would love to see the mountains.’ And a snowglobe of it is the closest thing I could get you, a picture just doesn’t do it justice.”
“Lovie.” Stepping over boxes and around the table, he comes closer to you, eyes gazing into your own tenderly, russet swimming with something you’re not yet privy to. “It’s beautiful, I love it.” Your name almost slips off his tongue in place of ‘it’.
Your shoulders physically relax as you let out a sigh of relief. “That’s great, maybe you could find a place for it in your houseboat.”
“Speakin’ of,” he rolls the snowglobe in his hands, feeling the coldness of the glass. “D’you want to pick the spot for it? I’ll make us dinner, nothin’ fancy, jus’ some leftovers I have.”
Past you would’ve said no, but this version of you, who is just finding out how to truly live? What’s stopping you?
“As long as you let me buy the drinks.”
“Deal.”
—
Hobie admires the snowglobe on his desk, tucked in between his soldering machine and a wrench, a prettier sight amidst metal and unfinished projects.
He catches a giddy smile on his face from the reflection on a sheet of metal, and instead of fixing his face and flattening the smile, he grins even more. You thought of him when you saw those beautiful mountains, enough that when you saw the snowglobe at a gift shop it reminded you of him. It makes his heart lurch in his chest, to be seen as something as beautiful as those mountains felt more than familial, more than friendship, he could only hope at least.
A warm feeling underneath his ribcage calls your name, and he doesn’t muffle it.
The microwave beeps, and he wakes up from his lovestruck thoughts to grab the two bowls of leftover pesto that has angel hair pasta instead of the usual when angel hair was the only thing left in his cupboard.
Placing each one on a wooden tray that Ned left behind, he also grabs two mismatched glasses on his way out.
When he steps out of the houseboat, the cold seeping into his jeans and the cloudless sky spanning across the bay, he doesn’t see you in the same place where he left you on the patio chair.
“Love?” You might’ve fallen overboard, or hell, left without a word.
“Over here!” Your voice echoes amidst the rushing sound of water below. He follows the source, head looking up to see you sitting on his roof.
The way the moon lines up with the back of your head is heavenly, silver painting your smile, and the stars flickering right around you is a sight to behold that it takes his breath away.
“How’d you get up there?” His chuckles echo, bouncing off the waters as he gazes up at you with reverence.
“I used the chair,” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing. “The roof is stable right?”
“I hope so. Don’t want you fallin’ through it.”
“Insurance will cover idiocracy, I’m sure.” Shrugging with a laugh, you reach out to the tray. “Come up here, the view is amazing.”
He can’t resist your invitation. So he gives you the tray with some maneuvering, glasses and utensils clanking against the other as you place it on your lap.
“Right, move over, itsy bitsy spider.” Hands gripping the edge of the roof, he makes it look effortless to climb up with one pull up. His shirt rides up, stomach peeking in between the hem and the waistband of his jeans. In truth he could already feel his shoulders and lower back ache from the exercise. Groaning, he positions himself beside you, finding that the plastic bags from the shop are placed right behind you. He dusts his hands, and chuckles to himself, feeling your gaze on him. “Fuckin’ hell, love, you got me climbin’ my own roof for some slurpees and hotdogs.”
“And here I thought you climbed up here for the view.”
He considers you as the view, the best kind, probably a favorite of his. “That too.”
“So,” you reach for the slurpees, one raspberry and one electric blue that will surely taste nothing like blueberry as you pour it into each glass. “What’s been happening with you while I was gone?”
‘Wait for you to come back.’ Is what he wanted to say, but he bites his lip, teeth caught in the piercing as he unweaves it as nonchalantly as he could without you noticing. “Jus’ the usual, work, band, cook, band again.”
“That’s good. Keeping yourself occupied.” You mutter, looking at each drink in hand, trying to choose. Red or blue?
“I’ve got an idea.” Hobie takes both drinks, dumps half of the red into the plastic cup where it came from, and does the same with the blue. He then mixes both in the glass, making purple. He does the same to the other, making two new drinks. “There, save you some time.”
Your laughter brings out the moonlight even more as the light catches in your eyes. “Brilliant. This will surely not give us diabetes.” His fingers brushes along your own as he hands you your share. He’s cold, as cold as the drink in your grasp, and you want nothing more but to warm his hands with your own.
“As if these hotdogs won’t give us food poisonin’.” Despite his words, he takes a generous bite of the gas station hotdog that he lathered in ketchup and mustard.
“I’m immune to food poison at this point.” You grab a napkin and gesture to the stubble on his chin. “Sorry, you got a little…” he wipes but doesn’t get the blob of ketchup. Shaking your head with a grin, you move. “Can I?”
Hobie nods, then freezes in place whilst you wipe his chin gently. His eyes watch as you concentrate on the stain, the tip of your tongue poking out from between your lips and eyes narrowed like it’s the bane of your existence. “Got it all?”
“Yep,” your soft expression returns once you do. “Got it.”
The interaction didn’t feel awkward nor forced, it felt natural to the both of you, as if no time apart has passed.
“So, why the orchid?” You ask after a bite of your pasta that warms your insides.
“A client left it for Miguel.” Hobie pauses eating to watch the reaction on your blissful face when you take the first bite of his cooking. “But he said he didn’t want to take care of it, so Gwen and I have been takin’ care of it. It’s the office mascot now.”
“Can’t believe you had me replaced for a flower. A Terrence too.” You test the name on your tongue, garnering a chortle from Hobie. “The name is still weird, but sort of makes sense in a way.”
“You and a flower, there's barely any difference, both lovely.” He declares wholeheartedly.
“You’re a cheeseball, Hobie Brown.” Shaking your head with a smile, you feel your cheeks warm up despite the cold.
“You love it.” Nudging your arm, he watches the smile appear on your face. Lyla was right, the time apart made you feel better. “Any stories to tell me from your trips or am I not worthy to hear ‘em?”
“When were you not worthy?” You nudge him back, meeting with eyes, catching his gaze on your own that takes your breath away. The breeze flutters your lashes, and you get wind of his cologne, the same one you smelled on a random sunny day in California, one that you speed walked to follow, thinking that Hobie was there, only to see a stranger at the end.
Clearing your throat, you face your meal, stabbing your fork into the pasta before deciding to take a sip at the sickeningly sweet drink that lines your mouth. “Anyway, it was okay, the hotels I’ve been to were nice. And…” your tone fades as your thumb wipes away the condensation on the glass. “It was a good distraction.”
“Yeah,” Hobie swipes his tongue over his lips, elbow atop his knee as he looks into the water. “It probably wasn’t easy for you, being alone after what happened.”
“It’s weird though,” you shake your head, ducking down to meet with eyes as he returns your gaze. “I didn’t feel as lonely as I thought I would be. Being alone wasn’t so…lonely. I had you, you were one message or call away, and so were everyone else. And I haven’t felt like myself in a long time. I think the time I spent with myself helped me find— I don’t know how to put this, myself again. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.” Hobie’s russet eyes shine underneath the silver moonlight. Catching sight of the barbed wire bracelet he has gifted you that is still clasped around your wrist securely. You kept it. His heart swells.
“It was good and all, but I don't think I would've survived another month like that.”
“‘No man is an island,’ they said.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a story actually,” sitting up, you lay the tray behind you as you hold onto your slushie. “I signed up for a guided tour of New Orleans while I was there, y’know the touristy ones that shows you all the spooky places.” Hobie nods, listening along as he angles his body towards you unconsciously. “And I befriended this nice sweet old lady named Janet, and we chatted the whole way, turns out she’s been going to the same tour for a decade or so because her husband used to be a tour guide. I think she knew more than our tour guide.”
You chuckle, eyes glossing over as you continue. “Well, anyway, I went to the bathroom and when I came back out, the bus was gone. So I was like, ‘not again.’” Tone catching at the end, his hand instinctively reaches out to you, before his own trepidation stops him. “I didn’t know anyone, didn’t know where I was and my battery was dead. I sat there on the curb, wondering what to do, then five minutes later, the bus came back around again with a screaming Janet. She noticed I was gone, and she came back for me when she has only known me for an hour. An hour,” your cadence pitches higher, anger this time rather than sadness. “when I’ve known MJ for more than a decade.”
“Love…” Hobie calls your name softly as your head falls into your hands, fists rubbing in your eyes. Your body shakes, and he holds you, his own reluctance makes him pause but he does it anyway, and lets you cry, keeps the trembling to a minimum, absorbing it into himself.
“I–I think I’ve always been alone,” your words are muffled by your hands. “I just didn’t notice it whenever she was with me.” Lifting your head, you rest your cheek atop his waiting shoulder, and he lets you, he cradles you beside him on the creaky roof of his houseboat. “I don’t think she saw me like how I saw her. I love her, I really do, but she wouldn’t have noticed that I was left by the bus. But Janet did, you did, you always did. Hobie, I don’t want to be left by the bus anymore.”
A beat passes, and his palm gently brushes along the length of your arm, gently, softly, like a rock skipping on water.
“When I was a kid,” Hobie takes a deep breath, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes as he lays his chin on the crown of your head. “I got left by the bus too durin’ a trip, and Ned noticed that I was gone jus’ like your old lady did.” You let out a wet chuckle. “How ‘bout we both make sure that we don’t get left by the bus, hm? We’ll be each other’s…what do you call ‘em ‘ere?”
“Buddy, a buddy.”
“Yeah, that, a buddy, we’ll be each other’s buddy. Keepin’ an eye on each other, hm?”
“That sounds nice.” The breath you let out feels like the weight on your shoulders were finally lifted off of you. He feels nice under your cheek, warm, steady, whilst you feel his breath fan the top of your head, a familiar presence that you have been longing for. “I’d like that.”
“Me too, love.” Craning his neck down, he ducks to look at you.
The slow smile appearing on your face reassures him that you’ll be alright. “You know what the trip made me realize?” He hums. “It made me realize that I shouldn’t let everything pass by me, like I’m a bystander in my own life. That I should go and— and live. The world is fucking huge, Hobie, and I was missing it.”
“Then go and see it, lovie.” He holds your chin in between his thumb and index, grinning lovingly at you, a grin that you could feel in your chest.
You chortle, cheeks warm, heart feeling light. “I will, maybe once I’m financially stable, and when I find an apartment.”
Hobie’s brows furrow in worry. “You have no place to stay? Love,” he’s leaning away, holding you by your shoulders. “Since when?” He fears the worst.
Your jaw clenches, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “...Since my birthday.”
“Shit, love…” His face contorts into deep concern, not chastising or judging you, just incredibly worried. “So there wasn’t an aunt?”
“I know. And no, there isn’t.” You mumble apologetically. “I’ve been working on it and I haven’t found a good place where the locks actually work and where the place doesn’t smell like black mold.”
“Love.”
“I know, I’m…picky.”
“No, I— I’ve got a free room.” Scratching the back of his flaming neck, he feels utterly ridiculous for even saying that. Great, he just made things complicated and awkward between the two of you.
“Hobie, I can’t— that’s, that’s too much of an ask.”
“Funny when ‘m the one who feels like ‘m askin’ for too much from you. You’re in a vulnerable state and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable—”
“You’re not!” You touch his cheek, and he immediately clamps up. “I mean, I know what you’re saying, and you’re not taking advantage of me, it’s probably me taking advantage of your kindness.”
“You’re not.” He’s trying incredibly hard not to fumble his words. “I was the one who asked, love.”
“Can we start again?” You wince, fists curling in front of your face to hide your gritted expression that he’s endeared at.
“D’you want to be my roommate?” He starts again, more steady, more sure this time around.
“Only until I find my own place,” a hand patting his bicep, you smile lopsidedly. “and I will pay you, no buts, no saying no to my payment.”
“Lovie, d’you want to come live with me until you find your own place, and with reasonable rent?” Hobie restructures his words with a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Yes.”
Raising his cup, he clinks it with you, the slushie melting, the night growing colder. “Welcome home, then.”
Grinning giddily, you can’t help it when your legs kick about as it dangles from the roof. “To being roommates.” The two of you take a drink together, letting the same teeth rotting sweetness coat your tongue. “I’ve got more interesting stories actually. Less sad this time.”
Synopsis: After the disastrous birthday party, your heart is broken into pieces. Lost and alone, you find help from an unlikely friend.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Co-worker AU, part 5 of my series, mockumentary AU, The Office AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it. Hurt/comfort.
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It’s a beautiful sunny day at the office. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and despite the stark grey brutalist architecture of the office, nothing could ruin the day. Plus the documentary crew got some new equipment after the network’s big bosses liked the pilot they edited. ‘It’ll be a big hit,’ they said, and Jared the camera man is already thinking about buying a new car from the bonus he’s about to get.
But the subjects of the said documentary aren’t doing so hot unlike the people recording their every move.
Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.
“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.
“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.
“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.
His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.
“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.
Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”
Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.
“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”
Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”
The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.
“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.
Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.
The producer smiles at the interaction.
“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.
“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”
He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.
The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”
“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”
“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”
“No calling?”
His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”
“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.
The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”
“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”
“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.
“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.
—
Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.
He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.
Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.
“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”
—
Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.
“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”
“What happened to the conventions?”
“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”
—
“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.
Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.
You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.
Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.
Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.
You miss living.
Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.
You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.
The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.
You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.
When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.
People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.
“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”
For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.
“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.
“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”
You’d want nothing more.
But you can’t.
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.
Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.
“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”
“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.
The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.
You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.
“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.
“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.
“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”
If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.
“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.
“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”
“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.
“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.
“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”
The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”
“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.
“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”
“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”
“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.
The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.
Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.
You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.
You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.
With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.
You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.
During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”
But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.
And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.
She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.
You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.
You stayed, and yet she left.
Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.
The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.
Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.
A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.
“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.
“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.
“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”
Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.
“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”
His expression softens. “Sure.”
When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.
“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.
“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.
“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.
“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.
A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.
“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”
You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”
“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”
Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.
“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”
Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.
He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.
“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”
“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”
Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”
“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”
“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”
Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.
Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”
Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”
“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.
“Three months, huh?”
“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.
“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”
“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.
“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”
“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”
“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”
You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.
“Wait, why are you here?”
He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”
You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”
Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”
You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.
You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.
It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.
You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.
—
“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.
Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”
“Are you still…?”
“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”
Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”
“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.
“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”
—
“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”
He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”
You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”
“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.
Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.
Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.
You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.
Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.
With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.
You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.
When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.
You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.
It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.
All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.
You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.
Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.
“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”
“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”
“Nothing much.”
“Really? All those months? Nothing?”
“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”
“What?” You blink.
The scene flashbacks to two months ago.
“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.
Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.
“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.
“I’ve got you, babe!”
“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.
“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”
“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.
“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”
“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”
The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.
“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.
“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.
“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”
“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.
“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.
“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”
To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.
Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”
“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.
You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”
Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”
“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.
A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”
“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”
She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”
The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.
Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”
The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.
The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.
Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.
Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.
“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.
“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.
Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.
Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.
“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”
“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.
“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”
“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.
“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.
The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.
“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.
“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”
“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”
“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”
The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”
It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.
“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.
“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.
“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”
“Please.”
“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”
“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.
Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”
A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”
Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.
If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.
Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.
OH that cliff hanger for the coworker au! Does distance makes the heart grow fonder Hobie?👀 The slow burn of it all I am dying! I love them and the story🥰
Cliff hanger and coworker au is tradition at this point 😆 not a long wait for pt 6 tho 🤭 it'll be out in a couple of hours!
Hell yea!!! You know he was missing R so much that he keeps going by her desk just to feel a smidge of her presence
Synopsis: After the disastrous birthday party, your heart is broken into pieces. Lost and alone, you find help from an unlikely friend.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Co-worker AU, part 5 of my series, mockumentary AU, The Office AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it. Hurt/comfort.
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Part 5 >>> Part 6
It’s a beautiful sunny day at the office. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and despite the stark grey brutalist architecture of the office, nothing could ruin the day. Plus the documentary crew got some new equipment after the network’s big bosses liked the pilot they edited. ‘It’ll be a big hit,’ they said, and Jared the camera man is already thinking about buying a new car from the bonus he’s about to get.
But the subjects of the said documentary aren’t doing so hot unlike the people recording their every move.
Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.
“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.
“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.
“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.
His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.
“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.
Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”
Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.
“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”
Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”
The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.
“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.
Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.
The producer smiles at the interaction.
“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.
“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”
He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.
The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”
“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”
“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”
“No calling?”
His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”
“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.
The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”
“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”
“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.
“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.
—
Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.
He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.
Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.
“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”
—
Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.
“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”
“What happened to the conventions?”
“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”
—
“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.
Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.
You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.
Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.
Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.
You miss living.
Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.
You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.
The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.
You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.
When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.
People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.
“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”
For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.
“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.
“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”
You’d want nothing more.
But you can’t.
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.
Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.
“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”
“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.
The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.
You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.
“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.
“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.
“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”
If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.
“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.
“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”
“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.
“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.
“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”
The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”
“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.
“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”
“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”
“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.
The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.
Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.
You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.
You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.
With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.
You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.
During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”
But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.
And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.
She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.
You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.
You stayed, and yet she left.
Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.
The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.
Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.
A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.
“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.
“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.
“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”
Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.
“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”
His expression softens. “Sure.”
When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.
“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.
“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.
“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.
“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.
A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.
“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”
You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”
“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”
Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.
“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”
Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.
He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.
“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”
“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”
Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”
“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”
“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”
Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.
Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”
Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”
“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.
“Three months, huh?”
“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.
“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”
“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.
“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”
“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”
“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”
You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.
“Wait, why are you here?”
He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”
You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”
Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”
You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.
You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.
It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.
You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.
—
“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.
Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”
“Are you still…?”
“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”
Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”
“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.
“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”
—
“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”
He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”
You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”
“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.
Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.
Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.
You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.
Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.
With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.
You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.
When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.
You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.
It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.
All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.
You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.
Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.
“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”
“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”
“Nothing much.”
“Really? All those months? Nothing?”
“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”
“What?” You blink.
The scene flashbacks to two months ago.
“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.
Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.
“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.
“I’ve got you, babe!”
“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.
“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”
“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.
“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”
“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”
The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.
“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.
“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.
“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”
“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.
“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.
“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”
To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.
Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”
“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.
You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”
Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”
“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.
A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”
“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”
She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”
The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.
Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”
The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.
The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.
Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.
Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.
“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.
“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.
Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.
Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.
“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”
“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.
“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”
“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.
“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.
The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.
“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.
“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”
“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”
“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”
The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”
It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.
“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.
“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.
“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”
“Please.”
“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”
“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.
Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”
A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”
Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.
If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.
Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.
Oop, Hobie's big mad💀🤚🏾 And here go Harry being obnoxious🙄😮💨
THREE MONTHS??? DAMN WTF HAPPENED???
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life. –Yo, this R is by far the most relatable to me rn, Katy, are you in my walls??? This is tragic, We twinning fr🥲🥀
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind. –OMFG???? GET TF OUTTA MY WALLS, KATY??? BC WHY IS SHE DEADASS ME???
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.” –KATYYYYYY, LEMME SQUABBLE UP WITH HER, PLEASE, I BEG, SHE NEEDS THESE HANDS YESTERDAYYYY🤬🤬
Miguel getting stressed out over us crying💀🤚🏾 Also, Miggs, stop calling me a kid, call me ur wife😩💕💕 LMAO, let me stop, we're here for Hobie ofc🥰
My Miggy out here giving solid advice, why isn't he right here with ME rn🥲❤️
NO TALKING TO THE BARTENDER, TALK TO HOBIE??? Like, yeah, he may be a little out of our league but I can't let anybody else have that flat ass except for me🥲🤚🏾 Also, Harry...😮💨 Like, dude, you're a great guy and I'm sure in another life, we would be great together, but Hobie is always gonna triumph over you, I'm sorry😔
Bro, Jared really is like becoming part of our friend group and I honestly love that for him💕 The man needs a break between this and IPOB😮💨
LMAOOO, GAYATRI CARRYING PAV IS TAKING ME OUT💀🤚🏾 Peter, wtf? Why would you warm ur shit up in foil😭🤚🏾
Miguel is by best friend now, guys, and soon to be husband but he doesn't know it yet😏
Lol, but besides that, I'm glad R took some time for herself and stuff. Something we all need to do sooner or later. I just hope MJs place burns up into flames and that I get to whoop her ass☺️❤️
Synopsis: After the disastrous birthday party, your heart is broken into pieces. Lost and alone, you find help from an unlikely friend.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Co-worker AU, part 5 of my series, mockumentary AU, The Office AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it. Hurt/comfort.
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Part 5 >>> Part 6
It’s a beautiful sunny day at the office. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and despite the stark grey brutalist architecture of the office, nothing could ruin the day. Plus the documentary crew got some new equipment after the network’s big bosses liked the pilot they edited. ‘It’ll be a big hit,’ they said, and Jared the camera man is already thinking about buying a new car from the bonus he’s about to get.
But the subjects of the said documentary aren’t doing so hot unlike the people recording their every move.
Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.
“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.
“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.
“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.
His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.
“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.
Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”
Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.
“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”
Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”
The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.
“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.
Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.
The producer smiles at the interaction.
“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.
“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”
He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.
The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”
“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”
“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”
“No calling?”
His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”
“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.
The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”
“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”
“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.
“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.
—
Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.
He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.
Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.
“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”
—
Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.
“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”
“What happened to the conventions?”
“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”
—
“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.
Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.
You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.
Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.
Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.
You miss living.
Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.
You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.
The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.
You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.
When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.
People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.
“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”
For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.
“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.
“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”
You’d want nothing more.
But you can’t.
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.
Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.
“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”
“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.
The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.
You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.
“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.
“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.
“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”
If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.
“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.
“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”
“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.
“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.
“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”
The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”
“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.
“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”
“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”
“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.
The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.
Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.
You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.
You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.
With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.
You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.
During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”
But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.
And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.
She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.
You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.
You stayed, and yet she left.
Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.
The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.
Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.
A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.
“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.
“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.
“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”
Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.
“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”
His expression softens. “Sure.”
When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.
“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.
“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.
“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.
“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.
A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.
“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”
You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”
“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”
Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.
“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”
Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.
He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.
“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”
“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”
Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”
“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”
“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”
Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.
Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”
Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”
“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.
“Three months, huh?”
“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.
“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”
“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.
“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”
“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”
“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”
You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.
“Wait, why are you here?”
He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”
You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”
Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”
You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.
You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.
It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.
You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.
—
“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.
Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”
“Are you still…?”
“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”
Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”
“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.
“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”
—
“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”
He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”
You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”
“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.
Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.
Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.
You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.
Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.
With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.
You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.
When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.
You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.
It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.
All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.
You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.
Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.
“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”
“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”
“Nothing much.”
“Really? All those months? Nothing?”
“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”
“What?” You blink.
The scene flashbacks to two months ago.
“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.
Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.
“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.
“I’ve got you, babe!”
“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.
“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”
“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.
“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”
“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”
The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.
“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.
“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.
“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”
“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.
“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.
“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”
To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.
Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”
“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.
You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”
Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”
“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.
A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”
“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”
She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”
The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.
Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”
The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.
The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.
Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.
Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.
“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.
“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.
Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.
Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.
“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”
“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.
“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”
“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.
“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.
The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.
“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.
“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”
“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”
“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”
The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”
It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.
“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.
“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.
“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”
“Please.”
“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”
“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.
Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”
A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”
Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.
If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.
Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.
IMAGINE COWBOY HOBIE WITH A SINGER READER WHO SINGS TO MAKE MONEY SO ONE DAY HOBIE COMES TO THE CITY BECAUSE HE HAS TO LIKE HUNT SOMEONE DOWN OR SMT AND GOES TO THE TAVERN AND SEES READER SING AND HES ABSOLUTELY MESMERISED
SORRY AN IMAGE IS MY HEAD RN
Another cowboy! Hobie request! Thank you, lovely, I hope you like it 🫶
Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader
Tags: no use of Y/N, minimal dialogue, No specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy! Hobie, Western AU, Cowboy AU, TW violence, CW injury, CW drinking. Fluff.
ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ
Hobie enters the tavern, all bloodied knuckles, leather and broken skin. His horse, Harley, whinnies outside, glad of the rest from all the running she'd done earlier. The patrons quiet down, roaming their eyes on the stranger. Some glare at him, looking for a fight while the alcohol is still fresh in their veins. A few look away after seeing his twin pistols strapped on his waist. His lasso swing next to his pistol, the rope shredded and well used.
His hat hides the cut on his eyebrow, lips dry, he saunters over to the bar, spurs clinking, hands tucked in his belt buckle.
Sitting down on the creaking stool, he flicks the brim of his hat, emerald eyes wordlessly stares at the bartender who slides a glass of whiskey over to his waiting hand.
The amber liquid warms his insides, numbing the pain from his recent injuries. He swirls the alcohol in the glass like a swirling whirlpool of ambrosia, threatening to drown him in its warmth.
A soft guitar strums on his right, his aching neck turns to the sound, his eyes find you sitting on a similar stool, a worn guitar sitting on your lap, a smile on your lips. A sight for sore eyes in the dim smoky tavern.
You press your lips close to the mic, hands shaking, eyes fluttering shut as you start singing.
The noisy bar suddenly silences, numerous eyes watch you on the little stage covered in sticky alcohol. Ears perk up at your rhythmic strumming. There's goosebumps rising under Hobie's leather clad arms.
Your voice drops on him like a bucket of ice water, waking him up from his stupor. He can't seem to remove his eyes from you, for the first time in a while, Hobie smiles genuinely.
The alcohol lay forgotten in his hand as you sing your third song of the night. Apparently the patrons don't like him staying for two songs more.
Two men sidle up next to him, one blocks you from his view, the other right behind him, so close that he can feel the man's foul breath on his nape.
“You're far from home, stranger” one drawls, whiskey breath fanning Hobie's face.
“This town ain't big enough for ya.” The other man says, fingers reaching for Hobie's collar.
Before they get their hands on Hobie, he grips his glass, flinging it towards the man behind him, nailing him right on his temple.
A fight ensues, you jump away from your seat, eyes wide, using your guitar to shield yourself from flying bottles. Backing away, you dodge a glass.
Hobie fights his way towards you, kicking a man right on his groin, earning a high pitched scream from the man. Another patron, too drunk to see straight, hobbles over to you with a sick grin. Hobie sees this, already sprinting and dodging flying stools to get to you.
He unclips his lasso to hogtie the man down, but you beat him to it by smashing the man's head with your guitar. The broken wood splinters, the sound pinging in his ears.
The drunkard fall on his back like a hay bale, the broken guitar around his neck, head poking out of it.
Hobie looks at you dumbfounded, a growing smile on his lips. He stands there with his hands holding on to the lasso while chaos surrounds him. The second you look at him with your pretty eyes, everything seems to stop just for you.
You smile back at him, all saccharine, eyes crinkling in the corners. Your reach for him, flexing your fingers. Without a word, he takes your hand. And you run away with him, through the backdoor, away from the mayhem, and onto the dry plains.
He knows he's met his match. And you can't wait to get to know the mysterious cowboy who gladly took your hand without question.
I knew I'd love the vibes and I was right!!! I saw the whole place like the one in LaLa land!!! Like can you imagine it? R singing there on stage looking so pretty under the lights while he's so enamored by her 😍🥰 the aesthetic of this fic is just chef's kiss!
Poor R i feel for her 😞 the way Hobie was immediately looking for her tho after the performance 🤭🤭 it's love at first sight 😉
Oop new friend!
HE SAVED R AHHHHHHHHH
He's so nonchalant like "oh yeah I was there 🤷♀️" when his thoughts were on her the whole time before the fight 😂😂 you ain't slick, hobie!
Hell yea R shoot your shot!!!!
That was such a great read!! Thank you for sharing!!! A hundred kudos to you bestie!!!! ❤️❤️❤️
Synopsis: After the disastrous birthday party, your heart is broken into pieces. Lost and alone, you find help from an unlikely friend.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Co-worker AU, part 5 of my series, mockumentary AU, The Office AU, CW food mentions, R is going through it. Hurt/comfort.
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Part 5 >>> Part 6
It’s a beautiful sunny day at the office. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and despite the stark grey brutalist architecture of the office, nothing could ruin the day. Plus the documentary crew got some new equipment after the network’s big bosses liked the pilot they edited. ‘It’ll be a big hit,’ they said, and Jared the camera man is already thinking about buying a new car from the bonus he’s about to get.
But the subjects of the said documentary aren’t doing so hot unlike the people recording their every move.
Hobie’s almost permanent glare on his face is evident every time the camera pans to him. From the mail room to the break room, he’s scowling, either at the wall or at a particular brunette office mate just across the bullpen.
“How are you doing?” The producer asks him, finally managing to get a one on one with the angry punk.
“What the fuck do you think?” He purposely curses to give the editors a hard time to bleep it out. Whenever he notices the cameras on him, he’s flipping them the bird, or straight up leaving the room.
“Why are you so irritated?” The woman with the tablet asks once more, unfazed by his petulance.
His eyes stare at the expensive camera lenses, as if his glare alone could light it on fire. Jaw clenching, he takes a deep breath. “‘m constipated.” His lackluster reply garners a tight lipped expression from the people behind the cameras.
“Is it because she hasn’t been here for three months?” Jared the cameraman, with balls of steel, asks the punk who has broken a few camera lenses before like he’s best mates with him.
Hobie’s expression softens briefly from the mere mention of you, not a moment too soon, he blinks the tenderness away as he swallows thickly. “What’s it to you, Jared? You’re not invited to our gig anymore.” Vaulting out of his seat, he rips the mic out of his dress shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal a bit of his toned stomach that would have the female viewers wanting more. “Fuck this.”
Jared looks guilty, the other camera turns to the crew member, and he fixes his expression right away. It’s like poetry. The cameraman becomes the subject.
“Mr. Brown, need we remind you of your contractual obligation?” The producer states with a steady tone. Hobie hates this new producer more than the other when the last one at least had the decency to give them space. “If you leave right now you’ll be suspended without pay.”
Hobie runs a hand over his face, surrendering and plopping himself back on the chair. He really wants to punch the lights out, the literal blinding lights of the crew. “Mate, I work a nine to five job that pays me less than what ‘m owed when the white men in suits upstairs buys their fourth yacht. When Darius from shipping had to make a donation page for the treatment of his broken leg when it happened right in the building but the higher ups won’t pay for jack shit. You askin’ why I’ve been so annoyed? That, that’s why ‘m annoyed. Any more questions?”
The producer quietens down, jaw tight and gripping onto the tablet in her hands.
“No? May I go now?” Hobie says sarcastically. The moment she nods, he gets out of his seat, pushing the door open roughly that the thud is captured by the boom mics.
Harry stands on the other side of the door, having a glaring session with Hobie. He pockets his phone, smiling smugly, as if he won something.
The producer smiles at the interaction.
“Move.” Hobie says through gritted teeth as the cameras hone in on his closed fist.
“Have you heard from her?” Harry asks with a raised brow, looking over his nose like a pompous aristocrat. He doesn’t need to mention you by name when Hobie knows who he’s talking about. “She just sent me a picture of the Colorado mountains—”
He gets shoulder checked by Hobie on his way out, not giving him any more attention.
The camera hones in on Harry’s dissatisfied look, rolling his eyes as he sits in the same place Hobie left. “You wanted to hear from me?”
“So, she’s in Colorado?” The producer questions him, shaking off Hobie’s pointed words. “How’s the relationship going?”
“Yeah, I mean…” he leans back on the chair casually, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes wander around, except for looking at the lenses. “It’s going.” Shrugging, he clears his throat. “We text.”
“No calling?”
His index scratches at his cheek, nodding. “A few times.”
“Right.” Jared is skeptical, and Harry gives him a look.
The producer takes a deep breath, bored of the conversation. “Can you call in…” she scrolls through her tablet. “Oh, speak of the devil. I thought you said she’s in Colorado?”
“She is.” Harry’s brows knit together, taking out his phone to check. “Yeah, she said she is.”
“Not according to my schedule. Said she’s supposed to come back to the office today.” Her eyes shine from the prospect of a drama.
“Oh.” Harry smiles, but feels the dread in his chest.
—
Jared is the first to greet you, lugging around the heavy equipment as he exits the elevators and out of the building to get to the parking lot. He spots your car idling, windows rolled down, letting the air out. He sees you brush your teeth just outside, spitting onto the bushes as your hair is all mused, blouse skewed like you slept in the same bushes.
He’s about to call for you, until he sees the state of your car. Outside it’s dusty and muddy, dirt clinging to the tire rims, needing a clean. That’s no cause for concern when he has seen dirtier cars. But what’s concerning is the inside, he zooms in on the interior using the camera, and sees the mess inside. It’s a nest of luggages, blankets and pillows, books, art supplies and a few shoes. It looks as if you’re living inside your car.
Jared’s hands shake as the camera trembles in his hold. You are living in your car.
“Shit.” You say, muffled by the toothpaste in your mouth, eyes wide, toothbrush falling from your mouth. “I can explain.”
—
Jared looks at you with furrowed brows, more concern than pity as he interviews you beside your car. Your hair is now brushed, neater and you don’t have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth anymore. For once, he’s glad that he volunteered to do this alone rather than have a whole team behind him.
“So…” you kick a pebble, sucking in your teeth as you look at the blinking camera. “I’m living in my car.”
“What happened to the conventions?”
“I still went there and did my job, don’t get me wrong.” You chuckle nervously, biting your lip as your shoulders slump. “I think it’s best that I start from the beginning.”
—
“Fuck!” You punch your steering wheel, landing a harsh land right on the horn as it blares out into the neighborhood. Sighing, you rest your forehead against it, letting the tears out as you cry all alone with everything you owned inside your trunk and in the backseat.
Even after you sold almost all of your ‘abysmal’ paintings, you still don’t have enough for a down payment for any decent available apartment. You already used up your savings to get the car, and now you’re broke and living out of said car for the past five days. No one knows of your situation, and you like it that way. You don’t want them looking at you with pity, or offering help that you couldn’t possibly repay.
You’ve been apartment hunting during your breaks, and in turn, missing lunch with your friends. The lunch club said that they missed you whenever one of them would pass by you in the bullpen, and Gayatri has even asked if you’re doing okay. Which you have said that you are, a complete utter lie on your end.
Hobie has been trying to get you to talk about what happened on your birthday, but you usually just shrug with a tight-lipped smile. Citing that it’s all behind you now, and that he doesn’t need to worry about you when you’re doing alright. While Harry gives you the same worried look, they both try to reach you, when one would give you lunch, the other would try to share his with you. Which you both always decline when you always eat in your car in between looking for apartments.
Ironically, they seem to be getting on like a house on fire when it concerns your wellbeing.
Both men have shown their concern for you, but you shut them out, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally. MJ left you, your oldest friend, the one you shared a half of a necklace with that is now floating somewhere in the bottom of a river— if she could leave you, they would too. So you spare yourself the heartache, drowning yourself in work and being alone. It’s not going great though. You miss your friends, you miss your cozy room, you miss the days when you’d laugh with MJ whilst watching crappy reality TV. You miss your life.
You miss living.
Your eyes glance at the rearview mirror, seeing Hobie’s gifted cardigan laying atop the only remaining painting you kept. Instead of looking at it to give you some sort of motivation, you cover it some more.
You head back to work like usual, stomach filled with instant ramen, and yearning for something more filling for today. Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you head back inside.
The day went on as usual, you avoided the camera crew despite them shoving the cameras and boom mics into your face, trying to get an interview with you. But you always manage to dodge them with a glare.
You do good work, not excellent, not abysmal either. Just good, enough to keep you on the payroll. As the sky turns dark, you ignore the heavy eyes staring at your back whenever you pass.
When the day is done, you head outside to breathe in the cool air, the weather is turning warmer day by day, and soon it’ll be harder to find shade to park under or else you’ll become a cooked salmon inside when you wake up inside the car.
People pile out of the building one by one, and you see the documentary crew pick up their equipment and haul it inside their van. You wave goodbye to the lunch club as they carpool together in Gwen’s beat up sedan. They gave you the same polite gesture, whilst hearing them ramble about an oncoming test that no one studied for. You sigh, missing them as they drive away.
“Lovie.” Hobie’s voice cuts through the darkness as everyone else heads out of the building and into their cars. “Headin’ home?”
For once you’re glad that the previous owner of the car had a really dark tint on the windows that made it harder to look inside. You have no idea why they did that or what kind of mischief they were doing inside that needed the dark tint, but you don’t care when you got the car cheaper than the market price. Is it legal though? Probably not. But you don’t have enough money to get rid of it even if you wanted to.
“Yeah,” you smile, one that does not reach your eyes. “I just want to take a long warm bath after that shit show of a meeting.” You’re not lying, you want to have a long soak in a tub that isn’t a grimy shower from a cheap motel that you occasionally rent just to have a shower.
“Yeah, Miguel really handed it to us.” Hobie sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, the band and I are havin’ a small get together this weekend in my houseboat since Ned’s movin’ out. You can come if you’re not too busy.”
You’d want nothing more.
But you can’t.
“I’m sorry, Hobie, I can’t.” You could cry right there and then, and you’re sure that he’ll let you cry on his shoulder. “Busy, my aunt’s visiting.” You must’ve given Harry that same excuse before, but not to Hobie. “I haven’t seen her in a decade, so...” You hate lying, especially right to your friend’s face, but you have to bite the bullet and retreat back into your shell that MJ wanted you to get out of so badly. It’s lonely in there, but at least you won’t get hurt, you won’t get left behind.
Past you would say, “maybe next time!” with a cheerful smile. But this version of you can’t.
“That’s fine.” He takes it in stride like always, he’s good like that. “Maybe next time.” It’s a strike to your soul. “Drive home safely, yeah?”
“Of course.” You smile, and it still doesn’t quite reach your eyes. If Hobie could see it, he doesn’t mention it.
The keys jingle in your carabiner, and you stare at the silver charm that Miguel gifted you on that fated night. It’s a cute little peanut with a top hat, smiling right at you. The reference doesn’t go over your head, and you always smile whenever you look at it, proof that you left a mark on someone’s life that is worthwhile.
You don’t notice another pair of eyes looking at you until he’s crossing the distance over to your car.
“Hey, princess.” Harry tilts his head, ducking to meet with your downturned eyes. “Having second thoughts about going home? Or did you forget something inside?” Chuckling, he misses the sad look in your eyes when you could blink it away.
“Oh, no, I’m just spacing out. Tired, I guess.” You give him a half hearted smile.
“Yeah, we got our shit kicked in by Miguel.” He sniffs, playing with his car keys. “Listen, I talked to my dad about MJ and that you’re about to move out so he offered to let you rent one of his apartments downtown. What do you think?”
If only he knew that you already moved out, or to put it properly, kicked out.
“That’s nice, how much is the rent?” There’s hope under your ribcage.
“It’s not much.” He shrugs, “a thousand a month, he gave you a discount.” Smiling, your own smile falls. His expression falls. “It’s a two bedroom, and near a lot of restaurants.”
“Harry, that’s—” you try to think of more polite words. “That’s kind of him, but that’s way out of my budget. Sorry.” You’re not really sorry. But you know his heart was in the right place.
“Right, yeah, I guess it is.” Clearing his throat, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ll keep asking around though.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You reply, already halfway inside your car.
“And uh…” Harry leans against your window, thankfully you had the insight to only open it a smidge. “I kind of rambled on about you to him, so now he wants to meet you.”
The revelation wakes you up more than a triple shot of espresso. “What?”
“Dinner, just dinner at his place, nothing much.” Harry looks like he’s digging his own grave.
“Oh, I’ll think about it, Harry.” You feign a smile. “Busy, you know.”
“Yeah, your, uh, cousin is staying with you guys, right?” His eyes stare into the small crevice of the window that you cracked open.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just, really sad about the divorce, so I have to be with her and try to lighten her mood.” Sucking in your teeth, you start the ignition. Another blatant lie let out. “Speaking of, I gotta go.”
“Sure, sorry.” Stepping back, Harry watches you drive away.
The lights from the lampposts flicker past you as you drive around and around until you reach the office once again. All the parked cars are gone, and the only lights inside is the one in the lobby where the security guard is snoring away whilst a baseball game is playing on a tiny TV.
Everyday it’s the same thing for the security guard, Warren, you come to learn from his nametag— he has a giant donut and a burrito for dinner, opens the portable TV and within a few minutes, he’s snoozing away when he’s supposed to be guarding the place. It’s good news for you when you can sneak back in, have a cold shower in the office gym, warm your food that you got from the convenience store in the microwave and head out in just twenty minutes. It’s foolproof, and you always try to avoid the security cameras, but it’s not worth it anymore when you learned that the footage is deleted within twenty four hours, so by the time the morning shift would clock in, last night’s footage was deleted at six am sharp.
You’re getting too good at it, sneaking about, that maybe you should plan a heist at a bank or something like in your favorite heist movie. You just need a team of intelligent women to back you up.
You just got out of the shower, still shivering from the cold as you hug Hobie’s cardigan around yourself. It smells like your car’s air freshener and the instant noodles you had last night, despite that, it’s still soft and brings you comfort. You should probably head out to a laundry shop to get your clothes washed when it’s starting to pile inside the trunk. You’re in an old t-shirt from college that’s slowly fading away from time, and a pair of checkered pajamas that was at one point MJ’s.
With a sigh, the microwave finally beeps, signaling that your dinner is ready. Tonight’s dinner consists of convenience store pasta that might give you food poisoning, and this morning’s leftover breakfast sandwich that you splurged on to keep morale up. The only plus side of your abysmal dinner is that Hobie always kept your tea stocked inside the cupboards, even when you haven’t bought a box in awhile. You made yourself a cup like always, and the first warm sip ebbs from your chest to your stomach, a much needed warmth.
You take your meal carefully, hands wrapped in a small towel as you place it on the breakroom table. The office feels eerie this time of day, it’s dark and liminal, that sends shivers down your spine. It feels wrong to have it be this empty when it’s usually so full of overworked and underpaid employees. Hobie’s ghost story about a nightshift janitor doesn’t faze you anymore whenever it wiggles its way inside your head during times like these.
During the first few days of being alone after getting kicked out from MJ’s apartment because the realtor couldn’t possibly sell the house when you’re still living in it— you stayed at a cheap motel that smells like roaches and day-old boiled eggs. But the money soon ran out, draining your already dried up savings within just a few days. Plus your card was declined in the same place, you’re embarrassed to go back. So now you had to resort to sneaking inside the office during off hours, eating at the same breakroom where you could sometimes hear Hobie’s laugh whenever you sit down that’s adjacent to his usual seat.
You feel yourself going insane, especially when MJ never bothered to speak to you after what happened to your birthday. She just packed her bags one day, told you that the realtor is coming the next day and she moved away that very same day. She didn’t even try to hear you out after the stunt she pulled, the house was a wreck, the decorations you had painstakingly made were strewn about, trampled on the ground. When you did try to talk to her, voice stern yet wobbly, and eyes brimming with tears, she laughed. She really laughed in your face and said, “I didn’t ask you to do this for me, y’know.”
But she did, she fucking did, and now as you’re stewing in your seat, you question yourself whether she did ask it. Or did you just assume that she asked for a big party like every fucking year? Nevertheless, you got mad, you snapped at your best friend, and you said some words that you couldn’t possibly take back.
And she snapped right back at you with more ferocity, like it came so easy to her. That the words were already on the tip of her tongue, left to curdle inside her mind until it was time to be let out.
She accused you of jealousy. How you would always cling to her side, never leaving her alone. That you were the one holding her back. When all you did was try to be the best friend she deserved, the same girl who let her cry on your shoulder before a school trip because her parents didn’t let her join. But you stayed behind, lying that yours didn’t let you join either when the letter with their signatures is tucked safely inside your ladybug jacket that you adored so much.
You played together all day in the school’s playground until your classmates came back, and you stayed the whole time, you stayed with her even when her parents kicked her out during high school and you let her crash at your place. You stayed even when she asked out the guy she knew you had a crush on. You stayed even when you had to juggle classes and part time jobs and come back to your dorm only to see that she had another party and she’s once again passed out on your side of the room. You stayed, you wore the same cheap half of a best friend necklace that turns your skin green because it’s the first gift you got from her when she hasn’t worn hers in years.
You stayed, and yet she left.
Before you could stop it, tears streamed down your cheeks like waterfalls that your vision turned blurry and the show playing on your phone fell in the back of your mind.
