izzy's playlists!
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Cosimo Galluzzi
Xuebing Du
art blog(derogatory)
NASA
The Stonewall Inn
No title available
$LAYYYTER
The Bowery Presents
trying on a metaphor
Noah Kahan
Andulka
h
No title available
★
#extradirty
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from Ukraine
seen from Venezuela
seen from Venezuela
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@wlw-imagines
MASTERLIST
{SOCCER/FOOTBALL}
uswnt
england women’s team
{TELEVISION&FILM}
bridgerton
criminal minds
doctor who
grey’s anatomy
supergirl
------
& the others that I am disorganised and have not yet organised into pages yet are below the cut!
Marvel
Natasha Romanoff - Candlelight
Law & Order: SVU
Olivia Benson - Falling Head Over Heels, A Crystal Ball, Loose Batteries
Once Upon A Time
Ruby Lucas - A Hunter By Trade
The 100
Clarke Griffin - Space Oddity
Actors
Camila Mendes - Inevitable
Painted Kisses - Eloise x Reader (Bridgerton)
request: 'Eloise x reader - Reader's husband is out of country and Benedict has been hired to paint your portrait, Eloise joins as artist's assistant' - anon
guys i have literally had this in the drafts for YEARS and i love it and i kept adding to it and here it finally is - maybe I overcooked it but hey ho
also, as you can probs tell, I’ve given up on the July challenge. I feel this is the story of my writing that I go full throttle and then burn out dead quick never to be seen again BUT I am determined to get all the other ancient dusty requests done and am so open to more
Eloise could see Benedict coming from a long way away. He was waving to get her attention and, if she was being honest, it took him an embarrassing amount of time to actually reach her. Then, once he did, he stood for a stupid amount of time simply smiling down at her.
Eventually, she sighed, glanced up and shrugged, “What?”
“Guess what incredible thing your favourite brother has just done?” He smiled, with that smug, happy smile of his. Eloise had no interest in his schemes and shook her head.
“No, thank you.”
“What?” His smile flickered slightly as his brow furrowed, “No?”
“I don’t want to guess. And besides, you are not my favourite brother.” Eloise shrugged, pushing her feet along the grass so the tree swing she was perched on swayed lightly.
His grin returned and he put his hand to his chest, “You wound me. But I know you, and you, dear sister, are lying.” Benedict dropped down and sat on the neighbouring swing.
Eloise sighed again, just about refraining from rolling her eyes, “Benedict, do you think I am hiding in the garden for fun? I am trying to stay hidden and alone.” She stared at him as he just softly swung with a stupid soft grin on his face. This time, she did roll her eyes, “Alone.”
Her brother hummed to himself, “Oh, right. Well, I guess I won't tell you that we are going on a trip then?” He went to get up but just before he could Eloise's hand shot out and pulled at his elbow, forcing him back down.
“We?” She asked, after a moment's pause trying to regain her air of 'I don't care what information you have', but raised an eyebrow in interest.
“You and I.” He nodded, knowing, despite her attempts, that he had her interested now.
She shifted and turned to face him slightly, “And where are we going?”
“Suffolk.” He grinned and did jazz hands, “It shouldn’t take us too long, four or five days ride perhaps.”
“Suffolk?” Eloise repeated. She no longer had to pretend not to care. The county's name did all that for her.
“Yes.” Benedict was still grinning away.
“I was hoping you’d say Rome or Paris.” She slouched and pushed the swing again. Her brother snorted and shrugged.
“I wish.” He leaned back, looking pleased with himself. “I've been asked by a friend of a friend... well, a cousin of a friend of a friend...”
“Well, that sounds awfully reliable.”
He hesitated again before brightening up, “Anyway, I'm being paid to paint!” Eloise stilled, “Lord Sotterley wants to commision a portrait and... well, he's asked me.”
“Why you?” Eloise squinted at him.
Benedict's grin held its place, “Because I am talented, perhaps.”
She snorted, “That’s debatable.”
“And charming.”
“Very debatable.”
“And I’m affordable, Eloise.” And at this, he rolled his eyes, slightly less happy as when he had first approached. There is nothing like a sister to bring you right down to Earth.
“Ah, there it is.” She grinned and Benedict shoved lightly at her shoulder with his own. “Suffolk is boring, Benedict.”
“Well then, don’t come.”
“And Lord Sotterley is a boring old fart.”
“We’re not going for his Lordship - he’s away on business for a few months. We’re going to see his wife.”
Eloise scoffed, “And I’m sure Lady Sotterley is a boring old fart too.”
“I can rescind my offer, you know? I don’t need an assistant at all, in fact I’m rather starting to think my assistant might annoy me so much that I would be incapable of holding a brush, let alone painting a masterpiece portrait of her Ladyship.”
“Assistant… what are you talking about?”
“Jesus, Eloise, you're a clever girl. Do I have to spell it out?” He sighed, “To make it clear… I’ve been asked to paint a portrait of Lady Sotterley, for her husband. For whatever reason, he has asked for me and he's offered two rooms at the local inn, all the equipment and the completed portrait to be sold to him for, well, a rather handsome price.”
Eloise had a look about her, seemingly hooked, “I still have a lot of questions-“
“Of course.”
“But, primarily…” She turned to him, “How much would I get paid?”
Benedict blinked, “Pardon?”
“Well, if I am to be your assistant… how much money do I get?”
“Insufferable.” Benedict stared at her, “You’re odious. No ‘well done’ or ‘You deserve this, brother’. Just- ugh, you are a- You’re-“
“Your favourite sibling?” Eloise smiled her best Benedict-level smug smile. Benedict grunted and reached out his hand, pushing at her forehead until she fell backwards and off the swing.
Eloise yelped, rolling around in the grass until she could sit herself up, glaring up at Benedict. He just laughed and turned around, walking back to the house, “I can’t tell you how much better that made me feel.”
“I hate you!”
“We leave on Tuesday!”
“Can’t wait.”
xxxxxxxxxxxx
After an achingly dull journey down, Eloise now stood, with her arms full of boxes and paint, in a beautiful country house. She looked around for a brief moment, mostly still bored, “How long will this take?”
“A few hours-“
She breathed out a sigh of relief, there were more exciting adventures to be had at the inn, with a book or meeting the odd locals, “Right, okay.”
“Every day.” Eloise stopped still.
“You are kidding.”
“For a couple of weeks.”
“Benedict!”
“What did you think we would be doing here for the whole three weeks?”
“I don’t know! Something less boring.” Eloise gestured vaguely around the grand entrance hall. “What am I meant to do for all of that time?”
“Oh, I don’t know, be my assistant maybe?”
“Ugh, I should like to find the library.”
“Well, you can’t just disappear in someone else’s house. We haven’t even met Lady Sotterley yet. Have patience.”
“Yes, well, when will the Lady of the house appear?” Eloise glanced toward the staircase, her arms feeling like they might drop off with heaving all of her brother’s belongings around. “The old crone’s already taken hours, what hope do we have?”
“Eloise.”
“I bet I could find the library in half the time it takes her to finally appear.”
“Must you always speak every thought that enters your head?”
“I’m bored, can’t you just tell her I’m having a look around?”
Benedict sighed, “Just wait, and you can tell her yourself.”
“Tell me what?”
Eloise froze and Benedict closed his eyes.
You were standing at the edge of the hall, one hand resting lightly on the banister. You were not, Eloise realised with instant horror, old.
Nor were you a crone.
You were young. Very young, actually. Perhaps only a little older than she was. Pretty, too, in a way that made Eloise’s thoughts trip awkwardly over themselves before arranging themselves into anything useful.
“I- you’re-“
“The old crone?” You interrupted, raising a teasing eyebrow and enjoying watching Eloise squirm slightly.
Her cheeks flushed rosey and she shook her head, “I didn’t mean-“
You began descending the final few steps. “Come, I can show you around, as long as my old lady hip doesn’t slow me down.” You looked past her, “Lord Bridgerton?”
“No, I’ll- I should clear up this mess.” Benedict gestured toward his many cases and canvases, “You go ahead though.”
“The library first, is it?” you asked.
“Lady Sotterley, I didn’t-“
“You’re a reader?”
Eloise winced, “You must think me awfully mean.”
“Eloise-“ You tried to speak but got interrupted by her rambles.
“My deepest, deepest apologies.” She stumbled over the words, hating how unlike herself she sounded. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“It’s fine. I took no offence.” You smiled, “Maybe a little knock to my ego but I’ll survive.”
“I mean, you are neither old nor a crone if that helps. You’re beautiful and… and young, I mean, basically the opposite of what I’ve said. And, of course, neither do you appear to be a boring old fart.” Your head turned to her, an eyebrow raised, “Someone else said that, I didn’t -“ Eloise added quickly, “I wouldn’t-“
You looked at her for a long moment. Then you laughed, “Eloise, I think I am going to rather like having you here.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I believe so,” You smiled again, softer this time, “So, first and of the upmost importance, the library. Please feel free to explore it at your own convenience.”
The library was magnificent. Eloise had been prepared to be disappointed, on principle, but the room defeated her immediately.
Tall shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A ladder rested against one side. There were velvet chairs by the windows, a writing desk near the fireplace, and the faint, comforting smell of paper, polish, and old ink.
“Well?” you asked.
Eloise turned slowly.
“It is… acceptable.”
You laughed, “I shall take that as the highest praise,” You moved toward one of the shelves and ran your fingers along the spines, “My husband rarely comes in here. He says books are useful, but only in moderation.”
Eloise made a face before she could stop herself but you noticed.
“I know.”
“That is a terrible thing to say.”
“I agree, Eloise.”
Eloise kept her eyes on you and blurted out before she could stop herself, “And yet you married him?” There was a small silence before you cleared your throat.
You turned, a polite smile on your face, “Tea?”
Eloise pressed her lips together, “Yes. Please.” She decided, quite firmly, not to ask another question about Lord Sotterley that day. Maybe she’d try again tomorrow.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You raised your head as you heard the siblings entering the house, your maid introduced them, bowing. You stood to receive them, “Eloise. Benedict. Come in.”
Benedict shot you a dazzling grin, ever the gentleman, “Good morning, Y/N, rest well?”
“A little sore from holding myself so still but I am sure it is something I'll survive.” You had thought that sitting for a portrait would be considerably easier, but the pain shooting up your back said otherwise, “And you?”
Eloise immediately interjected, “I hate the inn.”
“Here we go.” Benedict muttered.
“Oh?” you asked, hiding a smile.
“She is grumpy because she did not sleep,” Benedict set down his bag, “Eloise, please be in a good mood for just five minutes while I go grab the water. Make sure everything else is ready?”
“Do it yourself.”
“Eloise.”
“Fine.” she dropped into a chair. “Being an assistant is awful. I should like to be in charge next time.”
“Do you even know what you are doing?” you asked.
“Not a clue. Why he brought me, I do not know.”
“Well, I’m glad he did.” Eloise looked up at that. You said it simply, as though it were nothing but maybe it didn't feel like nothing, “It sounds like you enjoy an adventure. Is this not a good one?”
“Better than Mayfair.”
“I’m glad I could be enough entertainment for you.” You smiled. Eloise opened her mouth, then closed it again, “Where would you like me?”
“Uh, what?”
You smiled knowingly, “For the portrait? Same place as yesterday?”
“I, oh- uh, no. I think, well, maybe yes.” Eloise rubbed her forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s the lack of sleep, I just can’t figure out my words, they’re all a jumble.”
“Are you still going on about the inn?” Benedict asked, returning with the water.
Eloise cleared her throat, “Where would you like her to sit?”
“We talked about this on the way in.”
“I forgot.” She shrugged.
You smiled, tilted your chin at her, “So what is so bad about this inn?”
“Hmm, the bed is lumpy and the people are noisy and I simply do not like it.”
“And you say you want to travel and to see the world. Maybe the world isn’t as comfy as your bed at home.” Benedict shared a look with you. You smiled at the pair in front of you.
“Well, maybe I have realised I want to travel in luxury.”
You laughed, then paused. “You can stay here.”
Eloise blinked. “Pardon?”
“I- we have extra rooms that are running empty here.” You glanced between the siblings. “So, stay here. You both could. It would be no trouble.”
“Oh, I-“
“It might liven the place up a little for once, sharing it with someone else.” You looked down briefly, “While my husband is away, that is.”