The fork falls in between your fingers as you cry in your hands, weeping in the empty breakroom, the harsh fluorescent lights whirring above as the rest of the bullpen is as dark as the night sky outside. Maybe MJ is having the time of her life right now at her penthouse suite with her bandmates, and she already forgot about you.
Your name is suddenly called, but you chalk it up to your sorrowful state, ignoring it.
A big hand squeezes your shoulder, and you jolt back, screaming bloody murder as you see a blurry face in your eyes.
“Fucking fuck!” You fall back in your seat, back hitting the cold floor as your dinner clangs beside you, pasta sauce falling in a splat of red and convenience store cheese.
“Shit! It’s okay, it’s just me!” Miguel, your boss, the same man you saved during the holiday party stands before you in a more casual attire— a pair of denim jeans and an old fading ‘Star Trek’ shirt. His hands are up, trying to calm you down. “You okay?”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Eyes wide, you stare at him in horror. “Oh fuck…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” He’s immediately on the defensive after seeing your tear stained cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, still feeling the remnants of your crying session in your chest. “No, I’m okay.” Miguel gives you a helping hand that you shake off, standing up by yourself with your hand perched on the table for leverage. “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
“No, just—” he moves to stop you, completely looming over you. His eyes dart down to your fallen dinner, and he lets out a breath, eyes gazing at you with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“What?” You rub your eyes with your sleeves.
“I can get us a sandwich from the deli place. They’re still open.”
Shuffling your feet in place, you would refuse, but the growl from your stomach answers for you.
“Okay.” You answer in a small tone. “Can I get one with extra cheese and a soda?”
His expression softens. “Sure.”
When Miguel came back with the food, he half expected you to be gone. But you even surprised yourself that you stayed.
“Cold cuts with extra cheese.” Taking out a footlong sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkles as he places it in front of you. “And a soda. I didn’t know which one you wanted so I got the usual. I got you a chocolate bar too, it was on sale.” The full sized bar is pushed to your side as you feel your heart squeeze in your chest.
“This is good, thank you.” Sniffing, you open the can gingerly.
“You cleaned?” He asks, sitting adjacent to you as he takes out another sandwich and a bottle of orange juice.
“Yeah, I didn’t want the sauce to smell.” You’re immediately taking big bites of the sandwich the moment you opened it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good, you showed incentive.” Miguel squeezes out two packets of hot sauce in his sandwich, before taking a generous bite.
A beat passes, you chew, he takes a sip of his juice, and you stare anywhere else other than your boss.
“Can I ask?” He starts, and your glimmering eyes stare at him with worry that he regrets it immediately. “Just…you good, kid? You’re not in trouble or anything?”
You contemplate your answer as you watch the mayonnaise drip from the sandwich onto the paper wrapper. “I— I’m not in trouble. I don’t know about being good though.”
“Do you need my help? The company’s?” Miguel’s voice is uncharacteristically tender, as if he’s speaking to his own kid, or perhaps a wounded animal. “I’m sure I can do something, whatever it is.”
Your nose wrinkles, swallowing down the meat and cheese as you take a big gulp of your drink. “A million bucks would be lovely.” You joke, and he lets out a laugh through his nose.
“You and me both, kid.” He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his seat. “There are programs that could help with whatever you’re struggling with.”
Your jaw clenches as you let out a breath. “Remember my birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Shutting your eyes, you rub with the heels of your palms before taking a deep breath. You tell him what happened, and how MJ means to you. You’re not retelling the story because you’re looking for pity or for more harsh words towards your best friend, just someone that would listen, lend an ear for you to ramble on and on, someone to help take the load off of you.
He listens and hangs on your every word, nodding every so often, as if you’re in the conference room showing off a presentation. But it’s not a presentation, and you’re in your pajamas, crying in front of your boss.
“That…” his jaw tightens, looking away and shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. But you know you can’t keep sneaking back inside the office.”
“I k–know, I’m sorry.” Your tone breaks in the middle before clearing your throat. “I just didn’t know where to go. I just have to survive until the next paycheck and then maybe I can find a place that isn’t a dump. Or at this point I’m okay with it being a dump.”
Miguel blinks, thinking and takes a deep inhale. “Remember this afternoon’s meeting?”
“Yeah, about the conventions that no one wants to go to.”
“You should volunteer. It’s almost three months away from the office, and you get to stay at three, sometimes four star hotels. They have good food and sometimes you’ll be accompanied by someone here or someone from another branch. But usually it would just be you.”
Being alone in unfamiliar places sounds horrible, but that’s probably what you need, some time alone to be with your thoughts, to not sleep in your car and eat shitty food that takes off a year of your lifespan with every bite. It might not be the stability that you were looking for, but at least you don’t have to struggle every night, trying to figure out where to park your car just to sleep without getting the cops called on you. And contemplating whether if it’s worth it to buy gas or food for that day.
Miguel sees the conflict waging in your eyes. “You’ll get a weekly allowance. Plus gas and food expenses.”
Your brows knit together, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then why doesn’t anyone want to volunteer?”
“They have people waiting for them at home.” He simply says, not to purposely jab right at your heart, but it also seemingly strikes right at him too. “It’s three months away from them, and the conventions are the most boring thing in the world. I’d rather watch paint dry.” Finishing his sandwich in one big bite, Miguel cleans up his side.
“Three months, huh?”
“Three months of listening to saggy old men ramble about electric toothbrushes and how it could eradicate dentists.” The faucet squeaks as he washes his hands.
“That’s horrendous.” You turn around in your seat to address him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he takes a relieved breath, drying his hands on a towel. “Pack your things, it’s this Friday.”
“I’m already packed.” You give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“No problem. I hate it when my employees mope. It’s not good for our image.” He shrugs, giving you a rare smile. “Listen, kid.” Leaning against the counter, he tosses the towel on his shoulder, and you suddenly feel like a kid again having a strange yet important talk with your dad. “I know how hard it is to be at this age. Everything’s uncertain, everything feels like it’ll be temporary. And everyone feels like they’re leaving you for greener pastures.” That part hits right at you like an arrow to your heart.
“But,” He continues. “treading the waters alone is worse than walking through it with people you care about. So when you slip and fall into the water, and trust me, you will, they will drag you back up to the surface, and in turn you will do that for them too. Don’t tread the waters alone, kid. You’ll drown.”
“But what if,” you clear your throat of the sob threatening to spill over. “What if those people turn towards a different tide? They go upstream without me?”
“They either come back for you or you find new people to walk with.” Miguel’s lips curl into a soft smile. “There will always be people treading the same path as you, you’ll meet them, and they may come and go, but a few will always stick with you. You just have to find those people and nurture them, friendship is a two way street, kid.”
You hide the tears brimming in your eyes with a well timed wipe of your sleeve to your eyes. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re not as scary as they say you are.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He chuckles under his breath, before tossing the towel back on the counter. “Make sure to close the lights, the night janitor hates it when they’re left open.” Turning to leave, you call his name as he pauses mid step.
“Wait, why are you here?”
He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “My daughter’s with her mother, and I guess I wanted to get some work done in advance so next time I could be with her without worrying about work.”
You give him equal sympathy. “Humanity isn’t built for this work shit.”
Miguel manages a chuckle. “Damn right.”
You’re left all alone, Miguel’s cologne lingers in the air, a sharp burgundy, and the cold crisp air from the aircon reminds you of how lonely you are.
You stare into the darkness of the bullpen, and right across from where you sit is your cubicle situated right beside wide windows where the moon greets you.
It’s just you and the moon now, at least wherever you go, whatever you are doing, there’s always a guarantee that it’ll be there with you at the same time to stare right back at you.
You decide right there and then that you’ll live, not just surviving. Not because MJ told you to get yourself out there, but because you wanted to, you want to experience things, to see the world beyond the four concrete walls of the office, beyond MJ. Even if it means being alone.
—
“Why are you telling me this?” Jared’s voice wobbles, caught in his throat after he heard your story.
Shrugging, you take a deep breath. “I’d rather you hear it from me than the cameras you guys installed everywhere.” Leaning away from the car, you cross your arms over your chest. “Besides, it’s bound to get out now that I’m back.”
“Are you still…?”
“Yeah.” You grimace, half embarrassed, the other half afraid to admit your own failings. “Maybe you can recommend a place?”
Jared’s face turns red behind the camera and you wonder why. “I kind of live with four roommates.”
“That sounds like hell, I’m sorry.” Wincing, you clasp his shoulder. “I should get back to it.” You gather your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you ready yourself for the day ahead. It’s been months since you’ve been back, months since you last saw any of them, months since you last saw Hobie.
“G–good luck.” Jared stays rooted in place, filming your retreating back. Then he sees the producer from high above the windows, catching the sight of her flashlight that she turns on and off repeatedly. She has an intense look on her face as he zooms in right on her. He realizes his job is to follow you. “Shit, fuck!”
—
“Hey, Warren.” You greet the security guard, and he grunts in reply, giving you a small wave while his attention is on the small TV screen in front of him that is currently playing a football game. “What a game last night, huh?”
He perks up, expression brightening. “Hell yeah it was! You caught it?”
You scoff a laugh. “Duh!”
“Go Arsenal!” He hollers, fists pumping up as you step into the elevator.
Truth be told, you only saw it because it was playing on the pub TV screen where you were having your dinner. The bartender’s number sits heavy in your pocket, he was cute, talkative, and he was nice. You’d call him if your situation is better, or if your relationship with Harry wasn’t so complicated.
Harry would message you at least once a day, sometimes it’s a picture of his lunch, but usually it’s a selfie of him while on the way to work or at the gym. It’s sort of comforting to know that he still cares after everything that happened and that you upped and left without a notice, with just an off handed announcement from Miguel to the whole team while you were already at the airport.
You’d reply to him occasionally when your days are less busy, a simple ‘how’s it going over there?’ or a snapshot of where you are. No matter how simple your reply was he would always reply enthusiastically, a ‘that looks great!’ at your lunch, or a ‘having fun?’ complete with a heart emoji at the end. The message that always halts you in your tracks is the nightly ones, where he’s sweeter, more tender. A ‘missing you,’ or a ‘thinking of you right now.’ You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart skip a beat, especially the ones where he attached a picture of himself in bed, torso bare, eyes sparkling in front of the camera.
Your feelings for him are complicated, you like Harry enough, but there is one person who always appears in your thoughts right after talking to him, a reminder that he’s not Hobie. That he’ll never be Hobie. That you just don’t feel the same connection with Harry unlike with Hobie. With the latter it’s easier, you feel like yourself around him.
With Harry, it’s different, you’re more restrained, like if you said the wrong thing he won’t like you anymore. You don’t know what it is but Harry feels so out of reach for you, like he’s living in a skyscraper and you’re just a passing pedestrian in his life.
You promised yourself and to Harry that you’ll take it slow, and you have, the most you’ve done with him is a peck to the cheek and hold his hand whenever you’d walk with him. Minus the kiss at the concert, that still sends shivers down your spine, and a horrible ache in your stomach that reminds you of your day at the hospital. He’s your friend, that’s it mostly, but you know that he wants to be more than that, and a part of you wants it too. But of course, it’s not that simple when you’re still longing for someone you can’t have.
When Harry feels out of your reach, Hobie feels like someone you can never have. Someone who deserves better than you could ever offer, someone who is as cool as him, as nonchalant as him, as sweet and caring as him. Someone who has their life in order.
You feel as though he won’t be happy with you, that he’d feel like there is something missing when he’s with you. And you can’t bear the thought of holding him back from his real happiness because of you. He deserves someone more like him, someone more like MJ.
It hurts to know that love has an expiration date, that they would leave you some day. Maybe they’ll love you now, but what if in a few years, maybe in a few months, they won’t feel the same way? That they’d discard, and you’d be all alone again.
All that lovesick thoughts were hidden in the back of your mind throughout your trip, now that you’re back, it’s out in full force. At least when you were away it took a back seat. This is why you’re dreading coming back here, now you have to face all the things and people you left.
You’ve changed, grown, and experienced things, you’ve met people too, but this place brings you back to that girl who couldn’t even look directly at the cameras. Maybe this time it’ll be different, you won’t shy away this time, that you’ll be better, maybe even someone who would be worthy of being loved back. A love that will stick, a love that will linger and stay with you forever.
Either way, all of that will have to take a step back in favour of you finding your own apartment, lest you have to sleep in your car in a dark parking lot again. You can face all that drama right after.
“Hold up!” Jared runs after you, and you casually hold the doors open for him with your foot. He huffs, thanking you with a bashful smile. “Thanks, nice one.”
“No problem.” You smile back, wondering how things were back here while you were gone. “So Jared,” the man immediately points the camera right at you, cheeks flushed, hiding it behind the lens. “What happened here while I was gone?”
“Nothing much.”
“Really? All those months? Nothing?”
“Well,” he sucks in his teeth. “there was a fire.” The camera captures your shocked expression perfectly. “Everyone’s fine, don’t worry. But Peter almost got fired.”
“What?” You blink.
The scene flashbacks to two months ago.
“Fucking move!” Lyla has her porcelain cats in her arms, pushing and shouldering everyone out of the way through the chaos like a quarterback on a mission.
Smoke billows out of the breakroom, and the cameras flick back and forth from person to person frantically whilst dodging them. One person shatters a window using his chair, while another quickly gets carried away from the said opened window when in a split second he could’ve realized that he’s on the tenth floor too late. Then the camera moves again, and a handful of people are trying to exit out of the air vents as their crawling could be heard rattling up there.
“We’re gonna die!” Pavitr screams in Gayatri’s arms as she hauls him away in a fireman’s carry hold.
“I’ve got you, babe!”
“Whose fucking fajita was in the microwave?!” Jessica grabs the fire extinguisher, heels clacking as she heads face first into the fiery fray.
“Jessica, no!” Miguel follows a second later with two mugs filled with water. “You can’t inhale smoke!”
“What the fuck is happening?!” Harry shrieks, pressing the elevator doors open button like a mad man. “My dad won’t be happy about this!”
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Hobie walks in frame with another fire extinguisher in hand. “Go and fucking help, you wanker!”
“You can’t use the elevators during a fire, dumbass.” Gwen says casually, unbothered by the chaos. A half second later, she’s dragged away by Miles down the steps.
“Let me save you, Gwen! Just this once let me save you!”
“It’s a microwave fire, Miles, not a damn monster attack!”
The camera then pans downward, right under a table where Peter is crouched down, holding his ears as he mumbles under his breath.
“Not my fault, not my fault.” His lips wobble, eyes stinging with tears as the lenses hone in on his face.
“Peter B. Parker!” Jessica’s furious scream almost breaks the mics. The camera moves over to her as she holds onto a burnt tinfoil with his name written on it in big bold letters.
“Well, shit.” You stifle a laugh after seeing the chaotic footage from Jared’s phone. “Wait, why do you have that video saved?”
“I got promoted after the rabbit incident. Now I’m also an editor.” Jared answers with pride.
“Congrats— wait, the what now?” The Elevators chime open, and you’re greeted by a familiar face.
“Welcome back, kid.” Miguel smiles genuinely that it even has Jared taken aback, zooming in the camera right on his rare happy expression.
“I’d say that it’s good to be back but…” chuckling, you open your arms for a hug after stepping out of the elevators. “Not really.”
To the camera man’s surprise, Miguel hugs you back, even patting your back.
Jared feels like he was transported to an alternative dimension where you’re best friends with your boss. He mutters a shocked curse under his breath that not even the mic could capture.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you back.” He pulls away, and the befuddled Jared steps back until he hits the wall, still gawking at the scene of you smiling at the usual stern boss. “How was the trip back? And did you manage to use Gabriella’s sweater she sent for you?”
“It was okay, it was a bit bumpy but I’m alive so good. And I sent Gabri a picture of me wearing it in Colorado actually.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” His brows scrunches as he leads you further into the office and to the familiar bullpen.
You wince, looking apologetic and ignoring the rest of the camera crew crowding around the two of you. You’ve been to Las Vegas during peak season, this is nothing to you. “I see that she’s still mad at you for missing her soccer game, huh?”
Miguel kneads the space between his brows. “I have no idea how to make it up to her.”
“We’ll figure something out, don’t worry, big man.” You fist bump his bicep, and Jared truly feels like he’s dreaming.
A happy shriek echoes out, then a stack of heavy papers falls with a thud. “You’re back!” Lyla skips over to you, brimming with happiness as she pushes away the crew to hug you. “My favorite is back!”
“Oh, hi, Lyla, missed you too.” You embrace her back, patting her back. “How’s Hannah?”
She leans away, rolling her eyes. “Hannah’s out, babes, she was too clingy for my taste.”
The producer shares the same shocked look as the rest of the crew.
Lyla groans, annoyed by their presence alone. “Please, you can’t film everything.”
The scene cuts to a few weeks ago, where Lyla is talking on the phone all hush in the stairwell.
The boom mics capture your name from her painted lips. “I’m telling you, she’s the one, I’m already picking out the ring—” Lyla notices the eyes, or cameras for that matter right on her as she groans. “Hold on, there are vultures around.” Her heels clack as she descends the stairs.
Then the footage turns to Miguel chuckling at something on his phone, clearly talking to someone. His brows suddenly furrow, and he turns his narrowed eyes right at the camera, clicking a button on the remote as the blinds close on them.
Another scene pops up, and with the whole lunch club minus Hobie, at the breakroom, laughing at their phones.
“Is that even legal?” Pav leans closer to his screen.
“Who cares?” Miles and Gwen answer at the same time, before sharing a tender look.
Even from miles away, for some reason, you were less alone than you were with MJ.
Jared hones in on your face. “I talked to them while I was away.” Shrugging, you continue into the office with the others in tow.
“Not because she wanted to.” Lyla adds, and you shake your head at her with a smile. “To think she wanted to be a lone wolf. You are not an alpha, girl, more like an omega.”
“What the fuck, Lyla?” Gwen’s smile falters after she corners you with her arms stretched out.
“What?” The head of the HR department just shrugs.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just excited that I’m back.” Beaming, you hug the blonde. “How are you, Gwen?”
“Good, really good.” She sends you a sneaky wink.
“That’s great.” You wink back, smiling knowingly.
The producer is clearly irked by all the information she’s missing.
“Princess!” Harry grins from ear to ear, arms wide, ready to receive you.
“Hi, Harry.” He embraces you before you could open your arms to him. “Oh!”
“Sorry, hi, you look good.” Putting you down, his hands linger right around your wrists, fingers grazing the barbed wire bracelet, as the cameras, and Lyla zeroes in on the contact. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, and you look good too. Did you do something to your hair?”
“Yeah,” he touches the ends of his hair bashfully. “It’s lighter, not really blonde but I wanted a different look.”
The scene cuts to Lyla on the confession chair. “Different look my ass, it’s a shade lighter, my cat’s hair is lighter than that.”
It goes back to Harry holding you. “You like?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yeah, it–it looks good, makes you look younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Peter grins, but when he sees Miguel right behind you, scowling right at him, he does a one eighty. “Good to see you again!” He shuffles to his chair with a nervous laugh.
“He’s on probation.” Miguel simply answers the question lingering in your mind. “You have your report? Show me before the rest gets here.” He ushers you away from the crew and everyone else as you happily nod.
“Don’t hog her all to yourself, Miguel!” Lyla exclaims.
“Excuse me.” Once the doors shut and the cameras are outside his office, you deflate right on the chair in front of his table. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Miguel shuts the blinds to the crew’s dismay. “You can rest here for a bit until you have to clock in, want a coffee?”
“Please.”
“Got it.” Before he could leave, you call back to him. “Hm?”
“What report? You didn’t say anything about making a report.” Your expression spells panic.
Chuckling, Miguel shakes his head. “It was an excuse to get you out of there.”
A grin spreads on your face. “Don’t tell Lyla but you’re my favorite.”
Miguel leaves his office with a smile on his face.
If only the blinds were open then you would’ve seen Hobie stand by the mailroom as he gazes right at where you are with a softened smile on his face.
Jared turns the camera to the presence, but he only manages to see a glimpse of the punk’s dress shirt before he disappears behind the door.
I knew I'd love the vibes and I was right!!! I saw the whole place like the one in LaLa land!!! Like can you imagine it? R singing there on stage looking so pretty under the lights while he's so enamored by her 😍🥰 the aesthetic of this fic is just chef's kiss!
Poor R i feel for her 😞 the way Hobie was immediately looking for her tho after the performance 🤭🤭 it's love at first sight 😉
Oop new friend!
HE SAVED R AHHHHHHHHH
He's so nonchalant like "oh yeah I was there 🤷♀️" when his thoughts were on her the whole time before the fight 😂😂 you ain't slick, hobie!
Hell yea R shoot your shot!!!!
That was such a great read!! Thank you for sharing!!! A hundred kudos to you bestie!!!! ❤️❤️❤️
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 7.6k
Synopsis: Snapshots of your married life with Lyonel — Motherhood and duties as Lady Baratheon.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Arryn! Reader, set after the Ashford tourney, Reader has family members but no physical description, the epilogue of my mini series, a prequel to this fic, CW suggestive language, Reader is with child, birthing mentions but nothing too graphic, The six fawns AU, fluff.
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
Epilogue I <<< Epilogue II
Lyonel is no longer just the heir of Storm’s End. Overnight he became the Lord and warden of the Stormlands. And in turn, you truly became Lady Baratheon.
The loss of his father didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, he was old, but it didn’t mean that it hurt less for him. You held his hand through the ceremony, fingers laced together as your husband kept his eyes fixated on his late father. He told you not to concern yourself too much when you grow heavy each day with the babe in your stomach.
Even though there is a sudden heavy responsibility hoisted upon his shoulders, he tries to make time for you and his unborn child. Lyonel would come back to your chambers looking disheveled, hair oily, hands stained with ink, and yet he leaves all that stress behind the chamber doors as he slithers underneath the covers beside you to press his ear against your swollen stomach. Sometimes he’d retell of his days to you and the babe, but as time went on, he just laid there atop you in silence. His worries grow, from his duties, to keeping his family safe when a rebellion looms over his own land.
“More minor houses have declared for my cousin, fucking idiots the lot of them are.” He utters atop your swollen belly, lips brushing along your protruding belly button. As his hands play along the edges of your night gown unconsciously.
Your fingers massage his scalp, trying to calm him as your eyes glance at the pair of armours in the corner of the chamber, waiting to be worn. “They will be met with a swift end. Your forces are greater than theirs.”
“My usurper cousin doesn’t seem to realize that.” His jaw sets, and you could feel the tension underneath your hand on his shoulder blade. “He’s fucking bold, I’ll give him that much.”
“It’s what he learned while he was squiring for you.” You say as he lifts his head with furrowed brows. “I did not mean that you taught him to rebel, what I meant is that you gave him that confidence, that bravery.”
“I should’ve let my horse kick him in the head, that cu—”
“My love.” Your palm cups his cheek, smiling softly. Your gentle eyes alone could silence him. “We will win this, I know of it. We’ve got powerful allies and I have sent ravens to the Vale. You need not worry.”
“I can’t help it when your life, our babe’s life is at stake.” Lyonel lets out a heavy breath. “I will not let his transgression pass. His betrayal would be his end.”
You take his chin in your hand, pulling him up as he crawls atop you, mindful of your belly. “I know, we will end his petty rebellion, we shall see to it. For your father, for us, and for our child. ‘Ours is the Fury,’ my stag.”
“Ours.” His determined eyes mirror your own. He kisses you softly, inhaling you deeply through his nose. He’d continue the kiss if not for the harsh kick he felt. “I think our child is encouraging us.” Chuckling, his mood swings to softness the moment he felt it.
You chortle, watching him crawl down to press his ear to your belly again. “He’s calling for war. A blossoming Baratheon even in the womb.”
Lyonel’s grin lightens and eases your heart. “He’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”
The said force turned out to be a girl, a little bundle with curls just like her father’s, and a voice just as loud as his. Juniper, you decided to call her shortly after the rebellion was vanquished. Your Juniper was born during one of the wildest storms the whole keep has ever seen.
Lyonel was the happiest man in the whole realm. Despite the maester and the midwives telling him to stay outside the birthing chamber, he pushed them aside, threatening to cut off their heads with a battle axe in his moment of frustration if they did not let him pass. For once in his life, he felt out of control.
He was there with you through the rough labour, holding onto your hand, cracking a few jests to help ease your worries. Despite his calm façade, inside, he’s absolutely terrified. The prospect of you dying, or the babe, or even both, doesn’t escape his mind. He doesn’t want to lose you, and with every pained scream you let out that echoes around the whole castle, waking the dead, his crafted façade crumbled.
But the moment he heard his daughter cry, his child, he felt as though the storm had calmed down inside him. Lyonel watched over the two of you the whole night, keeping you close and watching Juniper’s chest rise and fall inside her finely crafted bassinet gifted by your family. Every plight he survived, every obstacle that he had to claw himself out of was well worth it for this moment. He has his two loves in his arms, and he wouldn’t wish for anything else in the realm when he has everything he could ever need.
—
Juniper was merely a year old when you found out that you were carrying another so soon. Your mother was ecstatic about the news, whilst your brothers and father were shaking their heads at how quick it was. They just met your first born, and you were already carrying the second.
Lyonel was beyond happy that he organized a feast worthy of his daughter and in honour of the second. He did not spare any expenses, lords and ladies came from all the realm, and it was even bigger than the Ashford tourney. He was in his natural state, merry and adding to the revelry just from his presence alone. The feast did not truly start until the two of you walked in, and to his delight, just shortly after the feast and the tourney had concluded with him becoming champion and with you named as the queen of love and beauty, a son was born.
Ormund, he announced to the whole keep, kicking the birthing chambers open right after he kissed you and carried off the babe to show him to the waiting lords and ladies just outside. You would join in, if not for the exhaustion. Whilst your mother cradles you on the birthing bed, you fall asleep to the cheers outside and to Lyonel’s loud guffaws.
—
You’re still sore from the birth of little Ormund when you came back to your duties in your husband’s council. Ruling took some getting used to, but you were well read, trained by your father along with your brothers despite being a girl. He’d always include you during the meetings, no matter how small or important it is, you were there learning how to maneuver egotistical lords and their plights. It’s like a cyvasse game, the moves have to be precise, lest you accidentally start a rebellion that you could not snuff out. And just like your father, Lyonel wanted you beside him, ruling alongside him as lady Baratheon.
He wanted you to stay in bed for awhile and rest after having Ormund, but you’re as stubborn as him, locking horns with him before he surrendered to your whim.
Lord Swann lets out pointed veiled words at Lord Royce, the two old men battling it out across the table. Lyonel looks like he’s about to take his dagger and stab it right in the middle of them if they don’t stop their squabbling about their children and their broken betrothals to each other.
Your husband finds it a bore, and he has his attention fully upon your hand, twirling around your ring as if it’s the most important thing in the whole chamber.
Leaning close to his ear, you tug at his earring to get his attention, which he gives immediately. “How long do you think this will take? I fear Ormund might go hungry.”
Balancing your duties as a wife, and a lady of a great keep was hard work, but balancing the duties as a wife, a lady, and now a mother almost seems like an impossible feat. But with your Lyonel by your side, he helps carry the duties when it gets too overwhelming. He thought that he wouldn’t be a good lord paramount like his father, but after three years of being the lord of Storm’s End, he has proven to be a good successor, and an even better father to his children. The late lord Baratheon would be proud of his son.
“Our poor son is starving because the old lords can’t settle their petty dispute.” He exclaims too loudly to be a whisper, irked about the lengthy discussion.
“My lord?” Lord Swann looks like a fish out of water, whilst Lord Royce smugly scoffs at his opponent. “My apologies but this wretch—”
“This wretch could’ve been your kin if not for your fucking son going off to marry a bloody Redwyne!”
“My lords.” You say calmly, feeling the raging storm of a husband beside you as he stews in his own annoyance and frustration. Your hand squeezes him under the table, telling him that you shall take the reins this time on his behalf like a hundred times before. “There are more pressing matters to discuss.”
“But—!”
“It was for love, correct?” Your words have the whole chamber silencing. Whilst you feel Lyonel’s eyes upon you with a faint smile on his face. “The reason why Ser Gareth married Lady Redwyne?” Both men nod reluctantly. “Then there is nothing to be fought about, marrying for love is the best thing we could ever hope for our children, is it not, my lords?”
They grumble under their breath.
Lyonel grunts back with a glare hauled right at them that could cut stone, and they both immediately say yes.
“And I will make sure that Lady Royce will find a suitable husband.” Your eyes glance at the older Royce. “Perhaps I shall help in that matter, I know a few unwed cousins in the Vale that would be happy to marry the beauty of house Royce.”
“That would be too kind of you, my lady.” He could not believe it himself as he splutters out happily.
“It would be my pleasure. And perhaps your second son, Lord Swann, Barth, was it?” He nods. “I shall find him a suitable bride when he is of marrying age. This is my gift to you, my lords.”
Lord Swann looks awfully pleased about your proposal, even agreeing with his opponent whom he wanted to chop his fingers off a few minutes ago.
Your husband looks quite proud of you, he’d kiss you right now if not for his council being in the room. You turn to him, smiling smugly and he feels his chest warm, as if no time has passed since you first met him, and he’s looking at you from across the Baratheon pavilion whilst dancing without a care in the world. He’s still undoubtedly in love with his wife.
“No more fucking squabbling about, you bastards.” Lyonel adds, thumb brushing along your pulse point gently but his dark eyes don’t convey the same softness towards the pair. “Now,” leaning on the table, he sets his eyes on the parchment folded atop it. “We must speak of this spreading sickness from the Crownlands. Maester?”
“Lady Baratheon and I have received numerous ravens from King’s Landing to the Reach…”
—
The spring sickness did not reach your keep thanks to the early prevention you and the maester prepared. And partly from Lyonel’s help, if not for him, his vassals wouldn’t have obeyed your orders and a scholarly man, he was the one who made sure that they acted upon your order. Perhaps if he did not send all those threatening letters to each house the sickness would’ve reached your home, and you could not handle seeing your family fall ill to the deadly sickness.
The news of the old king dying from it reached you whilst you were heavy with your third, Orys, Lyonel have decided to call him, hoping that he’ll take after the warrior of great renown.
During the height of the sickness, your lord husband ruled the keep with an iron fist, he did not let anyone through the gates out of fear that they’re carrying it. He could not risk it when you are with child, and with his older children being just six and five. Lyonel would sooner put the bridges to the torch if it means keeping his house safe and healthy.
Your family wanted to visit you and the children, but with the news of the sickness blowing further up to the Reach, so close to home, you persuaded them to stay at home and bar the doors to the Eyrie.
In the end, the Stormlands had the least amount of bodies that died from the sickness, even though the harvest and trade was low, everyone else survived it. The same couldn’t be said to the Targaryens back in Kingslanding.
Orys was an easy birth, he was quiet when he was born, giving you a fright, especially when there were only four people allowed in your chamber to lessen the chance of contact. Lyonel usually favours the company of at least half the keep especially during feasts and times of revelries, but he was glad of the peace and quiet this time around. The atmosphere even fits the new addition to house Baratheon, when Lyonel has dubbed him the quiet storm, after being awfully silent despite just being born.
The way his face softened when you said that he looks the most like him, just taller. It would put the rumours to rest of him being Ser Duncan’s after he visited with Egg during your nameday tourney. But alas, he was born during a time of great grief and the folk were looking for entertainment and gossip, unfortunately the rumours about your son was the one they fixated on.
You and your husband don’t care for it when you both know the truth, you just hope and pray that the rumour doesn’t last. That it’ll soon fade away and be forgotten.
“Another son, m’lady.” Juniper, your oldest friend has been stuck in Storm’s End with your family because of the sickness. You can’t deny that you’re glad that she is here with you during a tough time. “My sincere congratulations.” She holds your clammy hand, as you both watch the Laughing Storm bounce your son in his arms, trying to coax a giggle or a mirthful sound from his lips. “He is doing quite well.”
“He is.” You wipe away the stray tears still clinging on your lashes as the Maester lights up an incense.
“I’m not talking about little Orys.”
Chuckling, you nod with a tired smile. “He’s a wonderful father.” You utter without a single doubt. “I cannot believe I ever doubted him when I got the news of our match.”
“The gods work in mysterious ways, a bit cruel, but they’re usually correct.”
You squeeze her hand, as Lyonel turns to you, beaming down at his son with unconditional love. “I am glad that I snuck away that day.”
“I am glad that I let you.” She sends you a cheeky wink, before moving away to let Lyonel place the bundle in your arms, and the babe immediately takes after you, a fist reaching out to grab at your chemise.
“I’m afraid he does not like me very much.” He jests, gently brushing his finger along his chubby cheek.
“Give him time, he will grow to love you just like I have.”
His nose scrunches, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Did you not love me the moment you saw me, hm?”
You roll your eyes, sinking down onto the bed as you lay your head upon his bicep. “I am too exhausted to argue.”
Lyonel chuckles and pecks the top of your head. “Wonderful job, my love. You are a vision.”
The mother has truly smiled down upon you.
—
Life at Storm’s End could not be any more happy for the Baratheons. Especially during supper, where everyone joins in to eat together. Whenever you’re all together in one place, the voices and laughter could rival the booming sounds of thunder outside. Your family is boisterous, but you wouldn’t have them any other way.
And yet despite the warmth and Juniper’s rambling about her new horse courtesy of her father, and with Ormund babbling how much of a bore his lessons are whilst Orys quietly reads beside you, you feel awful. Like you’re about to fall ill.
“Isn’t that right, mother?” Ormund grins toothily at you, showing off his missing front tooth from a training yard spar with a stableboy. He’s getting better at wielding a sword, but he lacks the patience and control that is usual for a boy his age.
“Hmm?” You blink away the fatigue that slithers up your spine. “I’m sorry, my love, what were you saying?”
Ormund sighs whilst Juniper shares a look with her father. “That I should’ve been allowed to join the tourney at Tarth!”
“You are far too young for that.” Chuckling, you feel a familiar rough hand atop your thigh. “Stop trying to convince us, you can join the lists once you are six and ten.” You then face the source of the tender hold whilst Ormund sinks in his seat.
“You’ve been feeling unusually tired these days, my doe, how are you faring, hm?” Lyonel asks, always so in tune with your needs. “Is the roast not up to your taste?”
“You always loved a good roast, mother.” Juniper shares the same worry, expression looking awfully like her own father’s.
“I do, it’s just that…” You bite the inside of your cheek as you feel your husband squeeze you. Orys catches wind of the conversation as he pauses his reading to listen in worriedly. “It seems that I could only stomach honeyed dates and porridge these days. I think I am coming down with something.”
“Mother, it’s best for you to see the maester about this.” Orys quietly adds, his head that is usually buried in a book is now lifted up to gaze at you with similar worry.
“Oh, I’ll be fine, my gentle heart.” You pat his head lovingly with a reassuring smile.
“Nevertheless, you need to eat, my sweet.”
“Shall I call for the cook to send a plate of dates, father?” Juniper looks to him for guidance.
“Perhaps.” The Laughing Storm’s eyes gloss over for a moment, as if a thought passes by his mind that has him pondering so deeply. “I remember that you only liked honeyed dates when you were carrying Juniper.”
“And I usually hated them.” Your laughter fades slowly, as you both realize it. “I think Orys is right.”
Lyonel’s chuckles turn wobbly as his palm caresses your belly out of instinct. “I’m afraid so.”
“I am always right.” Your youngest, or soon to be an older brother, utters smugly, chest puffed up, none the wiser to your condition.
Juniper is the first out of the siblings to realize. “Gods, another one?”
—
“You cannot go.” Your tone trembles as you hug yourself, holding your belly protectively as you lay abed.
“I have been called by the king.” Lyonel has his back against you, arms raised to his sides as his squires, including your oldest son, fits him in his armour. “I have to answer it.”
“You can just...” You try to sit up, but your swollen belly that seems to look like an incredibly large pumpkin is making it harder to do so. “You don’t even care if the rebellion succeeds or not!” If your eyes could set the letter from King’s Landing ablaze, it would.
He sees your struggling movements through the reflection in the looking glass, and he waves the hands away, turning to face you and cross the short distance. He walks to you with purpose, metal clanking with every step as he helps you sit up.
You wave him away, anger ebbing out of you. The squires look away, and Ormund’s jaw clenches at the sight of his mother struggling. “Please do not go and risk your life, please, my love, Lyonel.” Pleading, your palm cups his cheek, whilst looking into his conflicted eyes.
Lyonel’s dark eyes gaze upon your state, awfully worried for you, especially after the maester has concluded that you are in fact having two babes. If he knew that you would be confined to the bed the whole time, he would’ve been more careful. He did not wish for you to suffer, nor bear him children until your body collapses. He is happy enough to have the children he already has, but you were blessed with two more fawns. He should be grateful, joyful, but you look ill, and it terrifies him.
“Leave us.” The Laughing Storm calmly says, whilst he keeps his eyes on you. He hears the shuffling of feet, but he could tell that one is tarrying. “That includes you, Ormund.”
“But, father…” brows furrowed, he looks at you for an answer.
You take a deep inhale, a breath that is getting harder to catch in your state. “Go, sweetling. See to it that Juniper isn’t donning her armour and that your little brother hasn’t locked himself in the library again.” With a hand reaching out to him, your son takes your sweaty palm in his, giving you a gentle squeeze before reluctantly leaving.
A moment passes between the two of you, and the tension rises with every laboured breath you take.
“I have to go, my doe.” The lord of Storm’s End breaks the silence as the rain starts pouring down upon the keep outside. “You know that I have to.”
“Just tell me that you are joining the war because you love wielding your sword, and the heat of battle more than staying with your family and defending our keep.” You talk viciously, a side effect of your condition, but your words weigh true, you don’t want the love of your life to die in a senseless war that he has no business fighting. “Years ago I wouldn’t have protested, but things have changed, Lyonel! We have children now! You’ll miss their birth!” You gesture towards the twins kicking in your belly, bedridden because of them. Because of your own selfish want.
You could perish because of some prophecy you heard once a decade ago.
He has sworn an oath to the Targaryens, yes, and it’s honourable what your husband is doing, but you cannot face the reality of him gone, missing the birth of his children and probably your last breath.
Lyonel takes your face in his hands, cradling you gently, forehead pressed against your own as he holds you. “I must. For if the Blackfyres win, they’ll come for us next. I am not doing this because of bloodlust or to advance our house in the eyes of the king, fuck him and his blood, I could not care less for what happens to him, but I do care for us, our family. The rebellion might not be at our doorstep but it will soon be if we do not cut it off before it gets here.”
“You could die.” You whisper with bone crushing fear. “I do not want to lose you.”
“And, I, you, my love.” Palm gingerly atop your belly, you have never seen Lyonel look so afraid in his whole life. Not of the war to come, but for your life and the lives growing inside you. “I will be back, I’m not planning on turning you into a widow.”
Sniffing, you could feel the tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. Relenting, this is a fight you can’t win. “You best be back here before they are born.”
“I will be, I promise.”
“Take care of Ormund, he is far too young to witness the horrors.”
Lyonel cannot find it himself to lie to you. “I will try.”
“That is enough for me.” With a desperate kiss that could be the last, you mutter a prayer to the seven against his lips.
—
“Push, m’lady!” Juniper, your oldest friend and former handmaiden, has come to your aid from the Vale the moment she heard that your husband has left to fight.
The pain drills into your pelvis, a searing pain like a hot metal poker is stabbing right at you. “I need Lyonel!” Your screams echo around the keep, you have barred your children out of the chamber and away from the noise to spare them from witnessing and hearing your plight. “Send a damn raven to him!”
“We already have, my lady.” The maester replies frantically, trying to wrangle you back to bed whilst Juniper holds you up against the bedpost. “This cannot wait.”
“I am not trying to tarry, old man! They refuse to come out!” You shriek, despite the maester being your elder brother’s age. That reminded you that the damn war also has them fighting in it. “I want my Lyonel! Where is he? He promised!”
“To think I came all this way for you to call your husband, hm?” The older Juniper tries to jest, only to be met with your glare. “I must remain quiet, of course, my apologies.” She clamps her mouth shut, a hand caressing your sweat drenched back.
“Lyonel! Fuck!” You feel sweat trickling down your neck. “I want my mother!” Sobs wrack your body as you’re led to the bed.
“The babe is almost there, my lady—!”
The chamber doors open, followed by the clang of metal and the stench of crimson.
It’s as if your pain subsides for a moment when you see him walk in his golden Baratheon regalia. Lyonel has an intense look in his eyes, adrenaline still rushing in his veins, blood still coating his armour and cheek. When he sees you, he immediately rushes to your aid.
“My stag…”
Yelling your name desperately, he doesn’t even shed his armour as he grasps your outstretched hand. “I am here, no need to scream my name further.”
“You’re late.” Despite the pain, you let out a relieved chuckle. “Ormund?”
“With his siblings, I told him to comfort them to his dismay. He’s safe.” His armoured digits intertwine with your clammy fingers. “We are both fine. We won, and I have fulfilled my promise, now it is your turn to win the battle.”
You would feel relieved if not for the pain.
“F–fuck you!” You scream out, squeezing his hand in your steely grip that would be more painful than a stab from a dagger.
“That’s my doe! Come on!”
The crying of a babe is music to everyone’s ears. And not a moment longer, another cry echoes around the keep to Lyonel’s delight and relief as he holds you and his twin boys in his arms.
—
Lyonel never expected for another to be born right after the twins. Robert and Robin were merely four when Ella was born on a midsummer day, during your husband’s own nameday. It was a particularly cold day, cloudy, and the winds were restless, adding to Lyonel’s worry. He did not plan to have six children, nor did you, but the seven works in mysterious ways it seems.
She did not stop crying until you held her, and Lyonel, gods, the man almost fainted from the fear of losing you during the labours. You’ve had six babes, carried all of them with your head raised high whilst ruling alongside him. You’re the bravest person he knows, the strongest too for surviving each one. He has faced countless battles but losing you was much more terrifying than facing a whole army.
It wasn’t a hard one unlike with the twins, but he was deathly afraid when Ella, little Ella, who has him wrapped around her finger immediately after birth, is the sixth of his children. He has every right to be afraid, and so were you, but somehow, you just knew that she would be an easy birth after what you experienced last. She went out like a drop of rain on a leaf.
Balancing six children and managing the keep with the rest of your duties as lady Baratheon isn’t easy. You never thought it would be easy, but with Lyonel, and with your kin helping, it helps take the weight off your already heavy shoulders.
You and Lyonel wanted to raise them all by yourself, which wasn’t an easy feat to begin with, but you two did it anyway. The cooperation, the sleepless nights, and a few arguments here and there, you two somehow made it work, and your fawns are alive and happy— not an easy task in this world.
You wanted them to be good people, raising them to be honourable, kind, and caring. They’re all quick to temper, yes, but they have learned to rein their rage in. They’re all well read, especially Orys, and they all know how to defend with a sword, moreso for Juniper and Ormund’s case. Your children, ones that you never thought you will ever have, more so have six, are growing up well.
Every child was treated equal, Ormund might be the heir, but Juniper is given the same treatment as him and her brothers. She chose to study the sword, so you two let her. Lyonel always makes a point to let them know that they always have a choice, a voice in every matter. One that they sometimes exploit to annoy each other or even their father. They’re glad children, not sorrowful nor forgotten in favour of the other. You and Lyonel always made sure of that.
They’re the light of Storm’s End.
Your life with them and your husband aren’t always blissful, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re glad that you snuck off from your pavilion during the Ashford tourney, that you followed Ser Duncan and Ser Raymun inside the Baratheon tent, and that you finally looked at Lyonel after hearing him laugh.
Fate had other plans for you, but you are glad for it.
The Stormlands are faring well under your house’s rule. It’s peaceful. The crops are well, there haven’t been any Dornish raids in a few years, and any rebellions or sickness are managed before it could worsen. Your Lyonel has proven to be a great and just lord. But he’d say that he couldn’t do it without you by his side, without your wit and wisdom the Stormlands would’ve fallen to disarray under his rule, to which you always rolled your eyes at but the kiss you always give him after says that you feel greatly appreciated. You’re always included in every decision, in every council meetings, that whenever Lyonel couldn’t be there, you would be his voice, rule under his stead.
It’s hard work, being everything all at once, but at the end of the day, you get to lay down beside your Lyonel, your stag, and laugh and hold each other until sleep takes you both. It’s a glimpse of the seven heavens, it’s a dream fulfilled.