“Well,…” Eloise softened. “I really don’t want to put anyone out…”
“You can have the blue room. It’s my favourite, with views right across the grounds. I hope you will like it as much as I do.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Brilliant.” You turned, “And, Benedict? You will stay here too?”
“That’s kind but no, thank you. I am perfectly happy with my room at the inn. I’m not as much of a princess as my little sister, here.”
Eloise simply glared and threw a grape at him, laughing as it bounced off his forehead.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The blue room was, unfortunately, perfect.
Eloise wanted to find something wrong with it because she did not like owing people things. She especially did not like owing beautiful women things.
But the room was perfect.
The bed was large and soft. The curtains were pale blue. The windows looked out over the gardens and the fields beyond, where the morning mist clung low and swirled.
That evening, after Benedict had returned to the inn and the house had become quiet, Eloise wandered downstairs in search of the library once more.
She found you there instead. You were sitting in one of the chairs by the fire with a book open in your lap, though you did not appear to be reading.
“Am I intruding?”
You looked up, “No, please.” And gestured towards the chair close by. Eloise settled in, keeping her skirts close by and sitting stiffly.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
It should have been awkward. Eloise usually made silence awkward, mostly because she could not bear the weight of it and ended up filling it with some terrible observation she should have kept to herself but with you, it was different.
Eventually, you glanced at her over the top of your book, “Do you always sit like this in a library? I got the impression you’d be more at home.”
“Oh, no, I’m just… concentrating.”
You smiled, laughing softly. “You can help yourself to anything, you do know that?” Eloise just nodded but still sat in her chair. You smiled to yourself and closed your book, gently laying it to the side, “How about a tour?”
Eloise liked the sound of that more than a book.
Spending time with one another became a routine after that. Breakfast together, before Benedict arrived.
Portrait sittings through the morning, with Benedict painting and Eloise pretending to be helpful while you and she talked about books, travel, politics, and all the things women were supposed to want - never anything too deep though, Eloise was still mulling over the topic of your marriage and how you weren’t seeming to open up about it any time soon.
You would go for walks in the afternoon and spend evenings in the library, where you read and Eloise pretended to read but mostly watched the way the firelight moved over your face.
These were some of your favourite moments.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to the library?” Benedict asked Eloise one morning, “Or for a walk in the garden? Or anywhere that isn’t here?”
“Nope, no, perfectly happy here, brother.” Eloise folded her hands primly in her lap. “You know me, I love art and painting and sitting for hours on end.”
You looked amused from your place near the window. “Oh? So the love for painting runs in the family?” Benedict let out a sharp laugh and then tried to cover it with a cough, to little success.
“Sorry.” Benedict said immediately. “Eloise is… brilliant at everything she sets her heart to.”
“Is that so?”
“But definitely not painting.” He quickly added, despite Eloise glaring at him.
“I wish I had siblings.”
“No, you don’t.” Eloise replied quickly, at the same time as Benedict smiled broadly and said “I don’t think you do.”
“No?”
“Not ones like ours, anyway.” Eloise rolled her eyes, “they're a real pain.”
“And they’re always getting married!” Benedict added.
“But not us, hey?!” Eloise raised her glass of water and Benedict bowed his head in recognition.
You looked between them, “Oh, you're not married? Neither of you? Or engaged?”
“No, god no!” Eloise said.
“What she said.” Benedict agreed.
“And you?” Eloise asked. “Are you- oh, of course you are. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Hmm, she does quite a lot of that.” Benedict murmured.
“That’s okay. Yes, I am married. Just under a year. This portrait will be a gift to signify our time together.” you said.
“I’ve heard he’s spent more time abroad, on business, than at home.” Eloise said, too late to remember that this was the unspoken conversation the two of you had been skipping around the whole week.
“Eloise.” Benedict warned.
“My husband is a busy man. I do not see him often.” You supplied, an air of finality to the statement, hoping no more needed to be said.
“I think I’d prefer a husband like that.”
“Mama will be relieved to hear you say you want a husband at all.” Benedict grunted.
You tilted your head, previously unwilling to go into such subjects but the girl in front of your intrigued you, how could you not delve deeper, “You hesitate to marry?”
Eloise scoffed. “I just think there’s more to life than selling yourself to the highest bidder.”
Benedict slowly set down his brush. “And I am going to stretch for a moment and leave the two of you to converse. In private.”
When he was gone, Eloise looked at you. “Sorry.”
You shook your head. “I agree with you, to some degree.”
“You do?”
“I did what I could with the cards I held.”
Eloise frowned. “I want to live my life,” she said, “not have it chosen for me.”
You held her gaze for a moment, trying to work out the intensity in her eyes. You took in a breath and nodded your head, slightly absently looking out the window, “That is a wonderful thing to want for yourself.”
“It should be normal, not wonderful.” You could hear her let out a frustrated sigh but you kept your gaze on your garden.
“Perhaps,” You smiled sadly.
There was a moment of silence before you felt her move closer to you and take a breath in, “He's, like, forty years older than you-“
“Thirty-six.” You quietly corrected, still now refusing to meet her steely gaze.
“Fine. Thirty-six.” Eloise leaned further forward, her hand landing near the folds of your skirts, “Either way, you are three-and-twenty. What could you possibly have in common?”
You remembered now why you had avoided this conversation. She was passionate. You had long since lost any and all enthusiasm or hope in this matter. You shrugged, “We both want things that the other has.”
“But does he love you?” Her voice dropped slightly and with it your eyes snapped up.
“Eloise.” You frowned, trying even harder than before to read the look in her eyes. Her fingers stretched out to take your hand.
"Does he?" Your eyes dropped to your interlinked fingers and you shook your head, pulling away.
“It's not about love.” You weren’t sure you entirely knew what love felt like, at least not with your husband. But were you ridiculous to imagine that this feeling, fluttering, in your chest around Eloise was anything akin to love? Or maybe it was just frustration you thought as she pushed on.
“You don't love him.”
“Of course I don't.” The answer came so simply that it made something twist painfully in Eloise’s chest.
She covered the flicker of pain with a scoff, “So, he keeps you. Like a pet.”
You flinched, “He cares for me, Eloise.”
“And yet he does not love you, nor you him.”
“Eloise.” You shook your head, “You just don't understand.”
“You are a human. A woman. You have more worth than this, surely.”
Your expression changed then. Not into one of anger, exactly, but something worse. You looked wounded. “Your expectations are too high.”