And Lyonel, he feels as though he has everything he could ever want or need in his life. He has you, his fawns and his keep, he could not ask for anything else.
—
“Where are my children?” You ask loudly to the staff, looking around the great hall, hoping to find your husband or at least one of your children.
“Last I saw them was in the kitchens, m’lady.” A young Baratheon man at arms curtly answers with a practiced bow.
“Thank you, Ser.” Gathering your skirts, you carefully walk on the stone floors towards the kitchens. Your belly hasn’t grown as much just yet, and you’re glad of it when you’re always roaming around the keep looking for your wandering children.
Making a beeline to the kitchen doors, the staff greets you with a polite nod, opening the doors for you as the smell of freshly baked pastries waft through your nose. Your mouth waters at the sight, from pigeon pies to roasted beef, it has your stomach grumbling. The kitchen staff are frantically walking around, cooking and preparing for the feast, whilst the heat blasts right at your face.
You don’t find all your children inside, but you do find a certain former hedge knight and a son of yours that is almost as tall as the good Ser.
Orys looks up at Ser Duncan with large eyes. The poor knight looks down with gnawing dread in his chest. They do look similar in stature, but from the lordling’s eyes alone, he’s truly Lyonel’s son. A true Baratheon, Duncan doesn’t doubt it when he sees Lyonel in him.
“You need anythin’, m’lord?” Duncan says in between chewing a raspberry coated pastry.
“Were you here during my mother’s nameday tourney ten years ago?” Orys, in all his ten year old might, the usually quiet Baratheon, looks at the kingsguard without faltering his words.
“Aye, I was with my squire and Ser Raymun Fossoway.” Duncan swallows thickly, his gaze noticing you in the doorway as his cheeks flush in deep red. “W–why?”
“No reason, good Ser.” Your son has his hands tucked behind his back, sizing the knight in his gaze. “Just curious.”
You decide to put a stop to the conversation lest it reignites the rumours. “Orys, there you are!” Putting on your best smile, you sidle beside him, taking his arm on instinct. “The maester is calling for you, it’s time for your lessons.”
Orys looks at you then to Duncan with narrowed eyes. “I thought there wouldn’t be any lessons today because of the king’s visit?”
“I thought so too but it seems that the maester changed his mind.” Chuckling nervously, you usher him away with a smile. “Go, and if you see your siblings tell them that it’s time for their lessons. Especially Ormund, please get him away from the wine until the feast.”
He lets out a sigh, looking back at Dunk with a purse of his lips. “Of course, mother.” The boy walks away, snatching a slice of lemon cake on his way out.
“He’s just like you, m’lady.” Duncan finally lets out a breath.
“How so?”
“He’s not very good at lying.” A cheeky grin spreads across the knight’s face. Duncan has aged quite remarkably, white hair dusted on his hair, and a beard to match. There are crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes, and smile lines around his mouth. If he wasn’t a kingsguard, king Aegon would’ve easily found a match for him.
Chuckling, you shake your head at your old friend. “I’m afraid so. All my children unfortunately got that trait from me, nothing slips by their father. I do hope it won’t be their downfall.”
“You and Lyonel raised them well, they will be alright.” With a gentle grasp on your shoulder, Duncan pats you fondly. “It is good to see you again, lady Baratheon, but I must return to my post.”
“Of course, I shall see you at the feast.” Giving him a curt nod, and with Dunk bowing in return, he walks away. Something catches your eye that is tucked inside the crook of the metal plates on his arm, a white handkerchief that has turned yellow from age, embroidered with a falcon. He kept your favour.
“Gods…” tears prick in your eyes. “Where did the time go?” Your hand caresses your stomach as you head out to find the rest of your children.
You find your girls in the gardens, it’s a cloudy day outside, but warm enough to lounge around in the gardens. Juniper braids her younger sister’s hair as Ella frowns deeply at her doll. You hear the familiar pitter patter of feet, and you immediately know where the laughter comes from.
“I’ve got your doll, Ella!” Robert, or is it Robin? Snatches the toy from his younger sister.
“Give it back, Rob!” Juniper defends her immediately, giving her younger brother a glare. While little Ella looks like she’s about to weep.
“Or what?” He taunts, and his twin appears from behind the bush, wild curls covered in twigs and leaves. “You’ll tell father?”
“No, I shall tell mother!” She stands up, almost a woman grown as a satisfied smile tugs on her lips from how her brothers’ smug smiles disappears. “Now apologize to Ella, she’ll be queen someday, and she might cut off your heads for being rude to her.”
“No, she won’t!” And yet he still hands her the toy.
Ella sniffs and hugs the doll tightly. Her curls flow on her back like the deep dark end of the sea, a stark contrast to her light yellow gown sewn with images of flying falcons.
“Ella, you won’t do such thing, won’t you?”
“We’re your brothers!”
Little Ella, barely seven, slowly looks up at the twins with a cold glare that could rival your own. “Maybe I shall.”
The boys gasp, taking a step back from their baby sister. All the while Juniper looks at her proudly. She’s the first to notice your presence under the archway.
“Mother!” Her smile blooms and lights up her features, your old dagger is strapped on her hip. “Is it time for the feast?”
The identical pair winces, while Ella vaults from her seat and rushes over to you.
“Not yet, flower.” Your youngest’s arms curl around your legs, sniffing and nuzzling the silk of your gown. You reach to caress her head, and she melts instantly from your touch. “How about you go see the queen, hm? See how she’s faring and if she has need of anything.”
“Can I?” Juniper beams.
“Of course, but remember to be kind and respectful. Watch your words.” Smiling, you watch her skip away. “As for you two, come here.”
The twins share a look with each other before shuffling towards you. “Yes, mother?” They simultaneously say.
“My boys, you know how I adore you both, but you cannot pick on your sister until she is in near tears.” You pick the leaves out of Rob’s hair, and wipe the mud off the other Rob’s cheek with a handkerchief. “It’s best to make people laugh more than to make them cry. Do you understand?” You take each of their chin in hand. “You both are the light of Storm’s End, I shall not extinguish that light out of you but in turn you cannot smother out other people’s light, especially your younger sister’s.”
“My apologies, mother.” Robin, you now know after taking a closer look, has his head down apologetically.
“We wanted to cheer her up, that’s all.” Robert finishes the sentence for him.
“Oh my gentle hearts, don’t apologize to me, apologize to your sister.”
“We’re sorry, Ella.” They say at the same time, genuine and with remorse.
Your little Ella gives them a stare, before reluctantly nodding and hiding her face in your skirt once again. As your hand pats her back, you feel her hold grow tighter around you.
“Now go bathe then find Orys and Ormund.” Crouching down, you take Ella in your arms, carrying her despite the ache in your lower back.
“We don’t smell!”
“Yes, but you two look like you crawled out of a dragon, now go.” Ushering them away, they turn meek but lets their emotion show by stomping away. Once they are out of earshot, you whisper to Ella. “Let us go find your father, shall we?”
Lyonel labours over papers as the fading sunlight illuminates the look of exasperation on his face. His doublet is half open, chest bare for the whole realm to see as you could see every inhale and exhale. His hair has gotten too long, tied at the end to keep it away from his face, the tresses are more salt than pepper than a few years ago. He has smile lines, proof of all the laughter in his life, and skin folded in between his brows, proof of all the plights that have plagued him but survived. Even though time has marked him, he’s still as handsome as when you first met him at the Ashford tourney. You could still hear the first booming laugh you heard from inside his pavilion.
“My love.” Your voice echoes around the expansive council chamber.
Lyonel’s head turns immediately to you, sighing in relief as if you were just what the maester ordered, a reprieve from his boring duties. “My doe, come here.” Beckoning you over, he notices the lump you carry, clicking his tongue in worry at the sight before taking Ella from your arms. He groans at the weight, but he could still carry her effortlessly. “You have to stop lifting in your state.”
“I couldn’t help it.” You whisper, a palm resting on his chest as you kiss his waiting lips chastely. “She’s sad.”
The words immediately has Lyonel concerned for his little girl. “Why?” He whispers back, the laughing storm, who is loud and boisterous, always making sure that everyone knows that he is in the room, whispers to not upset his daughter further. “This feast is for her.”
“I think that’s exactly why.”
Taking a deep breath, he leans away, moving Ella from his shoulder to take a good look at her tear stained cheeks and wet lashes. His face contorts into deep worry.
“Sweetling, what’s wrong?”
Her frown wobbles, and she breaks once again when you reach to rub at her back. “I–I don’t want to marry the prince.”
“Oh, my heart.” He holds her gently, pulling her close to his heart and bouncing her like when she was still a babe. “I’m terribly sorry,” pecking the crown of her head, Lyonel looks to you for help.
“Ella, sweet girl.” You hold them both, chin resting above your husband’s shoulder as you smile warmly. “The betrothal isn’t set in stone, that is why we’re having this feast, so you and the prince can decide for yourself if you like the other. Or at least befriend one another.”
“What if I don’t grow to like him? That he’s rude and takes my doll?” Her eyes are red, and Lyonel feels utterly guilty for the match.
“Then you won’t marry him.” Your lord husband utters the same words you were about to say. “Simple as that.”
“Your father is right.” Wiping away her tears gently, you hold onto her tighter. “Or you might find yourself liking him, just like I have with your father. I thought he was a brute before I met him, but when I truly got to know him,” the memory alone warms your heart, as you feel Lyonel squeeze the plush of your hip lovingly. “I soon grew fond of him.” You meet with his eyes. “Not once have I regretted giving him a chance.”
“My doe…” smiling, he nuzzles your cheek, holding onto your chin and going for a quick kiss. He then turns to little Ella, too young to understand court politics, but smart enough to know what the match entails. “Just say the word, sweetling, and the match will not happen.”
“You’ll make it so?”
“Yes,” nodding, he pecks her wet cheek. “Your mother and I promise.”
“Thank you, father.” With her arms thrown around his head, she embraces Lyonel, whilst you smile at the sight.
“What about dear old mother?” You jest as Ella softly smiles, turning to embrace you the same. “Shall we go? We shan’t disturb your father any longer.”
“Disturb me? You have given me great relief.” Chuckling, Lyonel wishes that he has something to capture the moment as his hand rub up and down your back.
“We’re just your excuse to shirk your duties.” Teasing, that earns you a bright grin and another squeeze.
“I cannot deny it.” Laughing, a deep rumble in his chest, he pecks Ella once more before placing her down. “Now, what shall you do if the prince harms you?”
“Kick him in between his legs.” She answers confidently while you stifle a laugh.
“That’s my girl.” He exclaims with pride, a thumb wiping away any remnants of her tears. “Go, your septa must be looking for you.”
“Can I wear my crown tonight?” She bats her lashes, knowing that she will get what she wants.
“Absolutely, show the Targaryens what a real crown looks like.” With the confirmation from her father, she finally grins, lighting up the whole room before bolting out.
“Do you think she’ll be alright?” You wonder out loud, leaning against his side as he slithers his arm around your middle, knuckles gliding along your stomach. “That they’ll be fine without us come the day the stranger takes us?”
“Do not think like that.” Lyonel utters beside your cheek without malice or a condescending tone. “We will be here for a long while, my love. And I know they will be, our house is in good hands.”
Craning your neck to face him, you touch his earring, grasping lightly as he lets out a deep chuckle that you could feel reverberate in his chest whilst he pulls you closer. “I hope so.”
“If not then we shall wake from the crypt to chastise them.” Nudging the tip of your nose with his own, you can smell the rain and sun on his skin, a familiar scent that is home to you. “We’re faring well with them, my love, you needn’t worry.”
“You’re right.” Closing your eyes, you pull him closer by his nape. Muscles easing, softening from his gentle touches. “My stag.”
He smiles atop your lips, chasing you for a kiss. “My doe.”
A/N: there will be more of lady arryn and lyonel!!
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 6.1k
Synopsis: Snapshots of your married life with Lyonel— the wedding and the honeymoon.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Arryn! Reader, set after the Ashford tourney, Reader has family members but no physical description, the epilogue of my mini series, a prequel to this fic, CW suggestive, reader is with child, fluff.
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
Chap 6 <<< Epilogue I >>> Epilogue II
Your chambers feel different, it’s still the same walls with its intricate tapestries of old, the same bed in its soft blue with silks billowing around it whenever the wind blows. And the same wardrobe you’ve had since girlhood with the same clothes you left. And yet, it feels as though you’ve become a different person you once were since you last been here.
The Ashford tourney changed you in more ways than one. The things you witnessed and experienced there made you see things more differently, in another angle of sorts. And the people you met there, whether they had a positive impact on you or not, helped sculpt you to the woman that you are right now.
You’re betrothed now, happily that is, to someone you chose, to someone who loves you back. It was your decision, one that was easily decided even though you should’ve done it ages ago when the letter with a crowned stag stamped on it landed in your hand.
No matter how it started, it ended with you happily donning on your wedding frock. Lyonel Baratheon, your betrothed is just a few doors away from you whilst you gaze at yourself in the looking glass. Hopefully he’s getting ready just like you are, instead of nursing his heavy head after the drinking he did with half of your family. They’ve taken him in with open arms, it wasn’t a surprise to you at all that they did when Lyonel has a habit of becoming everyone’s friend. He’s so charismatic that he managed to chisel away at the Arryn brood that doesn’t welcome anybody so easily into their flock.
Your brothers seemed to have taken him in as their third brother, the last you saw of them was last night before you reluctantly retired to bed. The three of them were dancing and drunkenly singing along to a tune above the feasting table. It seems as though Lyonel was always supposed to be their brother by law. As would fate have it, he fit in between them perfectly.
Even your mother loves him, your mother, who doesn’t like anyone new, who is so used to routine that she frowns at any disturbance that ruins her usual day to day; loves Lyonel even when he invited himself to her morning stroll, and has gifted her new tea when she has been drinking the same brew for years. If it was you or even your father who would do the same thing, you’d be cast out of her presence with an annoyed frown. But not Lyonel, who has become the favorite overnight.
Your father likes him enough, like any father of a daughter who is about to see her marry off and move away from home. He’s at least polite to the heir of Storm’s End, and you have even seen him calling for Lyonel specifically whilst the two of you were canoodling in the library. The poor page boy had to hide his red ears with the collar of his doublet. When you asked what they talked about after he was gone for what seems to be for hours, Lyonel just gave you a big smile, arms enveloping around you giddily. Perhaps they talked more than the wedding and more about your future with him. That your father passed on the torch to him when it comes to your wellbeing, protecting you and loving you. Lord Arryn has approved of him it seems, all the drama from the tourney must’ve been told to him and is probably behind your father now when Lyonel used his charms.
From your cousins, to your nieces and nephews, and even the Vale’s bannermen, they all came to the same conclusion— Lyonel is the perfect husband for their lady Arryn. There was no doubt about it, especially when they saw the way you looked at him the moment you slid your palm upon his hand whilst he helped you off the carriage. Everyone could see it, you two are madly in love with each other. Absolutely besotted to one another. All their protests that lingered on the tip of their tongues died the moment they saw Lyonel reciprocate your affection with a peck to your knuckles, eyes seemingly never leaving your smiling face.
Lyonel was forced to wait for a few days in your home to recuperate after the trial. It was dreadfully awful for him to wait when all he wanted was to marry you. So much so that whenever the caravan would pass by a town with a sept on your way to the Vale, he’d look at you with the same face— batting his lashes, gentle eyes gazing right into your own with longing and with a pout unbefitting of a Lord, but you’re not one to judge when you love that look on his face. It just means that he could not possibly wait for another moment that he isn’t married to you. The number of times he wanted to carry you off to elope was staggering, if not for your pleading eyes telling him to patiently wait, the two of you would’ve already been wed days ago. And possibly the talk of the whole realm, weaving their own stories about the stag that stole the lady Arryn right out of her carriage.
The wedding was supposed to happen in Storm’s End, where his old father would be able to witness the union, but that meant your whole family would have to go there too, and the two of you couldn't possibly wait that long to marry. It had to be done quickly, your future lord husband is very much impatient to say the least.
“Storm’s End is a drab place to hold a wedding, my love.” Lyonel once said against your temple after a loving kiss whilst the whole caravan rests beside a hill on your way to the Vale. He has you in his arms, tucked safely as the carriage hides the two of you from everyone’s sight. “And you deserve nothing of the sort.”
Lyonel was itching to hoist you upon his shoulder and grab the nearest septon and elope with you, or at least that’s what he playfully threatened whilst your head was on his lap in the gardens whilst your mother asked for a few days to prepare the keep for the ceremony and the feast. You wouldn’t protest that of course, you wanted to marry him just as much.
So when the day finally came, with both of your houses approving the union wholeheartedly, especially his father sending a raven stating that he is quite happy about the turn of events— it’s time to intertwine your lives together, just like how it was meant to be from the start.
“Don’t be nervous, m’lady.” Juniper utters as she fixes your already perfect hair. “It’s just your Lyonel.”
“I know, Juniper.” With a palm taking her hand atop your shoulder, she rests her chin on the other, gazing at you through the mirror with a sigh and a small smile. “But everyone from the Vale will be there. My palms are clammy just thinking about it.”
“Don’t forget that a few lords and ladies from the seven kingdoms will be there too.”
“Thank you for reminding me.” Rolling your eyes, you glance at yourself in the mirror.
The gown is the finest you’ve ever seen, velvet, and chiffon underneath to keep its shape. It’s in a brilliant blue, light and airy whenever you move, as if you’re wearing a puff of clouds on your body. The sleeves are puffed, not too much, giving you a very regal silhouette. There are golden ribbons around the sleeves, all tied with a neat bow as embroidered stars made from golden threads are stitched on the fabric. For once, there is no falcon nor a half moon on your bodice, instead, the corset is laden with feathers made from the same golden thread that is also around the hem. If that wasn’t enough to tell your guests that you are the bride, the long train that drags behind you would be enough. It’s gorgeous, stitched with a tapestry of both the Baratheon sigil and your own. But it tells a story, where a crowned stag runs along a field with a falcon soaring above it. Roaming the peaceful fields together.
You have to hand it to your mother, she knows how to fashion a gown. You’ve heard from one of the servant girls that she barely slept just to finish the train in time. Your mother was particular about every minute detail of your ensemble, stating she has been dreaming of this day since you were declared a girl on her birthing bed. She had a silver circlet fashioned just for you, made right in the Arryn forge, and designed by her and your sisters by law. It’s simple yet graceful, decorated with sapphires and a pair of wings on the sides to mimic the crown of your ancestors.
She even had Juniper working for her vision, instructing her on how to do your hair exactly how she pictured it. Now you find yourself with pearls and flowers in your hair, and smelling like a field of wild flowers. Your mother visited whilst you were getting ready, but she could not stay for long when her tears would blur her vision and Juniper had to whisk her away lest she turns hysterical right before the wedding. You don’t remember her being like this for either one of your brothers’ weddings.
“I’m gladdened that you decided to stay with us for a while, Juniper.” You utter with a swallow of your nerves. “It would be awfully dreadful if you weren’t there with me.”
She gives you a genuine smile, taking your hand away from picking at your nails. “Of course I chose to join you. That, and Ser Andros has agreed to become your protector for the time being while you get yourself settled in.”
Chuckling, she helps ease your worries. “I would be most comfortable with the two of you there by my side. Besides, you promised me that you would visit whenever you can.”
“I will, every nameday I will be there.” She slaps your hand away from taking your braid. Clicking her tongue, she sends you a stern look. “You needn’t worry, m’lady, the ceremony will be over soon,” she gives you a good squeeze before clasping a silver rope of sapphires around your neck. “and before you know it, it’ll be the beddin’ ceremony.”
“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Lyonel’s voice booms from the doorway, steady, and yet tender.
You turn to him with a gasp, finding that he’s covering his eyes. “Why are your eyes closed, am I that ghastly to look at?”
Juniper curtsies, stifling a grin as she leaves the room.
“No, I thought you wouldn’t like me seeing you before the ceremony?” He feels around, grasping onto the side of the door lest he falls over. “We need a compromise lest you want me to fall on my face and you’ll be marrying a man with one less tooth.”
“Lyonel.” Chuckling, you cross the distance of your solar to hold onto his hand. You note of his attire, he’s still in his cotton undershirt, ties untied down to his chest, and he’s still in the same trousers from last night. “Gods, you’re not ready yet?”
“It will take me just a minute to get ready.” Shrugging, he still has his hand on his eyes. “Can I see you?”
“Just for that, no.” You tease, taking hold of the ties on his undershirt to cinch it tightly until it closes around his neck. “Go bathe and go get ready or I shall throw you out of the moon door.”
His grin spreads across his cheeks. “That sounds enticing, my love. But you wouldn’t be able to see your wedding present if so.”
“I can see it later, please get ready!” Chortling, you find your face cradled by his hands whilst his eyes are tightly closed just to tease you. “My mother will be displeased.”
“She can be displeased for a moment more.” He rummages inside his pockets, whilst his thumb traces along your jaw, as if he could make out your whole appearance just from that alone. “Aha!” He pulls out a neat oak box with the Baratheon sigil on it. “Open it.” Blindly pawing for your hand, he manages to find it as he places the box in your palm.
Eyes narrowed, you try not to show your giddiness as you bite your lip. “You’re not drunk, I know you cannot still be drunk.”
“I am glad to announce that I am not.” Leaning forward, Lyonel presses his forehead atop yours, his curls falling over your eyes as he smiles, eyes still shut. But you don’t need to see them when his smile and touch around your waist and face tells it all the same— he’s unabashedly lovestruck. “Just drunk on you, my love.”
“Is it too late to sail to Lys and follow the prince?” You jab your finger on his chest, earning a scoff and a scrunch of his nose.
“Do not even jest about that lizard.” He brushes his lips along your own for good measure. Jealousy crawling up his neck.
You smile against the chaste kiss. “I am drunk on you too but I am more sensible for I am ready to get married whilst my betrothed still stands before me in his britches.”
That earns a loud guffaw from him, head tipping back, curls bopping around as he keeps his hold onto your waist. “Oh, I cannot wait to hear your voice every morning to chastise me how I'm always wrong.”
Brushing your knuckles along his jawline, he leans into your touch. “Not always, you’re sometimes right.”
He hums with amusement, head falling in the crook of your neck as he takes a deep breath of your perfume. “You smell nice,” his hands run along your back and sides, cataloguing your gown with just his touch. “you feel nice.”
Pecking his cheek, you finally open the box. A golden band encrusted with a pearl right in the middle greets you. It’s a simple yet beautiful ring, where a pair of stag antlers hold onto the precious stone that has a pinkish hue to it whenever the light catches it.
All your annoyance for the man before you melts away as you take it gingerly in your fingers. “Lyonel, this is gorgeous.”
“I promised to give you a new ring.” He blindly gestures around to where he thinks the ring is. “I had it made the moment we arrived here. I’ve had that pearl with me since my first trip across the narrow sea for luck.”
Now he considers you his lucky charm.
“Oh, my love.” You pepper the side of his face with loving kisses. “I love it.”
“Can I open my eyes now? I want to see your face.”
“That depends,” your index and thumb takes him by the chin, turning his face towards yours. “do you want to be surprised when I walk in during the ceremony, or are you that impatient?”
“You know me well enough that I am a very impatient man.” Cracking his eyes open, his gaze immediately lands on your face, to your lips, to your hair then downwards to your gown. “The maiden and the mother have favoured me this day.” He says, almost breathlessly. Lips curling into a grin, he laughs boisterously, taking you in his gaze with shining eyes. “You’re stunning, my doe. A masterpiece. I feel as though I should thank your mother and father for making you.”
You match his grin, laughing alongside him. “Thank you, although you are severely underdressed. I will forgive you once you are properly dressed.”
“I will, but before I go…” his hand slips from your arm down to your wrist, before pressing a sweetened kiss right on your pulse and taking your hand. “The ring please, my love.”
With a thudding heart, you have your own little ceremony right in your chambers as you watch him slip the ring in your finger slowly. The pearl shimmers underneath the sunlight as Lyonel kisses the ring, all the while keeping his gaze on you.
“You are a romantic, Lyonel Baratheon.” You utter with so much love that he could feel it underneath his ribcage.
“You are my greatest love, Lady Arryn.” He straightens up, giving your cheek a lingering kiss, leaning closer against your ear as you feel his breath fan your cheek. His big rough hands squeezes your sides with longing, with hunger as his beard grazes along your neck. “I cannot wait to rip this off of you tonight.”
—
The great hall of the Eyrie looks splendid in the light. Flower garlands hang high above, sweet scents permeating towards every corner of the expansive room. Candles are lit inside to give a warmer light inside despite the sunlight striking right through the colourful stained glass windows that depicts the seven. The mother and the maiden peer down upon you as you glide along the marble floor, walking towards your betrothed as he waits for you by the throne.
Lyonel looks strikingly handsome, curly hair properly coiffed, while a more simple version of his stag crown sits upon his brow. The circlet is golden, laden in jewels whilst there are antlers curled all around the fine metal. He has forgone the cotton undershirt for a dark blue velvet doublet partnered with a golden tunic tied around his middle that has an intricate flowery embroidery. He almost matches with you, especially with the navy blue sash draped around his chest and with the velvet hose dangling from his waist in the same hue. But most of all, he’s wearing the same cloak he lent to you during the tourney, clasped in the same golden stag heraldry. You can feel the fine fabric from where you stand.
He has his sword at his hip, ready to take a stand against anyone who is brave enough to protest the union. You’d like to see them try when you have your own dagger hidden inside your gown.
His smile is the best of all, the moment you stepped foot inside and the trumpets sang heavenly together with the harpsichord— Lyonel could not stop smiling. The sunlight blankets behind you, covering you in a halo of light as you grin up at him, rounding around the moon door, almost quickening your steps to move the procession along.
Your family looks upon you with wobbly smiles, your mother most of all as she stands beside your father, her hand clasped tightly around his. Your lord father’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears, whilst trying to keep a straight face in front of his vassals and guests. Juniper stands just beside Ser Andros, tears fully streaming down her face as the good knight hands her a handkerchief.
Your brothers are still loopy from last night’s revelry, but despite their fogged up visions, they couldn’t help the mirthful smiles on their faces.
Hiking up your skirt towards the steps, Lyonel crosses the short distance to you with a helping hand reaching for your own. It wasn’t needed when there are only three short steps towards the waiting septon, but it’s appreciated nonetheless, especially when his hand refused to let you go.
“You’re beautiful, my lady Arryn.” He whispers to you, eyes softly gazing at your happy expression.
“And you’re handsome, my Lyonel.” You squeeze his hand for good measure, as your ring and his shine underneath the rainbow lights of the windows.
The septon smiles upon you with genuine warmth as he asks you and Lyonel to recite the vows. The old man hands him a white ribbon, as Lyonel ties it around the intertwined hands.
“I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”
“I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”
The vow echoes around the domed ceiling, bouncing off the ancient marble walls of your home, etched into the very stone.
Lyonel beams at you warmly, completely lost in your eyes, almost forgetting that he has to take the marriage Baratheon cloak from your father’s waiting arms.
The small fumble has the crowd chortling in amusement as he takes the heavy cloak with a polite acknowledgement to your lord father. He mumbles something to your husband to be, and Lyonel nods warmly, bowing down courteously before going back to you.
Draping the cloak over your shoulders that bears both Arryn and Baratheon sigils at the back, a union of both houses, a sign that you are now one with him, you meet with his tender eyes.
The septon announces that you are now wed to the love of your life to the cheers of your kinsmen.
“My lady Baratheon.” He takes your chin in hand gently, and places a sweetened kiss that makes him officially yours, and you his.
—
The soft silk blanket falls off your shoulder, that is wrapped around your bare form as you stare at the broken leg of your bed. It’s all lopsided, the wrinkled blankets and pillows falling down from the angle. The two of you did not waste any time after the ceremony.
“I did not expect that.”
Lyonel scoffs a laugh. “I did.”
You turn to him, gazing at him through the haze of your need as you see him stand beside you with a sheen of sweat covering his skin, his back marked with your nails, standing beside you as naked as the day he was born.
The moonlight streaming through your windows illuminates his bare skin, and you had to unstick your gaze away lest you attack him with kisses upon his neck once again. The marks you left on him are as clear as day.
“We broke the bed, my bed.” You try to be angry or at least frustrated at him but you could not find it in yourself when your legs wobble under you and your own sweat clings to the fabric of the blanket. “Where would we sleep?”
“It’s an ancient bed, my love.” Lyonel comes closer to comfort you, not even hiding his clear intentions of continuing the strenuous activity that had the two of you panting. “Besides, we still got your settee.”
You follow his gaze, seeing the powder blue settee that has been there before you were even born. It barely fits two people, moreso two people who are recently married and very much in love.
“Lyonel, it’s small, we would not fit.”
He hums, an arm curling around your middle as he leans closer. The candlelight illuminates his face, skin clammy and pink, a hue you haven’t seen him in a while unless it’s after a sparring session or a blood pumping trial of seven. His beard is covered in sheen as he gives you a sly smirk. “Oh, we’ll fit, you said the same thing to me about my—”
“You’re crude!” You grin and giggle despite your palm meeting his shaggy chest with a smack. He’s not even fazed as he bites his lip, pulling you closer to his warmth, nuzzling your temple as you could smell yourself on him. “I married an insatiable man, oh, the gods take me—!” The silk falls on the floor with a quiet thump after he takes your wrists in his hands with a low chuckle. You don’t even protest nor pick up the fallen blanket. “My stag, that bed is as old as this keep. I believe it’s been here since the Andals.” You try to keep a straight face but your smile betrays you.
“The Andals have no need for it anymore.” He keeps his hungry eyes on you, a brow raised, pressing his forehead against your own. “For now, shall we?”
“Yes—!” You’re suddenly lifted up from the floor, carried on his shoulder, his large rough palm landing on your behind as Lyonel’s laughter echoes around the whole chamber together with your squeals of mirth.
—
Saying your goodbyes to your family and the keep you’ve called your home all your life was the hardest part of leaving. But you’re glad for it because you found your new home in Lyonel. You’re a Baratheon now, and it’s evident in the warm yellow of your gown that he has made particularly just for you. It billows in the wild breeze from the mountains of the Vale, as you embrace your mother wholeheartedly.
“I will send ravens everyday that the whole rookery will start to fear me whenever they hear my heels click.” You jest, making her laugh.
“You were always the one trying to make me laugh.” She cradles your cheek, pecking the tip of your nose just like she always had when you were a babe. “It’s only appropriate that you marry the Laughing Storm. The gods have an odd way of intertwining our fates together.” Gazing into your eyes, she leans once more, giving you a squeeze. “Oh, my gentle heart.”
“I will be fine, mother, I promise.” You utter against her hair, holding her gently with a sigh. “As you will be without me here.”
“Why do you need to leave so soon?” Brows furrowed, she turns her attention to her new son by law. “Why do you need to take her from me?”
Lyonel matches your amused smile. “I’m not trying to, my lady. But your daughter has all the answers.” That garners a stifled laugh from your older brothers, who has taken your husband like he’s their own.
“My sweet girl, you don’t have to leave.”
“Mother, I have to, I have duties now in Storm’s End.” Her embrace squeezes your insides out. “And I have to meet with my father by law.”
Moving away, she cradles your face in her hands. “Remember all your lessons?”
“I do.”
“You will visit, yes?”
“I will, just like I have promised.”
“And if anything is wrong, if your husband forsakes you,” Lyonel makes a face when he hears her words. “you are always welcome here.”
“I know, mother. But I am in good hands, there will be no need for that.”
Your father sidles beside the two of you, hands on each of your backs with a gentle smile. “Release our daughter, my love, we can’t hold her hostage for long lest we garner the wrath of our kin.”
“Oh, he won’t do such thing!” Playfully smacking your father by his shoulder, your mother presses her cheek against yours, turning your head towards him. “Look at her, remember when she used to cling to us?”
“I do, and I remember you whinging about how annoyed you are.”
You laugh as she scrunches her nose. “You are horrid, I do not whinge.”
“Yes, you do, mother.” Jon appears, smiling at her, a hand placed on her arm. “Let go or they’ll be caught in the storm.”
“Or Ser Lyonel would pry you away from his lady wife.” Robert adds with a bittersweet smile. “But I could take her now and lock her inside her chambers before he could follow us.” He whispers, garnering a laugh from her.
“Oh, hush, Rob.” Taking a deep breath, she leans away, holding you at arm’s length. “Send letters, be good, and give him an heir or two.”
“From what we heard every night since the wedding, that wouldn’t be a problem.” Jon snidely remarks, earning a weak punch on his shoulder from your mother.
“You’re the one to talk when your chambers aren’t the closest one to hers.” Robert makes a disgusted look on his face. “I had to sleep in the library last night—”
“Shut up, Robert.” You look just like your mother when you glare.
—
The day you arrived at Storm’s End was the day you truly felt rain upon your skin. The storm welcomes you with raindrops that soaks through your thick cloak. Granted that you have felt rain before, it rains in the Vale too, but this kind of rain is unlike any other, as if it wants to destroy the whole castle with its assault of rain and lightning. Despite this, your father by law has sent a generous welcoming party to greet you and Lyonel from the gates.
Your husband has expressed his displeasure for the keep, how it’s such a bore, how the grey walls make him feel insane just from staring right at it. But from how he smiles the moment he held your hand from the carriage, and how he introduced the staff and showed you the great hall, he has great fondness for the place. He is right about one thing though, there is too much grey around the keep.
The throne room is vast, and the dome ceiling above looms overhead like a stormy sky. His lord father sits upon his throne, taller than Lyonel, much taller, perhaps as tall as a certain hedge knight. He has the same dark curls as his son, cropped shorter, and his beard is trimmed to perfection with no hair out of place. His robes are much simpler, black with gold trimmings and a golden stag pin right on his chest. He looks old, older than your own father, and his white hair is much more prominent than the black hair on his head and chin.
You expected for him to be stern and straight forward like prince Maekar, but instead you see a grin break on his face the moment he sees you walk in, and a laughter that booms around the expansive chamber that could rival his own son’s laughter.
Lyonel soon joins in, not bowing before his liege lord, but instead he opens his arms to receive his father. They embrace and his father clasps his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear and retelling him the feats his heir has done in the tourney. They smile the same, and the thought warms your heart.
“You have managed to find yourself a wife too!” He boastly uttered to everyone as you stood there, not knowing what to do with your hands. “My dear, come, let me take a good look at the new lady Baratheon.”
The lord paramount of the Stormlands was endearing in every way, very welcoming and warm towards you. You see where Lyonel got his charms as you find yourself smiling in your father by law’s presence. You’ve forgotten why you were so nervous in the first place.
Lyonel showed you to your new chambers himself, citing that he will share this one with you rather than sleeping in the adjacent chamber like tradition. There was no peep of a protest from you, and he gladly received your excited words with a kiss upon your waiting lips.
The feast that followed your arrival was enormous, it spanned for nearly a month of celebrations before his lord father grew tired of the celebrations.
You were exhausted but incredibly happy. Lyonel danced and drank by your side, never leaving your presence too long as if one of his vassal lords would sweep you off your feet.
By the time you recovered from the feast, it was time to sail away to an adventure with him as promised. Ship Breaker’s bay was uncharacteristically calm just for your journey, and to Lyonel’s relief. It took only a week to land at Essos, the whole time on the ship you would spar with him when the sun was up, subsequently, you would wrangle in the sheets when the hour is late. It was utter bliss, especially the times you won against him.
Your time across the Narrow Sea would be the happiest days of your life that could rival your wedding day. Lyonel showed you everything he has encountered before during his numerous journeys. You saw different cultures, clashing together in harmony in the ports. And the large marble castles that reach high above the sky in the cities. You tasted food that you never thought would exist that you know you’ll always look for when you get back home. And the nights spent with him, days in luxurious inns, straw huts, glamorous chambers in a merchant’s keep, and sometimes in a carriage, it was heavenly. You two would stay anywhere, and fortunately, Lyonel has a lot of friends along the way.
The Laughing Storm is proving to be the best husband a lady could ever ask for. You feel incredibly lucky, and he feels like you are a blessing from the seven.
You have noticed that his eyes would always scan through the crowd when you were at Lys though, perhaps the place isn’t quite safe. But you did hear whispers of a certain platinum haired prince lingering around the place.
When the duties start to call your names through a raven, Lyonel didn’t want to come home at first, and you didn’t either. But it won’t be honourable to stay and be merry and spend your lives in revelry when you both have duties. So with reluctance, and one more night spent atop a balcony of some silk merchant’s home, your limbs intertwined, sharing a breath as the two of you stare at the sky with a promise that you would come back here with him.
—
The journey back home was unpleasant. The waves crashes along the sides of the ship, making your stomach turn. There is a light drizzle of rain from above, not enough to be a concerning storm, but enough to have the tides turn. Grey clouds are overhead, as the chill runs down your spine. You should be inside your cabin, preferably abed beside your husband curled around you for warmth. But alas, the breakfast you had this morning rises up your throat and down onto the crashing waves below.
“Gods be good…” You spit out, heaving onto the side of the ship as your hand instinctively caresses your stomach. You weren’t sure before, but from the symptoms you have been having, you know it well when you have seen the exact illness befall your sisters by law. “Mother protect me.” Eyes shut, you rub at your aching temples, feeling the pressure subside when a familiar hand bundles your hair away from your clammy face.
“So this is where you ran off to? I thought we would spar.” Lyonel’s arm curls around your waist, head tilted to gaze at your sickly expression. “Fuck, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, this is only natural.”
“My love, you weren’t sea sick when we first sailed.” Concern swims in his eyes as he wipes away the sheen off your forehead. “I knew that we should’ve brought the maester with us.”
“The same maester that you call a bumbling oaf?” You manage a chuckle, pressing yourself to his side as your cheek rests upon his shoulder. “We have no need for a maester when I know what I have.”
“The foreign food doesn’t agree with your stomach, hm?” His hand rubs up and down your stomach for comfort, whilst his lips brush along your forehead lovingly.
“No, my stag, I am with child.” There is no ounce of nervousness in your tone from your announcement. You know him well that he’d be glad about the news, that it isn’t a surprise when the two of you have become rabbits in heat whenever it’s just you and him.
The two of you weren’t in a rush for heirs, especially when the both of you were enjoying the marriage bliss, but it seems that the seven had other plans.
His wide eyes stare at you in clear shock. “Are you sure?” Voice low, his palm gently cups your belly protectively out of instinct. As if it’s in his nature.
“Lyonel, we’ve been at it like rabbits for three months straight since we wed.” Your grin grows as a smile slowly appears on his face. “It does not come as a surprise when this is the natural result of our coupling.”
Lyonel laughs boisterously, as if he wanted the whole realm to hear of his happiness. The ship crew’s attention was enough as they turn their heads at the commotion on board. His arms lift you off your feet, garnering a squeal from you as he pressed his ear to your stomach.
“The babe isn’t making any noise yet, my love.” Your hands rake through his curls, as you watch him look up at you with reverence, shining eyes and the widest grin you have ever seen on him since the wedding. “You’ll be a father soon.”
“Gods…” Feet back on the ground, he cups your face tenderly, gazing upon you with utmost love. “You have given me the greatest joy, my doe.”
There are tears gathering in your eyes as you lean closer to press a much awaited kiss to his lips.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem! Reader/ Red Hood x fem! Reader
Word count: 5.7k
Synopsis: Your relationship with Jason is complicated, you take care of his kid and practically take on the role of his mother, and stay the night with them and yet he still won't ask you to be his.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, situationship, dad AU, dad! Jason todd, will they won't they, CW food mentions, CW suggestive language, fluff.
Requested by anon: single dad!jason todd x nanny!reader. she knows he’s red hood, and is in like desperate need to make some money, and he needs someone to watch his kid while he’s out vigilante-ing.you can obviously change stuff or like write it however you wish. ANYTHING U WRITE WILL BE PHENOMENAL
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Jason Todd Masterlist
“Are you joking?”
“If I say please with it would you do it?” Jason’s voice is strangled against the phone’s receiver, and you’re beginning to think that he’s currently fighting some petty villain whilst talking to you casually.
“It's not that you weren’t nice about it, it’s just—” sighing, you finish packing a second lunch box for Oliver, already agreeing to Jason’s plea before even saying yes to him. “—I literally just watched him yesterday. I have a life too, you know.”
“You do?” You hear a pained groan on the other side as Jason huffs into the phone. He’s definitely out fighting crime again. “When was the last time you went on a date again?”
“Don’t remind me, asshole.” Rolling your eyes, you have a feeling that Jason could sense your sass through the phone, he has a sixth sense when it comes to your attitude.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“How’d you—?” You twist around as if there is a hidden camera around your apartment. “Can you please just fucking beat the guy, you breathing on the phone is annoying me.” On the contrary, you feel your cheeks warm just from the familiar sound.
“What, I can’t even breathe?”
“Oi, what the fuck, lady!” A stranger’s voice adds amidst the sound of a metallic clang.
“Am I on speaker?”
“So demanding as always.” You could just tell that he said that with a smirk. With the muffled sound of fist hitting skin, you finish packing. Waiting for Jason to answer, you grab the bags and head outside. The key fob clicks with a beep as you get inside your car. “You little shit.” Heaving, Jason returns to the call a minute later. “You’re already in your car aren’t you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Placing the phone on the dashboard, you stifle a chuckle. “That depends if you’ll pay me my regular fee.”
“Please, you like watching Ollie.”
“I do, but times are tough and I gotta pay bills too, ‘Mr. I have a billionaire for a dad.’ My regular nine to five isn’t cutting it much anymore.”
His soft chuckle has you grinning to yourself like a madwoman. Cheeks aflame, and hands suddenly clammy, even after all these years he still has that effect on you as if you’re a school girl having a crush.
“Fine, I never skimp out on your fees, I’m not going to start now.” His boots thump on the ground, “And you wouldn’t be having that problem if you agreed to stay with us.”
“And have your son question the nature of our relationship again?” Starting the car, you head out of the driveway towards the familiar road to Jason’s apartment that you have driven a thousand times before that you could practically drive there with your eyes closed.
“It’s not my fault that he could sense the tension.” There’s keyboard clacking on his end, as Jason puts the phone in between his shoulder and cheek that you could tell from the rustle of clothing. “He’s a smart kid, and smart kids see through everything.”
“If that’s you saying that our friends with benefits situation needs evaluating then tell that to yourself.” You say with a clear bite to your tone, knowing that you have tried several times to be more than his friend, not just to occasionally warm his bed. “You’re just making Ollie confused.” Your tone falls as you hear him shift on the other end.
He stops typing for a moment, a chill running in between the two of you as if he sits beside you in the car. There have been conversations about the exact same subject, and Jason would almost always segue out of it, or wave the topic away casually. Recently though, the tension is running higher than ever, you’ve been staying at their place more frequently, longer even.
You have a space in his closet where you always have fresh spare clothes tucked inside, your clothes smell like the citrus fabric conditioner he uses because Ollie can’t stand the smell of lavender. You have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, your own loofah, a bathrobe that he bought in your favorite color on a random day because you were complaining of using his towels. You even have an extra pair of shoes, your own mug in the kitchen that Oliver painted at school for you, and a bunch of hair ties left scattered in Jason’s bedroom, all belonging to you.
There is a routine now at his apartment whenever you stay the night or two, sometimes longer than in your own place where you only go home to grab new clothes. In the morning you’d make the boys breakfast, chocolate pancakes for Oliver, shaped like bats of course, and the usual egg and sausage for Jason that he always shares with you, chopping up pieces of the meat for you whilst you cut Oliver’s pancakes for him. Little Ollie, all toothy smiles and giggles, rambles on about some show that he forced you two to watch last night whilst you wiped the syrup from his cheek. The three of you would always have breakfast together that it’s basically ingrained in Ollie’s routine. It’s domestic bliss, but it’s all an act when you always leave. And Jason will only kiss you back when you’re both tangled under the sheets.
Over the years, you’ve found yourself becoming closer to Oliver, you met him when he was just a year old, barely walking straight, still teething as he seemingly imprinted on you like a little duckling. The poor kid has grown fond of you too, but now that he’s a bit older, he’s asking a lot of questions. Questions that you don’t even know the answer yourself.