She shrugged, “So I know what I deserve, do you?” Her soft hand moved again to cover yours. Your breath caught slightly in the back of your throat and you tried to be brave, to not flinch away.
“No one deserves anything.” Your voice tightened. “His Lordship approached me, wanted me. And I am grateful for it. I have to be.”
“You could have more than this.” Eloise was almost whispering, moving closer.
You frowned, “What more do I need?”
“You could have love.”
At that, you stood, a nervous energy forcing you to move, to step away. You shook your head, “I don’t need love, Eloise. That won’t keep me, or my family alive. I don’t want love. I want to live and feel secure and to be healthy and for my family to have the same.” You felt yourself starting to pace in front of her, once again refusing to meet her now-soft eyes.
“You could-“
“In a fantasy world, sure, I’d like to have love, okay? But this is the real world.” Your voice broke slightly. “I am lucky to have what I have.” Eloise stood too, took a step towards you and you stepped away from her, unsure of what you were thinking or feeling, not sure how to organise the muddle of your thoughts “I think we should stop there.”
She let out a frustrated noise and gritted her teeth, “Fine, if that’s what you want.”
“Eloise.” You wanted her to stay but you didn’t know how to say it.
“I’ll be in my room.” She turned away before you could say anything else but, at the door, your voice stopped her.
“I’m sorry…" You spoke quietly, “to be the one to break your fantasy.”
Eloise looked back and, for once, she had no sharp answer waiting. “I’m sorry I brought it up at all. I’m sorry I came.”
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Eloise did not see you at dinner. Or in the library. She also didn’t see you at breakfast.
Of course, Benedict noticed it all. “She is unwell?” he asked, looking at the empty chair.
Eloise, in all her slouching, frowning, angsty mess shrugged, “So I was told.”
“And so… you are sulking?” He quirked up an eyebrow and then sighed as his sister didn’t even make eye contact with him, “Eloise.”
She set down her book, “What?”
“What did you say?”
“Why do you assume I said something?” She all but huffed like a petulant toddler when she crossed her arms and frowned.
“Because I know you.”
Eloise looked toward the door, holding the silence until she sighed and rolled her eyes, “I may have been… honest.”
Benedict winced. “Right… was it with Eloise honesty or normal person honesty?” She didn’t answer and he sighed, “Ah.”
You reappeared later that afternoon. You were pale, but polite and perfectly composed.
Eloise hated it.
The sitting was completely unbearable. Benedict painted in silence. You sat still. Eloise pretended to read and did not absorb a single word.
After nearly an hour, Benedict put down his brush, stretched slightly and cleared his throat, “I think that I need more blue.”
“You have blue,” Eloise muttered.
“Well I think that I need a different blue.” He stood up, deliberately ignoring Eloise’s wide eyes and frantic shaking of her head, “I shall go fetch it.”
And he left, the coward.
Eloise took a deep breath in, faced with only one decision. The moment the door shut, Eloise stood, “I am sorry.” You just looked at her for a moment, her eyes full of honesty. “I am.”
“I know.”
“I should not have said those things.”
You titled your head, a silent agreement, “No. You should not have.”
Eloise swallowed, “I only meant-“
“I know what you meant.” You cut her off, not wanting to hear her words again.
“That you deserve more.” She continued on. Your face softened, but only slightly. You couldn’t face her earnest, heartfelt belief that you, you, deserved more than you had been given. That you may even deserve love from- but you couldn’t think about that.
You hum, turning to her with a soft attempt at peace, a question, “And what if wanting more ruins me?”
The question made her ache, “What if it doesn’t?”
You turned away, “I just… cannot afford to think like that.”
Eloise stepped closer, “I think... maybe you already are.” You looked back at her then and, for a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Benedict returned, and whatever had nearly happened vanished with the sound of his footsteps.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
That night, Eloise could not sleep.
She stared at the ceiling of the blue room until the moonlight shifted across the floor. She thought of you downstairs. Of the portrait. Of your husband returning. Of Benedict finishing his work and packing his paints.
Of leaving.
As she felt she was about to drive herself crazy, there was a soft knock at her door. Eloise sat up instantly.
“Y/N?” The name was out of her mouth before she could even process the thought. Did she know it was you or did she just hope it would be?
The door opened. You stood there in your nightdress, wrapped in a robe, barefoot, shivering.
And covered in paint.
Green streaked your hands. Blue marked your wrist. A smear of white ran along your collarbone.
Eloise was out of bed before she had fully decided to move, “Y/N? Are you okay?”
“I was just tossing and turning and I couldn’t sleep-“
“You’re shivering.”
“And I just kept thinking about the painting and you and how it’ll be finished and then you will be leaving here, leaving me, in only one week and-“
“You’re covered in paint, what’s going on?”
“And I couldn’t breathe, Eloise, you see?” Your voice came too fast. “I was thinking about what you said about what I have. I couldn’t breathe. Because…”
“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Eloise reached for you, for your paint-covered hands.
“I nearly… I nearly destroyed the painting.” You confessed and Eloise stilled.
“You what?”
“I didn’t. I stopped myself but… I wanted to rip it up. I wanted to burn it, to-“
“You… don’t like it?” Eloise asked, trying desperately to catch up with what you were saying, her mind going a mile a minute.
“I’m not making sense.” You laughed once, breathless and miserable. “You must think me mad, turning up in the middle of the night. I’m- I’m not even dressed and I’m raving like an absolute loon, covered in paint, and-“
“Shall I call for your maid? Your housekeeper? Your-“
“No, no, I don’t want them, I-“
“Anyone? What do you want? Tell me how I can help you.”
You looked at her then. She saw a raw look in your eyes, you looked terrified. Her heart raced and she searched your face, bewildered, until you spoke- “I want you.”
Eloise stopped breathing. “You-“
“I don’t want anyone else, I just want you.”
“I…”
You stepped back slightly.
“Now you’re the one shivering.” Your voice trembled. “I’m sorry. To come in the middle of the night and to say the things I’ve said, it’s- I’m sorry.”
Eloise caught your hand before you could pull away. “Say it again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
You stared at her for a moment. She just shook her head, a tiny movement, and you thought you understood. “I want you?” Eloise’s grip tightened and your heart swelled. “I want you.” you whispered. Then again, stronger, “I want you. I-“
And then Eloise kissed you. It was not particularly graceful or careful but it was her.