You read him bedtime stories, you help him get ready for school, you kiss him goodbye, and you tell him that you love him. And yet you’re not his mom, his aunt or anyone important in his life, you’re just the woman who takes care of him and yet loves him like he’s your own.
You’ve left your mark in their lives, your life rotates around them, and yet, you’re still an outsider.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him.” Jason sounds defeated, tired and utterly conflicted.
“Good,” your tone snags at the end as you clear your throat. “I’m almost there, is he still with your neighbor or is Tim watching him now?”
“Tim,” Jason simply says through clenched jaw as he continues his work. “I told him that you’re coming.”
“You’re always so damn presumptuous, Jason Todd.”
“I know you couldn’t resist Ollie, even if you could resist me, only sometimes that is.”
You park the car as you shake your head with a small smile. “One of these days, I’ll say no.”
“I know,” he softly says, almost melancholic. “I’ll be back before his bedtime. Try not to eat all my yogurt this time.”
—
“Where’s my favorite guy?” Opening your arms, Ollie bolts out of the couch as he runs in between Tim’s legs, and launches himself into your arms within a second of his uncle opening the door.
“Here!” Oliver giggles and kicks his feet happily as he wraps his arms around your neck. “I missed you!” He grins toothily, voice squeaky as he tightens his hold on you with all of his five year old might.
“I missed you too, buddy!” Squeezing him, you start to stand up but struggle a bit. “Oh, what is your dad feeding you? You’re getting so big!”
Tim helps you up with his hand on your elbow whilst gathering your bags in his free hand. “I think he got into Jason’s protein powder again.” He jokingly says, but not too farfetched when you once caught him trying to open the big jar.
“You did!” Leaning away, you feign a shocked gasp, smiling at Ollie as he giggles and nods wildly, already distinguishing a joke. He has a striking resemblance to his dad, from his dark hair and brilliant green eyes, it’s as if someone cloned Jason. “What! You could go to jail for that!”
“No, you can’t!” Little Ollie answers in his adorable Robin Hood costume, complete with a green hood that has a bell at the end. It jingles whenever he moves his head, adding to the cuteness.
“Yes, you can!” You tickle his tummy, garnering a laugh that you’re familiar with that never fails to bring a laugh from your throat. “It’s illegal!”
“It’s not ill–gal!”
Tim closes the door behind you as you carry a squirming Oliver into the living room. You could just feel Tim’s eyes watch the two of you pensively. You already know what he’s thinking though, the same as his brothers and sisters that has driven you and Jason to question the relationship the moment Ollie called you ‘mommy’ for the first time.
You toss Ollie on your shoulder, garnering a happy squeal from him. “I’m surrendering you to the police!”
“That’s wrong!” He pats your back, “dad said to not be a…be a smitch!”
You snort a laugh, ruffling his hair whilst he kicks about. “It's snitch, baby.”
Seeing the mess they’ve made during playtime with all the plastic medieval weapons and shields around the place has you wincing if not for the mess you’ve grown accustomed to whenever you’re around their place. There’s even a handmade cardboard dragon, complete with green shimmery scales made from glitter that is sitting on the couch alongside a toy bow and arrow, courtesy of his aunt, Barbara. It seems that uncle Tim wants to overshadow uncle Damian’s arts and crafts skills when you could see the evidence of the art supplies laying on the coffee table.
You feign an offended gasp. “You’ve been playing Robin Hood without me.” Placing him down gently, Ollie looks up at you with his big green eyes. “What’s the story this time?”
“Lord Tim called his banners against me just ‘cause I ate an apple from his tree! But I won by calling my dragon!” He enthusiastically reenacts, arms wide around him, lifting off the fierce dragon as he ‘flies’ around the apartment.
“He cheated, he means.” Tim defends himself from the kitchen, opening the tupperware filled with cookies that you brought as he looks at it like he wants to marry the sweet treat.
“I did not!” Ollie abruptly stops and stomps his foot. “You had your own ogre forces!” He then points an accusing finger at his uncle. “Tell him that it was fair!” Turning to you, he flutters his lashes and pouts, the expression he always pulls whenever he wants you on his side, which is almost always. Especially when it’s against his dad, or in this case, against his uncle.
“How many knights did you have, Robin Hood?” Going around the fuming Ollie, you sidle beside Tim as you pick up a cookie, not taking a bite of it, just brandishing it around like a piece of meat in front of a lion. “Because it’s all in the numbers, you know.”
You know the kid well as he follows the cookie in between your fingers with his gaze. “I think…ten?” Pursing his lips, Ollie lets go of the paper dragon and steps forward. “Can I have some?”
“That depends, did Tim give you any sugar today?”
The boy contemplates, nose scrunching, and fingers flexing, just like a certain someone. It’s almost the exact same face Jason makes whenever he watches you go, as if he’s resisting the urge to ask you to stay.
“...no?”
“That sounds like a question, doesn’t that sound like a question?” You turn towards Tim, who is on his third cookie as you tilt your head at him and snatch the fourth one from his hand. “Did you give him any sweets today?”
“He had a popsicle because he was complaining about his tooth.” He looks offended, eyeing the cookie desperately. You relent with a sigh and give it back to him. Tim immediately perks up and devours it whilst Ollie looks at him with jealousy.
“Is your tooth still hurting, buddy?” With worry in your tone, you crouch down and Oliver crosses the short distance to embrace you. You know this reaction well enough, he’s embarrassed. You pat his back lovingly, moving some stray hair away from his eyes as you peck his temple. “I told your dad that you should go to the dentist—”
“No dentist!” He flinches, but doesn’t move away from you. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, he calls you sweetheart just because he has heard his dad call you that a million times before that it just stuck. Better than ‘mommy’ that has opened Pandora’s box. “I really am.” Cheek laying atop your chest, you hold him close.
“Yeah, but your tooth will keep hurting if you don’t go. Dad will be there the whole time.” You reassure him, giving him a loving squeeze.
“I know…” he raises his head, looking up at you worriedly. “Susie said that they have drills and knives and scary masks— and it will hurt more.”
“What does Susie know?” Tim adds, cookie crumbs all over his shirt and cheek. “Susie eats glue.”
That garners a laugh from Ollie as you stifle a chuckle. “How about I come with you and dad, hm? Then you can have all the cookies and ice cream you want after the dentist.”
“All I want?” His eyes sparkles. “Even rocky road? And— and your triple chocolate cookies?”
“Of course.” You might regret it later but at least you finally got him agreeing when no one else could.
“Okay, deal!” In true Jason Todd form, Ollie stretches his hand for you to shake. Taking his smaller hand in yours, you then shake it with a smile. “Can I have one now, please?”
Jason’s right, you cannot say no to his son. “Fine, just half though. And if your tooth starts hurting again you have to stop eating.”
“Okay!” He hops in place until you give him half a cookie. “Can I watch TV now?”
“Go, thirty minutes and then dinner for you.” Patting him in the back, you watch him skip over to the living room, clutching the cookie like it's the most precious thing he has. You turn towards the tupperware as it’s almost half empty thanks to Tim. You glare at him whilst you close the lid right in front of him.
“He can’t even eat it!” He protests.
“It’s for Jason.”
Tim groans and goes to wash the crumbs off his hands. “Just get married already, damn.”
“Tim, c’mon.” You slap his bicep, palm meeting a wall. “Ollie might hear you.”
“Fine, I’m just saying…” Sighing, Tim gathers his things from the kitchen counter and shoves them inside his backpack. “Four years together, if you even call it that, and you’re still around after all the ‘will they won’t they’ situation you two got going on.” He zips up the bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a huff. “I mean, shit, I’d go fucking crazy.” He utters lowly, for your ears only as Bluey echoes around the living room.
Your eyes wander towards Ollie as he kicks his legs on the couch happily, then over to the framed picture on the mantle where the three of you smile at the camera during Ollie’s third birthday. “It’s not like that. Jason and I are happy like this. It just…works.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Hand in his pocket, he lets out a breath, eyes flicking from Ollie then back to you. “Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and feel like you’re being strung along by my idiot brother. You’re a fucking saint, honestly. Just… just know when to say no and leave. Ollie’s the one who’s going to get stuck in the middle of this. He’s getting older, and we both know that he doesn’t just see you as his babysitter when you’ve been here since he was in diapers.”
Arms crossing over your chest, you look at your socked feet. “Yeah, I know that.”
“If Jason keeps being a hardass to you after all the talks you’ve had with him then you don’t deserve this.”
Your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply as you look Tim in the eyes and shrug. “I guess I’m the idiot then.”
“I did not say that, but kind of yes. Just like him.” He chuckles and grasps your elbow gently. “Good luck with the gremlin.”
“One talk.” You say just as he’s putting on his shoes.
“What?”
“Jason and I had one talk about our situation. The others…well, never even finished.”
“Well, keep talking to him. Maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.”
With the click of the door, you deflate and thump your head against the wall. Tim’s heart was in the right place, and you understood his words. Just like all the other words his siblings have told you about your complicated relationship with Jason. Every holiday and birthdays, at least one of them would tell you almost the exact same thing, or you see one of them sidle beside Jason and whisper about the same topic. You knew it was getting serious when Alfred and Bruce had to step in after Dick’s wedding.
“I can see the way he looks at you.” Alfred whispered amidst the sound of the first dance music. “I have seen it on them,” he gestured to the happy married couple, then back to you as you gripped your champagne flute. “And on master Bruce’s parents. Jason’s complicated, but with you, the look just comes easy.”
You remembered the moment you looked at Jason across the room as he carried a sleeping Ollie in his arm, and a drink in the other, the way his gaze immediately gravitated to you was a shake to your core. If Alfred was wrong, then everyone else was. And that’s impossible when they’re the smartest family you’ve ever grown to know. And it’s Alfred, he has never been wrong the whole time you’ve known him.
Running a hand over your face, you turn your gaze over to someone you love without any complications.
“Alright, Robin Hood, grilled chicken for tonight or mac and cheese?”
“Mac and cheese!”
—
Jason comes home to a dark apartment, but unlike the time when he used to go home to an empty barely furnished place where it always feels cold and dim, this one is a comfortable darkness, where the warm lamplight from the living room spills over the couch where his two loves reside. He doesn’t feel alone, on the contrary, he feels complete.
The moment he sees you both sleeping peacefully that calms his anxious mind, he places his equipment quietly inside the closet. Unlacing his boots, he then takes off his jacket and mask, all without making a single peep, especially when his skin pulls at the movement, bruises aching, injuries flaring up as the adrenaline that masks the pain ebbs away.
When he goes around the corner, the TV’s lights flashes across your sleeping face whilst Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap. The sound of the show is quieted down in favour of sleeping. Your cheek is pressed against the back of the sofa, neck tilted uncomfortably as you cradle Ollie lovingly in your arms. He’s curled against you in his dinosaur pajamas, arms clinging onto a Batman plushie you made for him when he was only three after he begged you relentlessly.
The two of you look like any other mother and son pair, and Jason sighs longingly at the sight.
Smiling softly, he reaches for your face, until he realizes that he’s still wearing the same bloodstained gloves. His jaw tightens, how could he hold you with those hands?
You stir awake as you feel his presence, so used to the smell of copper on his suit, and the warmth that feels like home to you. “Jay?” Your voice crackles whilst you blink blearily at his large looming shadow. Some would be intimidated or even terrified of the sight, but not you, you reach out to the shadow softly, fingers wrapping around his outstretched wrist. “You’re late.”
“Hey, sweetheart.” Jason laughs through his nose, chortling under his breath. “Sorry, I ran into some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Concern knits your brows as you pull him closer into the light to survey his appearance. “You okay?”
He feels your eyes rake around his face and his form, swallowing thickly when you have no idea the effect you have on him. “Yeah, I’m good, just need a shower and sleep.”
When your hand pulls away, Jason feels the longing come back in waves.
“Come sit with me for a bit.” You pat the space beside you, tucking Ollie’s feet further into the couch to make space for his dad. If it was anyone else asking him, he’d brush them off, but it’s you, so he obliges without a peep, groaning as his knees pop. “Need medical attention? The nurse is on call.” Lashes fluttering, cheek resting atop your shoulder, you smile fondly at him.
Jason shakes his head with a chuckle, yanking off his gloves and shoving it inside his pockets. “No, I’m good, nothing I can’t handle. The nurse can keep holding the little prince.” His head droops back over the backrest of the couch, corded neck in full display whilst he swallows thickly as his fingers rake through his dark tresses. If only he knows the effect he has on you. “How was your day?” His green eyes flutter open, gazing at you with tenderness.
“Well,” clearing your throat, you fix your hold on Oliver to disguise your flustering. “We played Robin Hood for two hours, got him to eat some grilled chicken with his mac and cheese. And get this, I actually talked him into going to the dentist.” You grin victoriously, tapping his broad chest proudly.
“Shit. How’d you manage that?” His brilliant green eyes glimmer with pride. “I’ve been trying to get him to go for weeks.”
“That’s the thing though,” you bite your lip, wincing as if you’ve done something wrong, or stepped over the line. “I promised him that I’d come along.”
“Why does it sound like you regret it?” Brows furrowed, he has the look of bewilderment. “I’m fine with that, Ollie’s fine with that if he agreed.”
“I mean, I thought it’s a dad and son exclusive thing. Like a bonding thing.”
“Sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile. “It’s the fucking dentist. If my son wants you there then the more I want you there with us.”
You let out a sigh of relief that he could feel. “That’s good then. Also I sort of promised him that he could have lots of sweets after.”
“Well that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” A growing teasing smile appears on his lips whilst you stifle a laugh. “He’d be up until dawn and that means we’d be up until dawn.”
“Who said I’ll be there after? I’m out after the dentist.” You scooch closer as he loops his leg around your own like usual, pulling you close, like how he always does during movie nights and days spent together whilst watching his energizer bunny of a son. “You’re on your own, Jay.”
“Oh, c’mon, not even for double the pay?” Jason takes Ollie’s legs gingerly and rests them above his lap so he could move closer to your side.
“No amount of money is worth it for running after a sugar high Oliver Todd.” You get the message as you place your head atop his shoulder. He winces before you could even rest fully on him. “Shit, you okay?”
“Yeah,” his face twists in pain. “Just— just give me a sec.” With his large palm covering his shoulder, he pushes in harshly as you hear a loud pop that has you reeling and covering your mouth in shock. Ollie stirs in his sleep but with Jason patting his back sweetly, he goes back to sleep. “There, you were saying?”
“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Thought you’d be disgusted.” The corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.
“Shocked, but I got over it when I realized that you fixed a dislocated shoulder without vomiting in pain.” You stifle a laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “Seriously though, do you need to go to the hospital to get that checked out?”
“No, I’m good. I’m used to this.”
“That’s not a good thing actually.” Nose scrunched, he scoffs out a chortle, rolling his eyes at your expression. “I still remember the first time the hospital called me years ago, I didn’t even know I was your emergency contact. I thought you’d have a gunshot wound or your face all melted but it was for a broken knee.” Your tone softens, eyes meeting his own. “You really scared me back then.”
“That was such a long time ago,” Jason still remembers the frantic look on your face when you pulled open the hospital curtains. “I told Dick that I was fine but he had to fireman carry me to the hospital, said something about having fucked up knees of an eighty year old. He got a black eye from me then.”
“I remember the selfies he took. While you were on the hospital bed in the hospital gown with the opened back.” You shake your head at the memory. “Has anyone told you that you have a nice ass?”
“Of course.” He says almost immediately with pride that makes you roll your eyes. “Say that again when I get Ollie to bed.”
“Noting that in, boss.” You tap your forehead comedically, tiredness forgotten as your shoulder presses against his comfortably.
“You know I…” Clearing his throat, fingers flexing on his thigh, Jason looks at Ollie before gazing back at you. “you’re still my emergency contact.”
You scoff. “Why? Alfred’s more reliable, he’ll be there on a heli or something. If you guys still do the whole hospital thing when it’s been years.”
“Because you’re not Alfred.” He says softly.
“I don’t have a sick mustache so.”
“Sweetheart, I’m trying to tell you something here.”
“Then tell me, Jason.” You inhale, smelling the iron on his suit and the baby powder that still clings to your hand. “We’ve known each other for years, practically co-parenting this gremlin together and have seen each other naked a million times before so just tell me.”
“I did it.”
“Did what?” Brows furrowed, your worry grows from his heavy expression. “Eat the lasagna I left in the freezer for Ollie?” You joke to ease him.
“No— actually that might be me, but no that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Jason fully turns to you, arm thrown over the back of the couch as his bruised knuckles brush along your neck.
“Okay.” You hold the back of his hand that rests atop his thigh. “I’m here. You can tell me.”
“Remember when you told me that you thought you were being followed?”
“Yeah, but that was,” you wrack your brain. “shit, that was years ago. Literally when Ollie was still a baby.”
“I love how we determine time with Ollie.” He takes a breath, wiping away a stray glitter from your cheek.
“BO, before Ollie, AO, after Ollie.” Sucking in your teeth, you wince. “Actually, BO doesn’t sound as nice.”
He pauses, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your lips that has you quieting down.
“What was that for?”
“Just ‘cause.” His brilliant green eyes glance down at your lips, resisting the urge to kiss you.
“Right, sorry, I’m not taking this seriously, what were you saying, Jay? You can tell me, I won’t judge, whatever it is.”
“This isn’t like the mole I had.”
“I still think it looked like a hidden Mickey.” He chuckles, forehead resting on your temple before inhaling deeply and leaning away. “You’re acting weird, Jaybird. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Sweetheart,” pursing his lips, he squeezes your hand. “You were being followed that day. It wasn’t your imagination.”
“Shit.” You suddenly feel winded. “You found out about it? How—? Who would even do that? I’m no one.”
“You’re more than that. And someone figured it out too.”
He tells you how that simple passing comment that you told him once as you helped with unloading groceries you got him while he was too busy and sleep deprived with baby Ollie— and that he managed to uncover a whole crime syndicate hell bent on taking the Red Hood down and everyone who is associated with him. He tells you how he’s been tracking and taking them down for years, and occasionally with his siblings. But it got harder, he used his own methods when they got too close to you and Ollie one day in the playground. Unbeknownst to you, your life was in danger together with his son, he couldn’t just let them roam around freely and wait for them to strike, no, Jason had to eliminate every single one of them. Even though it would take him years, it has taken him years. But as of today, he has finished what he started, and he can finally do what he wanted to do from the start.
“You’ve been hunting them down for years? All this time?” Your eyes search his emerald eyes, looking for a joke or a lie, but you don’t find it.
“When I asked you to move in with us, they were getting too close to you, and I wanted to protect you as best I could.” Jason leans forward, elbows atop his knee, as if he’s in pain. His hair falls over his face, a dark curtain that hides his fatigue. “Thought that it might’ve helped if you were near. But it only led to an argument.”
“I said no because it would’ve confused Ollie.” Reaching for him, you retract your hand with hesitation as your brows furrow, holding onto Oliver as if he’s about to be taken. “Even then— I don’t know, you still felt so far away from me, Jay.”
“I know,” he sighs, shoulders taut as his shirt stretches from the movement. “I wanted to put an end to them before I could commit because I was fucking terrified that they’d get you, but at the same time I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know which one was harder.”
For a moment you have no words, as you could only hear Ollie’s soft breathing and Jason’s strained one. So with love in your heart for the man before you, you place your palm atop his nape, thumb pressing gently along his taut skin, caressing softly, right where you know a scar lies, one that he hasn’t told you the truth about how it came to be. That he got it for protecting you and his son.
Jason doesn’t pull away, it took him years to learn to not move away from your touch. A lot of unlearning too, that the whole world isn’t out to get him. That someone could love him enough to just be there and hold him for comfort. His muscles relax on instinct from your hand gently gliding along his shoulder blades.
“All I know is that I couldn’t lose you.” He finally says after a breath, fists clenching in front of him. His neck cranes to you, cheek pressed right atop your hand, eyes soft, and fully leaning into your touch. “But now that’s done, and I could— we could… I don’t know.”
You encourage him with a genuine sweet smile, one that you only reserve just for him and the boy you cradle in your arms. “Tell me, Jason, I’ve stuck around this long.”
His lips brush along the length of your fingers. “Together. If you want.”
“Jason Peter Todd, I’m cradling your son in my arms after running after him for hours on end and I still want to do it all over again. My clothes are in the dryer, my hair is stuck in your hairbrush. And I’m going to the dentist with you and Ollie even though I fucking hate it there too. What do you think?”
“That’s the clearest yes I’ve ever heard without someone actually saying it.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I think I should ask you out first. An actual date without eating mac and cheese while watching Bluey.”
Cheeks aflame, stomach doing somersaults, you scoff that is akin to a laugh. “I would love that.”
“Yeah?” His expression brightens, eyes glimmering as he sits up, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers around yours.
“Yeah, just kiss me, Jaybird.”
Jason does some maneuvering around Oliver that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He finally gets close to your lips as Ollie is completely on his lap and yours, still sleeping soundly as he kisses you chastely, and yet tender, enough to be a promise for more later. It’s the kind of kiss he gives you whenever everyone else is looking away, a simple kiss that reminds you that he’s there, quietly telling you to wait, and wait you did.
When he leans away, he has forgotten about all the aches. All the while your eyes stay on his parted lips with longing, then back to his eyes that you love unconditionally. “I’ll take your clothes out of the dryer and then take Ollie to bed. Meet me at our usual place?”
Your brows pinch together, but the smile on your face remains. “The bar downtown? It’s a bit too late for a drink.”
“No,” he laughs, cradling your cheek in his rough hand, gently rubbing away the sleep tucked in the corner of your eye. “The bedroom, my idiot.” Jason says it affectionately, moving closer as he gives you a peck, and another, and another until you’re both smiling into the kiss.
You whisper teasingly. “Ah, to continue our conversation, right?”
“Yeah,” Standing up, Jason sheds his body armour, and shirt with one swift movement that has you mesmerized. Just so he doesn’t dirty his son’s favorite pajamas, he then gently takes Ollie in his hold, pressing a quick peck on his temple, before tapping your foot with his own. “It’ll be a very productive conversation.” He bends at the waist, still carrying Ollie as if he weighs nothing just to kiss you as if he couldn’t help himself.
“I’ll be there.”