It was the kind of kiss that had been held back for too many breakfasts, too many evenings in the library, too many unfinished conversations.
Your paint-covered hands came up to her shoulders, then her neck, then her face. Eloise did not care. She leaned into every touch as though she had been starving for it.
When you broke apart, both of you were breathing hard.
“I could never figure out why this was my favourite room,” you said softly, “but I think I’m starting to understand it now.”
Eloise smiled against your mouth. “I think you somehow knew that blue is my colour.”
“It is?” You grinned, “I think mine is green.”
“I can see. You’ve got a brilliant splash of green covering your cheek, right here.” Her hand gently caressed your cheekbone, you grinned.
“And you? You have blue just under your chin,” you pressed your lips against her chin, “a little behind your ear” your lips moved to her ear, “and I’m sure I saw some-“
Your lips moved to her neck and you watched as she sucked in a little gasp, “Y/N.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t start something we don’t get to finish.”
Your gaze lowered to her mouth, “I really don’t plan to.”
xxxxxxxxxxxx
“Eloise?”
She jerked awake.
Morning light streamed through the curtains and, for one stunned second, Eloise did not know where she was.
Then she felt your arm around her waist, your light breath at her shoulder.
She heard a knock again, “Eloise!” Benedict’s frustrated voice filtered through.
“Fuck.” She hissed under her breath, pushing herself up on her elbows. Your head jerked up with the movement and your eyes opened.
“Eloise!” Another shout, another knock.
She ran her hand through her messy hair, eyes flicking to you, “What do we do?”
You blinked slowly, your eyes still heavy with sleep, “Relax.” You hummed, pressing your lips against her side, pulling yourself up and closer to her warmth. You could get used to waking up to this feeling.
“I really would rather not be found naked by my brother.” Eloise almost hissed, making you just laugh, pressing another kiss to her cheek, “This is not funny.” She mumbled.
“It is a little funny.” You hooked your finger round her chin, pulling her to face you and kissing her.
“Eloise?” Benedict called again and she let out a little grunt before breaking the kiss and pulling away.
She scrambled out of bed, dragging on her shift and robe as quickly as she could, “I lost track of time, Benedict,” she shouted toward the door. “I shall meet you downstairs once I am dressed.”
A pause.
“O-kay.”
His footsteps retreated.
Eloise pressed both hands over her face then, distracted by her hands, let out a groan, “What do I do about the paint?” she asked, rubbing at the tiny streaks of long-dried paint that had made its way onto her skin.
You sat up, the sheet clutched to your chest, “I thought you liked art and painting and sitting for hours.”
“I like you,” Eloise said, turning back to you. “And sitting and watching you for hours.” She cradled your face in her hands.
Your smile softened.
“I shall tell him I tried painting the view last night,” she spoke mostly to herself, eyes still lingering on yours and trailing down to your lips, “Stop distracting me.”
“You are distracting me.” You protested, pushing her back a little with a smile. Then, climbing out of bed, you shooed her away, although she didn’t go far from your side, “go downstairs. I shall wash the paint off so we’re not matching and I’ll come join you in a short while.”
Eloise lingered, eyes still attached to you. You tilted your head.
“Go.”
She kissed you once more.
Then again.
Then once more because the first two were not enough.
“Eloise.” You laughed.
“I am going.”
“You are not.”
“I am thinking about going.” You laughed and pushed her gently toward the door.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Eloise took in a deep breath and paused before bursting through to meet her brother, “Before you ask, I tried painting last night and will be taking no further questions.” Benedict was waiting in the breakfast room with a cup of tea and another Benedict-level smug smile.
“Good morning,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at the sight of his sister, clearly flustered, refusing to look him in the eye. He knew if he just waited, everything would become clear. Eloise couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.
“That’s why there is paint on me. On my body. Just so you don’t… ask anything.”
“Right.”
“It was my view. The land out of my window. A landscape. Not a portrait. No people involved. At all.”
“May I ask-“
“Nope.”
He smiled into his tea. Eloise rocked back on her heels, trying to avoid his eyes.
“Well?” Benedict asked.
“That’s technically another question…” She formed, paced a moment, then turned, curiosity getting the better of her, “Well what?”
“Can I see the artwork?”
“What?”
“The view you painted last night.” Eloise’s stomach dropped, “I will not criticise,” he said. “Unless it is really awful.”
She shook her head quickly, “No. It’s… personal.”
“Oh God.” Benedict leaned back. “It’s worse than awful then? Best burn it.”
Eloise stepped forward and punched him in the arm, “Shut up.”
At that moment, you entered.
“Good morning, Eloise. Benedict. Same place as yesterday?”
Benedict turned. Then stopped and his eyes flicked to your neck, then to Eloise, then back to you, “Oh, come on.” You looked confused and Benedict’s grin widened. “I have been sure this was coming for the past week, but really, Eloise? How obvious can you get?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” She frowned, resolutely glaring at her brother’s even smugger grin.
“Really?”
Eloise sighed and shrugged, “I… what?”
“Now, El, artist to artist, what sort of canvas are you using?” He raised an eyebrow, the grin spreading even wider. Eloise shook her head, confused by his antics and looked to you to see if you understood. Then the realisation spread.
“Oh, Y/N,” Eloise said, horrified.
“What?” you asked.
“Because I typically go for the classic white canvas,” Benedict continued, “but some I know have been using different materials like wood recently. However-”
Eloise put her forehead to her palm and groaned, cheeks starting to turn pink, “Oh my God.”
“What is he talking about?” You moved to Eloise’s side, uncertain how to make whatever was going wrong better.
“Y/N,” Benedict said cheerfully, “your neck.”
You touched your throat, “What about my neck?”
“You have some-”
“Paint,” Eloise interrupted. “You have some paint just there.” She pointed to the spot and your heart plummeted a little.
Benedict, however, just beamed, “Same hue, isn’t that funny?”
“Stop smiling like that,” Eloise snapped.
“I knew you had not suddenly got into painting.”
“Is that your remark?” Eloise demanded. “You are more surprised that I am not an artist than the fact that I- that we-“
Benedict snorted, “I don’t think you need to finish that sentence.”
“Benedict.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender, “Eloise, sister, come on.” His expression softened. “You simply were not born to be an artist.”
“Hey.”
“But you were born to be impossible.” He looked to you, an unreadable expression momentarily passing his face before it was replaced with his usual grin. He ruffled your hair, pushed Eloise’s shoulder and clapped his hands, “As artist-in-residence, why don’t we all take the day off? I am sure you have had enough of sitting still on a stool all day, Y/N, and… whatever it is you do, Eloise.”
“It is a lovely day,” you said. “Perhaps we could have a picnic?”
“You two go ahead.” Benedict sighed dramatically. “Really. I shall saunter around the pub and feel even lonelier than I ever did before coming here.”
“You will find someone, somewhere,” Eloise said. “Just, please, not the pub.”
xxxxxxxxxxxx
After all had quietened down (and Eloise had reassured you that Benedict was the chillest of all her siblings and you wouldn’t have to fight him for her honour any time soon) Eloise took your hand.
“Come on. What are we still doing here?” She pulled you closer to the doorway, your hands laced together.
You mentally checked off your list, “I’ve grabbed a blanket and passed our message of thanks to cook.” You pulled away slightly, “I could quickly gather the glasses to help-“
“We can leave it all. I just want you,” Eloise said quietly, tightening her clasp and pulling you back towards her.
You stopped in her arms, words stuck in your throat because there it was, that feeling.
You squeezed her hand.
“Isn’t it worth holding out for it? This feeling?” She asked, completely and utterly reading your mind.
You looked at her.
“It was worth everything,” you said. “Just do not leave so soon.”
Eloise’s face softened, “Do not think about that.”
“How can I not?”
“We shall make it work. I shall make it work. I will think of something. An adventure.”
You wanted to believe her. So you did.
“For now,” she said, tugging gently at your hand again, “the picnic. As long as you don’t want to wash first?”
“No.” You smiled. “I want to keep it on me a little longer.”
Eloise looked at the faint blue still beneath your jaw and her eyes darkened.
“Besides,” you added, stepping closer, “I think you started something earlier that you promised me you would finish.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” you said. “You definitely did.”
She kissed you there in the doorway to the gardens, in the bright morning sun, with paint still marking both of you and Eloise’s hands at your hips.
You laughed into Eloise’s mouth, pure joy in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the house did not feel empty.
And when she led you outside, neither of you knew exactly what would happen next. Only that it would be something good.
First Date - Kate Bishop x Reader (Marvel)
this one is shorter and sweeter to help me survive the month (7 fics in one month may be a record).
Day 7, @fluffyjuly: kate bishop, happy tears + will you marry me?
summary: Kate Bishop asks you on a first date and gets... a bit over enthusiastic.
The first date was only supposed to be coffee. That was what Kate had said, at least.
"Low pressure," she’d promised, hands stuffed into the pockets of her purple jacket. "Casual, you know? Easy. Very normal because I can do normal."
You had smiled. "Can you?"
Kate narrowed her eyes. "That sounded kinda judgmental."
"No, no, it was just... curiousity."
"I think curiousity might just be saying something in a judgmental tone."
And soon enough, coffee became coffee and pastries, which became a walk through the park, which became Kate insisting she 'knew a place with the best dumplings in the city', which became both of you getting slightly lost because Kate absolutely did not know where she was going.
"I’m not lost," she said, turning in a slow circle on the sidewalk.
"You’ve looked at that street sign three times."
"I’m just taking in my surroundings, appreciating the little things in life."
"You’re lost."
"I’m an archer. We have instincts about things like this."
"Oh, so archers are like google maps? Do you have an in-built compass or something?"
"My instincts are telling me you’re enjoying this too much."
You were.
Kate was funny in a way that felt impossible to prepare for. She talked with her whole body, hands moving, eyes bright, every story somehow ending with property damage, Clint Barton, or an apology to a dog.
By the time you did find the dumpling place, you were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt.
Over dinner, she told you about the first time she tried to look intimidating during a stakeout and accidentally dropped an entire bag of trail mix down a fire escape.
"It sounded like rain," she said solemnly. "Tiny, nut-filled rain. I was starving as well."
You covered your mouth. "Did anyone see?"
"Ah, only the bad guys." she shrugged.
You bit your lip, "Oh, well at least-"
"And Clint."
"Right... that’s worse."
"So much worse." You laughed again, and Kate stared at you for half a second too long before quickly looking down at her plate.
Then, after dumplings, neither of you had said goodbye. Instead, you wandered beneath the city lights, shoulders brushing every few steps.
Kate bought a pretzel from a street cart and immediately lost half of it to a pigeon when the bird swooped.
Kate gasped and you watched, stunned, as she pointed after it, "That was targeted!"
"It was just hungry."
She shook her head vehemently, "No, that pigeon knew who I was. I saw the look in his eyes."
"You think pigeons are tracking Avengers now?"
"Maybe. If I were a pigeon, I would."
That was what broke you, the absurdity of it all but also just Kate. You didn't let out any old laugh.
It was a full, helpless, tearful laugh that made you stop walking and lean against a lamppost, one hand pressed to your stomach. Kate just froze.
At first you thought she was offended and then you saw her face, a little stunned smile forming.
"What?" you asked, still smiling, wiping under one eye.
Kate opened her mouth, then closed it.
Then, with the confidence of someone stepping directly off a cliff, said, "Will you marry me?"
The city kept moving around you, a taxi honked and somewhere nearby, someone shouted into their phone.
You blinked. Kate blinked right back, before pure horror flooded her face.
"Nope," she said quickly, shaking her head and striding off down the road. “No. That was not- wow. Okay. That was insane. Who said that? Not me.”
You bit your lip, running after her. "Kate-"
"I don’t have a ring," she continued, words tumbling out faster, still pacing, hands flying around alongside her words, "Not that the ring is the issue. The issue is that this is our first date, and I just asked you to marry me because you laughed at my pigeon trauma, which is not a stable foundation for lifelong commitment."
You tried not to laugh and completely failed. Kate groaned, covering her face with both hands, "Please don’t judge me by the last ten seconds."
"I’m not." You softly pulled at her wrists, bringing her hands back down, eyes tracing across the light brush covering her cheeks.
"Judge me by literally any other part of today." She all but begged.
You shrugged and nodded, "I liked today."
Her hands fell to her sides, "You did?"