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Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️
🎟️FOR MY FIRST REQUEST DEAREST CINEPHILE, I would like young at heart with perhaps some hurt to comfort for Eddie!🎟️
Thinking about an older Eddie who's been into you for a while but he isn't sure how to make the first step (deep down inside he's still anxious about being "a freak") but then your car breaks down and he's all the more ready to fix it. The pressure builds up, a confession explodes, you both scream, but finally he brings you some flowers (and a finalized car)
-🪦
THIS HAS BEEN IN MY ASK SINCE LAST YEAR IM SO SORRY 😞 This is for you sluggy! I hope you feel better!! ❤️
Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem! Reader
Word count: 2k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, mechanic! Eddie, canon divergence, a bit of loser! Eddie, fluff!
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Katy's summer flick screening
The sun grills Eddie’s arm as it dangles from the old van window, its paint is chipping that he could feel it graze the pads of his fingers. Metal music blares from the speakers, muffling the sound of the engine as he goes flat out on the empty highway out of Hawkins. He’s in a bad mood, more than usual since he hasn’t seen you in weeks. Weeks without seeing your smile, weeks without hearing how you utter his name lovingly every time he fixed your old beaten up car for you. It’s like he hasn’t drank water in days, or felt the sunshine on his skin in years. It’s an over exaggeration, he knows that, but that's how harsh his longing is.
For the past year, every other week or so you’d be at the shop, almost in near tears whenever something breaks down in your car. He has told you numerous times that it’s ancient and should be sold for scrap at that point, but you kept it for sentimentalities sake. You love that car, an old cherry red miata that has a story from every scratch and every dent on it. But recently though, you come through the garage with a smile, and a box of donuts for him and his uncle. No tears, no worried wringing of your hands, just all smiles and gentle eyes that he could feel gaze at him whenever he pops the hood of your car to check the pristine engine.
Sometimes he swears that you only come to the garage just to see him. But that’s just wishful thinking on his part when he’s still the same Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson from high school who still hangs out in his friend’s basement to play D&D with them till the sun rises. When you’re all sunshine and flowy summer dresses with that same beaming smile he finds so endearing. If he went to high school with you back then you’d be one of the popular girls that would ignore him in favour of your jock boyfriend. You don’t deserve a man whose hands are always coated in oil grease, and a wardrobe consisting of old faded tees and mechanic overalls covered in paint and oil. Or at least, that’s what Eddie thinks as he speeds down on the highway during a searing summer heat that has his mouth dry and sweat rolling down his nape.
Despite the opened window and his hair tied in a ponytail, it doesn’t grant him much reprieve from the heat, nor for the longing. He feels like a lovelorn schoolboy waiting for his crush to pass by the hallways and acknowledge him with a quick wave.
Eddie’s already late for the house call that he reluctantly took for some quick cash, it’s out of his way but the old lady on the phone was sweet and promised a generous tip once he finishes fixing the brakes in her van. His lashes flutter as he could see the heat coming off in waves whilst he drives by a cherry red miata broken down on the side of the road.
Wait.
He breaks so harshly that he’s sure that he got whiplash.
The van goes to an abrupt stop with the squeak of the tires, and he could see a figure waving him down from his side mirror. A very familiar figure in that familiar yellow sundress with daffodils on it.
“Holy shit.” Eddie swallows thickly, blinking and rubbing at his eyes in case you were a mirage. He lowers the music to see you better.
Once you make it to his side of the van, you’re heaving and sweating underneath a sun hat.
“Fuck, you know how to make a girl run after you, huh?” Your cheeks feel like fire, sweat clinging onto your brows as you smile at him despite the sweltering heat. “Just my luck to see a mechanic pass by. Hi, Eddie.”
“Hi?” He doesn’t mean it to be a question, so he clears his throat, hoping that you didn’t notice his small fumble. “Hey, you good, sweetheart?”
“My baby broke down,” wincing, you suck in your teeth as you look at him apologetically. “Right when I’m already so close to Hawkins.”
Eddie blinks like a fish out of water. He just now acknowledges how much he missed you, an awful feeling when he really really wants to charm you when you’re the one who has effortlessly charmed him.
“Yeah, can I check your car?”
“Please, I’ve been praying to hear those words today.” Your relief is palpable as you step aside for Eddie to get out of the van. “Sorry to bother you, Eds.”
“You’re never a bother.” He lets out without much thinking. He’d take it back but the softened look on your face says that you liked that line, so he mentally pats himself on the back. “What happened?” The sun bears down upon him and he instantly melts like fallen ice cream on pavement.
Eddie follows you closely, but not too close when the heat makes every movement uncomfortable. He keeps a lookout for any cars on the road, an arm ready to push you away if one gets too close for comfort.
“I was on my way home from my cousin’s place and well, I think my baby couldn’t handle the added weight.” Stopping behind the car, he immediately sees the amount of luggages and bags in the backseat while the roof is down. “I thought it could after the upgrade you gave her last time.”
“Well, it looks like she at least got you there without a problem.” Eddie wipes at the sweat collecting at his nape.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, and it sounds like music to his ears. But not like metal music, more akin to a soft jazz, or a classical that his uncle occasionally listens to unwind at the end of the day, one that he confesses he has grown fond of. “Got me into all sorts of places.”
Eddie has to blink lest he’s mesmerized by the pretty expression you have on. “That’s good,” is all he could muster as he goes to pop open the smoking hood, and just like he suspected, the engine is overheating. Coughing, he fans away the smoke from his face to get a better look. “What sort of places?”
“The mountains,” you sigh wistfully, leaning against the car door as your head tilts to take a look at how his biceps flex peeking from his old t-shirt that he snipped the sleeves off with kitchen scissors. “They were huge, and…” you get lost in his biceps.
“What?” Eddie pokes his head out from under the hood, face reddened from the steam and absolutely sweating through his shirt. “Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing,” you shake your head, acting innocent. “I said that my vacation was fun.”
Vacation, Eddie feels so dumb now. You weren’t avoiding him or that you moved away, you were just out on vacation enjoying yourself. But that doesn’t mean that his longing was entirely unfounded. He did truly miss you.
“That’s great that you had fun.” He sends you a wobbly smile, too bashful to give you a full grin. “Listen, it’s just overheated, it’ll cool down on its own. I have some water in my van that should make quick work of it.”
Your sigh in relief. “Thank fuck, I thought I busted the engine again. Thank you, I should just wait here until it cools down.”
Eddie pauses midstep back to the van. “In this heat?”
You chuckle with a shrug. “As if I have a choice.”
“Sweetheart, you’ll cook and probably die of heatstroke.” He facepalms himself mentally after saying such a morbid thing.
To his surprise, you laugh, a good laugh that rumbles your chest and sends him into a tizzy. “Yeah, probably, I’ll haunt you if I do.”
“What if…” biting his lip and clawing at the back of his neck that will surely be sun burned, Eddie tries something that has his heart racing. “What if you come with me? I–I have a house call fifteen minutes away from here but it’ll be a quick job and then I’ll get you back here. By then your baby would’ve cooled off. Just make sure we close the roof or else your stuff won’t be here when we get back.”
“You sure?” Your heart beats a thousand miles per second. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs nonchalantly even though it’s the least nonchalant feeling he has ever felt. “It’ll be like a date— I mean.” Fuck, he shouldn’t have let his mouth run before his own thoughts could. “Shit, that’s not what I meant, I just—”
“So it’s not a date?” Taking a deep breath, you pick at your nail as you look at him bashfully. “I’d be disappointed if it’s not.”
“Wait, what?” He’s fifty percent sure that you’re just a mirage. “I–I don’t, I don’t even have flowers for you.”
You step closer, batting your lashes as you chuckle softly, utterly endeared. “I’ll live.”
“Yeah, but, it’s just a housecall to an old lady’s house. Her car probably smells like… old people.”
“I’m fine with that.” Shrugging, you feel the gnawing doubt, maybe you read him wrong? That all the longing glances and fluttered lashes aimed at you were nothing more than just Eddie being Eddie? What his uncle told you one afternoon after you brought in coffee for them was also him misreading his nephew? This man is still a mystery to you, thank goodness you love uncovering mysteries. But if the mystery wants to remain unsolved then you just have to accept it. “It’s— I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s not a date. You’re just trying to be nice so I don’t burn here.”
Shit, Eddie feels like his heart is about to burst out of him. “Yeah, I mean…fuck, not really.”
“Not really?” Brows furrowed, you bite the inside of your cheek. “Shit, Eddie, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable I thought you liked me and I—”
“Uncomfortable?” Sweat trickles down his temple, a hand reaching out to you out of instinct before moving away. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
His whole shaky and sweaty demeanor says otherwise.
“You sure look like it though.” You answer with a low voice, hands wringing around the other up your front. “Do I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to, I just thought that you’re a great guy and I wanted to be friends with you, no strings attached— and then after what your uncle told me—”
“What did my uncle tell you?” Eddie’s sirens go off inside his head. He’s in full panic mode. What the fuck did his uncle tell you?
“Just that, you like me?” You utter with an apologetic wince. “He’s probably wrong but, it made me like you even more, y’know? That you feel the same way.”
“More?” Repeating your words, Eddie stands there under the heat like a cooked salmon. Red ears and all. “You like me?” Eddie points at himself, befuddled.
“Yeah,” your lips curl into a soft smile and a sigh akin to a chuckle. “For some time now. I don’t bring donuts to anyone, and I just don’t drop by every time my car makes a sound because of it, y’know. I…just wanted to see you is all.”
“I thought you were just being nice, sweetheart.” Eddie steps forward first, and you meet him halfway with your pinky intertwining with his own. He’d hold your hand fully if not for this blasted heat. “But you were being nice to me.”
“Yeah, because I like you.” His ears are the same color as your car. “Is your offer still up?” Squeezing his pinky, you gaze into his eyes affectionately that you swear you heard his breath hitch. “I don’t mind waiting, I’ve waited this long.”
“Yeah, but next time though, I’ll bring you flowers.” Eddie tenderly squeezes your pinky. Damn the heat, he slides his hand into yours properly, and intertwines his fingers with your own. Then he takes it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss right above your pulse point.
Your grin could rival the sunshine at how bright it is. “Deal.”
warning(s): the z-team, cursing, dark humor, tomfoolery
~
“What’s going on?”
You question the exact same but bite your tongue. Stepping inside the room and making a beeline for the other side of Robert. It might seem childish but you would rather keep Blazer at arms length lest you break out in tears in front of your entire team.
“Hm? Oh, I offered him a seat.” Robert glances at you and looks surprised but not at all unhappy to see Beef cradled in your arms like a baguette.
Your eyes trail over the conference room. It’s rare to see everyone in the same place at the same time if it isn't for an illegal booze break. Flambae thankfully, seems intact after you handed off that lousy reporter. If you could you’d have him blacklisted but his paper is rather popular. People respond to cynicism.
Chase is remarkably calm when he addresses the room. “So…we gettin’ this party started?”
“Yeah, what’s this shit about? Let’s go, come on.” Everyone’s eyes are on Robert but you catch the curious stare from Flambae past his orange tinted sunglasses. You shake your head and gesture back to Robert. You don’t have an answer for him when you’ve been kept out of the loop yourself recently.
“Okay, as you know, by the end of today, one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”
Again, you’re faced with inquisition from Malevola who leans back in her chair. “This is bullshit.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Robert deadpans.
“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch Up murmurs.
Don’t do it, you think, closing your eyes.
“Miss Blazer?” Prism calls out to you too. As if she knows you’re as upset with this outcome as the rest of them are. She waits patiently for your attention before continuing. “Maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doing, you wouldn't have to throw no one out?”
You don’t even have a chance to think of what to say when Robert speaks up. “Hey, Nikki Mirage. I’m standing right here. You can talk to me.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Which weak ass superhero team did you come from? Fuckin’ Geek Squad?”
“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.”
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it and—you’re doing it.
“Kid,” Chase cautions, “Hold on a minute.”
You raise your hands in a placating manner hoping you can be forgiven for your interruption but name-calling was ridiculous dare you say, childish. You would not tolerate it. “I don’t think you all recognize the severity of your situation.” You say stepping forward. Conscientious of not blocking Robert or Blazer from the z-team’s view.
“What the fucks that mean?”
“I’m not done talking!” You raise your voice. Flambae falls silent and sits up straighter.
“Let me make something abundantly clear to you all. If someone is leaving the program, it isn’t because we’ve decided to send you on your way. It’s because you decide you aren’t good enough to be here.” Your eyes are scalding as you scan the room. The team looks reluctant to even breathe.
“I have worked my ass off—” You gesture to Blazer next because although you’re angry and definitely going above her head right now, she’s still your friend. “—We have worked our asses off trying to make you half decent heroes. If you want to go, go. No-one is stopping you, including myself. I will not have you jeopardizing our time and our money because you want to fuck around.”
Deciding to take a turn about the room you stop beside Malevola. Kicking the legs of the chair to her right until Invisigal appears. She’s holding onto the table for dear life when Sonar practically pivots toward the ceiling when you walk by. Golem, the gentleman he is, allows you to pass without making a scene which you appreciate in the appearance of trying to look serious.
“Your effort shows me just how little you care. I can’t convince the world you’re heroes if you don’t even think it’s worth being here. You know there are plenty of other people dying for this opportunity but I wanted to give you all the benefit of the doubt in the face of your enormous screw ups.”
Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you’re at the front of the room again.
“Maybe they’re right about you. All of the people who’ve cut you down and if that’s true then…” You pause. Covering the waver in your voice with a well timed clearing of your throat. “They're right about me too. I’ve wasted my time.”
The silence is deafening but you choose to brave it anyway and step past your co-workers to open the door. An ounce of pride fills your chest at the proud expression Chase wears when you risk a glance at him. It’s short lived but revitalizing nonetheless. “I’m going to talk with Blazer now. I expect you all to be on your best behavior. You’re not children to need me to remind you.”
A chorus of 'yes' fly around the room behind your back as you make your way to Blazer’s office. Once the door shuts behind you, Blazer’s amulet comes off. She feels you require that much when you sag into your unofficially assigned seat.
Blonde Blazer was many things. A hero, an icon, a mascot, but most importantly to her, she was a friend. Someone you could trust. Someone you could rely on when the world got too big to carry on your shoulders.
“What’s going on?”
But Mandy, Mandy was different. She was only human.
You sigh, “drink first.”
Reaching your hand out you wait until a glass is in your hands. A sharp pop followed by fizz alerts you that the coke in your palm is ready for consumption and you douse it like a shot of tequila. You can’t remember the last time you had a night out. Not that you particularly enjoy getting piss drunk. The only time you ever leave your apartment now is for grocery runs and Chase’s apartment.
“Better?”
“Much better,” you reply with a lighter sigh.
“Good.” She smiles, finally settling in beside you. It’s obvious she feels nervous. Not on edge per say because realistically she could snap your bones like a toothpick, but Mandy is clearly unnerved by your current behavior. She crosses her legs then uncrosses them. “So…I take it the interview didn’t go to plan?”
You groan. Taking another swig of soda. “No he was awful. Add him to the list of people we won’t help when they pop a tire.”
Mandy scolds you like she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Eventually though, she relents and agrees Kingsley is a complete pain in the ass after bringing up the fact Robert himself had trouble with him during a press conference. Which actually manages to make you feel better.
“That doesn’t explain what happened in there. You’re usually so…” She waves her hand around. Searching for a nice way to talk about your behavior.
Your face grows hot but you ignore it. You can worry about apologizing to Mecha Man later.
“I know.” You slide a hand down your face.
If Mandy didn’t know any better, she would say it looked like someone had personally gone out of their way to kick your puppy then proceed to run it over on the side of the highway.
Sighing heavily you ponder your options. You’re not sure if addressing the elephant in the room is the right phrase to describe your current situation as Mandy is none-the-wiser to your (for lack of a better word) beef with her. You could use your stress as an excuse. Was it really worth potentially ruining your trust in one another because you were angry she wasn’t consulting you anymore? It wasn’t technically your job. More of an informality. It wouldn’t be smart to ignore your feelings however. What if the next time you had a meltdown it was at a completely inconvenient time like a charity banquet. You can’t forget you work for a corporation, their name matters more than yours and why screw up your only opportunity to help people?
You take a steadying breath. Gritting your teeth, the sting of pride opens up like an old wound. “I’m frustrated because today of all days I’m brought back to how I felt when I was seventeen. I really needed your support but now I feel like I don’t even have that. How can you cut members of the team without telling me? How does Robert know about this before I do? I know he’s supposed to be helping us but are you relying on him more because he’s—”
“No.” Mandy reads your mind before you can finish.“I would never.” Her face is somber. It drives away the heavy cloud of doubt from your mind because she seems truly remorseful. “You’re important to me. I wouldn’t choose my career over you. Not if they dragged my name through the mud or blacklisted me from my favorite restaurant.”
You fidget with a loose thread off the couch. “Really?”
“Really.” She relaxes. “I could live without Tokyo Dream Sushi.”
Snorting forces yourself to look up. “Wow, you love that place.”
“Love is such a strong word.”
The weight in your chest feels lighter and easier to bear again. Crossing your arms you open up about the interview. About how angry you are that the universe doesn’t seem to want you to forget your place.
If Charles Kingsley wanted to piss you off he should have just asked about your parents. What did he hope to achieve by bringing up the Brigade? You’re glad Chase doesn’t have to deal with this tomfoolery. He’s done more than enough to warrant peace and quiet in his early retirement. So, is it so selfish of you to want more than that for your team? Why couldn’t they get their act together when you gave them more than enough support after failing abysmally.
“I’m sure Robert was impressed.” Mandy teases. Bringing you back to the present. You groan in response because if anyone knows about your Mecha Man obsession it’s only because Chase rats you out like the rat he is. Master Splinter ah.
“He told me not to step in but for you, I’m sure he’ll make an exception,” she sings.
The smugness in her face makes your stomach drop to your toes.
“What? He did?”
Now that you think about it, Chase had mentioned Robert was the one to call the whole team into the conference room, not Blazer. Had you completely rained on his parade?
“Oh my god he’s going to hate me.” You whine and sink into your chair. Willing the cushions to take you, your fingers dig into the arms on either side of you. “I’m gonna kill myself.”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with the interns,” she chortles. Patting your shoulder sympathetically. “The worst that could happen is—”
“He could hate me and I could die.” You reiterate. Are you blind? Are you stupid? You want to ask but these are thoughts better kept to yourself.
“No, the worst that could happen is he refuses to work with you after this.”
You spiral.
“Ok bring it back,” she laughs. “I was only joking. Of course, I should have remembered you can dish it out but can’t take the heat.”
Her grin, once ear to ear, slowly retreats.
“I never meant to make you feel like I was shutting you out, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so preoccupied with this gala coming up and I have another commercial to shoot and…”
“We’ve both been pretty busy.” Your eyes soften along with your voice. “It’s ok.”
She huffs quietly through her nose. “I appreciate you being so understanding.”
“What are friends for?” you smile. Mandy returns your gesture
A beat passes before she speaks up again. “Before we get into the whole cutting someone from the team, there’s something else you should know. I guess it’s why I’ve been avoiding you recently.”
Your curiosity outweighs the dreadful looming sensation in your gut. It can’t be worse than getting fired. Dipping your head slightly you urge her to continue. Without realizing it you’re shifting towards the edge of your seat.
“How would you feel about reinstating your hero license?”
-
The hours tick by quickly after this morning. Your office once filled with sunlight, streams with moonlight and the many stars in the sky in spite of city smog. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re avoiding Robert and you’re doing it as long as possible because losing the opportunity to become friends with Mecha Man would be like turning down a picture with Madonna.
Clack Clack Clack! is your perpetual melody until you muster enough courage to leave your desk. With only a few hours to go before your shift was over, it was imperative you grabbed a late night snack.
“Hey Lana,” you wave. Receiving a nod back, you pass each other in the hall.
Calls are still coming in but less frequently when grandmothers don’t need their cats rescued and couples are finally settling into their new apartments. Chase and Robert are so busy you’re able to sneak by their shared cubicle. Buying yourself a few more minutes to think about what you want to say to Robert in the first place. Maybe you can reimburse him for the Twinkies he gave to Sonar. It wasn’t bribery, it was science.
You’re almost to the breakroom when something gives you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly because maybe you’re hallucinating but nothing changes except for the colorful dots now flooding your eyelids. They don’t even scatter when they’ve noticed you’ve seen them.
“What going on?” You say slowly.
Flambae puts a hand on your back. Coaxing you into a now open spot between Coop and Prism which was already pretty wide to begin with. The z-team huddles back together to look at the monitor you think was abandoned by Galan for a bathroom break.
“Shh! You’ll miss it. This shit box is already quiet enough as it is. When was this thing made anyway? 1984?”
Malevola raises a brow. “Isn’t that a book?”
Prism shrugs, “What? I can't know my shit?”
“Just shut the fuck up already!” Flambae hisses. When he sees your disapproval he clears his throat and adds on. “Like, chill out for a sec.”
You can vaguely make out a few kids at the edge of a park on a bench in a neighborhood you don’t recognize when Invisigal’s voice leaks out of the speakers.
“Being a villain is my fate. It’s in the fucking stars. In the same way Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.” She ends bitterly.
Robert’s voice follows not even a second after. “There’s no such thing as fate. It’s bullshit. It’s just something we cling to because we think we’re the main character of life. We’re not.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Yeah. Cause no one’s paying attention if you want to switch things up.”
You’re mindful of the rest of the conversation but mostly focused on Invisigal. The cigarette between her fingers curls into waves of smoke with how intensely she seems to be listening to Robert and that is a first.
Out of the corner of your eye you see how invested the rest of the team is. How unified they look. Like there’s nothing more important than supporting a teammate.
“Fate. Destiny. Not having powers. Seasonal depression. None of these things kept me from being a hero before. And they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”
You’re startled awake by a red warning sign flashing on the screen. Without much thought you reach forward. Clicking the mouse into action and pulling up a map of a jewelry store about five minutes away from Visi’s location.
“Oh my God,” Robert chuckles. “You want to talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”
“I told you. I’m out.”
“You really want this idiot get one over on you a third time?”
“What makes you think it’d be any different?”
As soon as Visi walks through those doors with Thunderstruck in cuffs, you feel the room begin to change.