"I did."
"Oh." Her smile flickered back, shy and bright. "Good."
You stepped closer. "So you’re not proposing?"
"Absolutely not. Not yet."
"Shame. I was curious where you’d take that."
"I had no plan. My brain saw you happy and just..." She made a vague exploding gesture near her head. "Short-circuited."
Your heart softened. Kate swallowed, suddenly nervous.
"Can I ask a different question?"
You tilted your head. "Another one?"
"Yeah."
"You ask so many questions."
"I like clarity."
"I noticed."
She took a tiny step closer, "Can I kiss you?"
You smiled and, instead of answering, you caught the front of her jacket gently and pulled her in.
Kate kissed you like she was surprised for half a second, and then like she’d been waiting all night. When you pulled away, she was grinning.
"Okay," she whispered. "That was a much better question."
You laughed softly. "Definitely."
Kate glanced down the street, then back at you, "So... a second date?"
"You really do ask a lot of questions."
"That one feels important." So you kissed her again. Kate smiled against your mouth, "Taking that as a yes."
Book Club - Amelia Shepherd x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
Day 6, @fluffyjuly: amelia shepherd, reading out loud, 'just one more time'
summary: Against her better judgement, Amelia has been persuaded to join a book club. Something that she has no time for. Luckily for her, she has you at home to help her get through it all, one chapter at a time.
Amelia Shepherd hated book clubs. Actually, correction... Amelia Shepherd hated the idea of book clubs.
"They're homework," she'd declared the moment you'd come home waving a flyer you'd picked up from the hospital café. "Everyone keeps trying to invent ways to make my free time feel like school."
You'd laughed. "It's only once a month."
"Yeah, once a month of assigned reading." She sighed, chopping up the carrot you had placed in front of her with enthusiasm.
"They have fancy coffee."
She raised an eyebrow and picked up the next veg to chop, zucchini, "I can buy drinks that I like without having to discuss pathetic fallacy."
"They have snacks." You tried.
"I can also buy snacks."
You leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling patiently, "They're letting partners join," and that made Amelia pause, just for a moment.
"...Partners?"
"Mhm."
"So you don't actually have to work at the hospital, huh?"
"Nope." You shook your head and couldn’t conceal the grin forming on your face, she narrowed her eyes, "What?" You asked, aiming for the innocent angle.
She put the knife down, shaking her head, "You've already signed us up, haven't you?"
"I might have." You stirred the mixture of food in the pan, not quite yet daring to look Amelia in the eye. She'd be fine with it... you'd hoped, anyway.
"You absolutely have."
Now, you risked a glance, "I thought you'd like it."
Luckily, she was smiling, "I won't."
"You don't even know what the book is."
"I don't need to."
"You are judging an entire experience before trying it."
"I am," she said proudly. "It's something I am very good at."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Amelia found that she hated it right up until she didn't.
The first meeting was awkward for approximately nine minutes.
Amelia spent those nine minutes wearing the expression she reserved for mandatory HR training, sipping terrible coffee and answering questions with as few words as possible. She looked like a grumpy teenager.
Then someone made an awfully incorrect interpretation of the main character's motivations and Amelia lasted a whole seven seconds before jumping in.
"No," she said, sitting forward. The room stopped to look at her, "That's... no. She isn't selfish."
The discussion lasted forty-five minutes and you barely spoke. For the most part, you watched your girlfriend accidentally become the most enthusiastic person in the room.
Walking home afterward, Amelia frowned thoughtfully, "You know, I still think book clubs are pretentious."
"Mhm."
"But Linda's point about the ending was ridiculous." She fumed to herself.
You joined your hand with hers, pulling her closer to you, walking shoulder to shoulder, "So you enjoyed yourself?"
She considered the question for a moment before shrugging, "I enjoyed being right."
"That's not what I asked."
"...Maybe I enjoyed it a little."
You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."
"Don't get smug."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The real problem arrived with book two because this book was six hundred pages long. Amelia Shepherd barely had enough time to remember to eat lunch, let alone fit 600 pages into her evenings.
With three emergency surgeries, two overnight consults and one resident who nearly fainted during rounds, there was no chance she could squeeze in reading six hundred pages.
By one week in, the bookmark was still sitting stubbornly on page forty-three. She dropped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic groan, "I've failed."
"You've read forty-three pages." You tried, using a light and positive voice.
"Out of six hundred." She groaned, tossing the book onto the coffee table, it landed with a thud.
"To be fair babe, you've had seventy-two working hours in four days."
She rubbed both hands over her face, "The annoying thing is that I actually want to read it."
"I know."
"I just..." She sighed. "Every time I sit down, I fall asleep."
You looked at her for a second, then closed your own book, "Okay."
She frowned, "Okay, what?"
"I'll read to you," You shrugged, leaning across and grabbing her copy of the book.
"...What?" She sat up, frowning.
"Whilst you cook, I'll read."
Amelia blinked, "You mean..."
"Exactly what I said." You let out a soft laugh at her little furrowed brows and small pout.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because... that's ridiculous." She shook her head.
"I disagree."
"You'll get bored."
"I won't."
"You'll do the voices."
"Oh, that? Yes, I absolutely will do that."
She pointed at you, "Fine, read. But I swear, no voices."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The arrangement lasted exactly one evening before becoming tradition. Amelia would come home exhausted, shoulders tight from twelve hours beneath the glaring lights of the hospital.
You'd already have vegetables chopped or pasta boiling or something simmering on the stove. Then, she'd tie on an apron and you'd pick up the book.
"'Chapter Five,'" you announced dramatically.
"Oh no." The last chapter hadn't ended well.
"'The rain fell with remarkable determination-'"
She put down the knife and shook her finger at you, "No, you are using your narrator voice. We said no voices."
"No, you said no voices." You grinned, "And, I don't have a narrator voice."
"You absolutely do."
You ignored her and continued, "'As though the sky itself-'"
She snorted, "You sound like you're narrating a nature documentary."
Without missing a beat, you deepened your voice. "Observe. The overworked neurosurgeon attempts to make risotto while pretending she isn't emotionally invested in the lives of these fictional people."
She rolled her eyes, picking the knife back up and scraping the chopped food into the sizzling pan, "I hate you."
"You love me," You joined her at the stove top, wrapping your arms around her from behind, book still in hand.
"I tolerate you," she mumbled.
You leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, "You literally moved in."
"I made mistakes," She shrugged.
"You were the one who bought our matching mugs."
She sighed, "The biggest mistake." You could hear her smile before you saw it.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The thing was...
She really did like listening. There was something different about listening to a story instead of just chasing the words across a page after sixteen hours awake.
She could stir sauce, chop herbs or lean against you while setting the table. She could also close her eyes for just a second and your voice would just keep carrying the story forward.
On occasion, she'd interrupt, "No, wait."
"What?" You paused, holding your finger against where you had just been interrupted so as to not lose your place.
"Read that sentence again," You flipped back a line and she smiled.
She hummed, "I liked that bit."
Sometimes she'd predict endings, "He's lying."
"We don't know that." You shrugged, trying to remain impartial.
"He is," she'd sing-song and often, to her credit, she was correct.
"...We're literally only on chapter eight, how do you-"
"I know people." She'd reply, very enigmatic.
"You know fictional people?" and she would just shrug, tapping the page for you to continue.
Sometimes she'd even argue with the author, "Oh, that's lazy writing."
"They're just setting something up."
"No, I bet their editor just missed that. It's just that rubbish."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
About halfway through the month, Amelia stopped pretending she wasn't invested.
"Don't start without me." She called down the stairs, having just got home and now running for a quick shower.
"I wouldn't," you called back, grabbing her favourite blanket and lighting the candle by the couch.
"You promise?"
"I promise," You heard her let out a little sigh of content before the shower kicked to life. You just smiled to yourself.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It happened on a Thursday.
She'd been in surgery nearly ten hours, the operation had gone well and the patient would recover but Amelia looked absolutely done in.
She barely spoke through dinner and instead, just leaned against your shoulder while you loaded the dishwasher.
"You okay?" You whispered.
She nodded slowly, "Mhm."
You paused as you put in the last plate and stood up, "You don't have to be."
"I know."
A few minutes later she was curled beside you on the couch, her hair still damp from her shower, one leg tucked beneath yours. You picked up the book, "Ready?"
She nodded sleepily and so you started reading. Her breathing had slowed within minutes.
You paused to look at her and check. She was not quite asleep, not yet. Just resting, so you kept going. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows. Half an hour later, you reached the end of the chapter.
You looked down and this time, Amelia was fully asleep. One hand still loosely curled around your sleeve. A soft snore sneaking its way past her lips. You smiled and carefully marked the next page to read. You turned off the lamp and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She stirred, "Mmm..." she rolled further into you.
"You fell asleep." You whispered into her hair.
"No..." She protested, stretching out her tired limbs and forcing her eyes open.
"You did."
"No, I'm listening to you read."
You chuckled, "You were dreaming."
"I can do two things at once." She mumbled and you laughed quietly.
"Come on," you shifted slightly, letting her sit up before you stood. She didn't move again. Instead, eyes still closed, she mumbled,
"...Just one more time."
Your heart melted, "What?" You crouched over her.
"The last few pages. Just read it one more time for me?"
You shook your head softly, "You won't hear it."
"I will." She pushed to re-open her eyes.
You brushed her hair behind her ear, "You won't."
"...Please."
You looked at her, really looked. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair was escaping in every possible direction. She was still wearing one of your hoodies that she'd stolen months ago.
You knew she wasn't asking because she desperately needed to know what happened, she was asking because your voice had become part of her coming home routine, the way for her to rest into the night, separate herself from work.
"You need sleep more than these pages, Amelia."
She made a tiny, dissatisfied sound, "But..."
"I'll read tomorrow." You whispered.
"...Promise?"
"I promise."
She sighed dramatically, "Fine." and took your hand, accepting your help to guide her upstairs and into your bedroom.
Thirty seconds later she was asleep again.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
By the final week of the month, you had a problem, "You know we have..." you counted on your fingers, "...three evenings left."
Amelia looked at the remaining pages, "Oh."
"There are two hundred pages to go still."
"...Oh," She sighed and, for a moment, she looked genuinely distressed, "We're not going to finish, are we?"
"We'll manage," you tried to persuade yourself, as well as her. 70-odd pages a night, you could just about do that... maybe.
She bit her lip, "I don't want to skim it though."
"We won't."
"I actually want to know what happens."
"I know."
She sighed, "Ugh, I hate that I like this stupid book." She thoroughly mixed the sauce that was cooking, stabbing at some particularly large clumps of tomatoes, "I hate that this stupid book club was your idea."
"I know."
"I especially hate that you were right." She pointed a wooden spoon at you, splattering little red drops of sauce onto the floor, "Don't enjoy that."
"I am enjoying it immensely," You grinned, rushing to clean up after her.
Later that same evening, the idea arrived while Amelia slept. She'd fallen asleep on your shoulder again, book open in your lap.
You looked at the clock, then at her. Then at your phone, and picked it up.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The next morning, Amelia kissed you goodbye in the kitchen, gathering her things, before pausing at the door, "Oh and I'm sorry."
"For what?" You asked, passing her the packed lunch you'd prepared the day before.
"I'll miss reading tonight."
"You've got another late surgery?" She nodded miserably, "It's okay." You assured her.
"I was actually looking forward to chapter forty-two."
"I know." She took the lunch with a kiss and she left before you could say anything else.
Later, at around 11pm, while she was getting ready to leave the hospital, her phone connected automatically to her headphones and a notification appeared.
Playlist shared by You.
Chapter Forty-Two.
She frowned, pressed play.
Your voice filled her ears as she stood in the hallway of the hospital, bag slung over one shoulder.
"Hi." A pause. "I figured if you couldn't be on the couch, then maybe the couch could come to you." She laughed despite herself. "So... chapter forty-two."
You cleared your throat theatrically, "'The train arrived just before dawn...'"
She listened all the way home. At some point, chapter forty-three started automatically. Then forty-four.
And between chapters you'd left little messages.
"Remember to drink water."
"This guy is still really annoying."
"I had to re-record this sentence six times because I couldn't pronounce this town's name."
"If you're smiling right now, I was right about this being a good idea. Don't try to convince me otherwise."
By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was crying a little, mostly from laughing and a little from missing you despite the fact she was sitting just outside the door.
She found you in the kitchen, dropped her bags and wrapped both arms around your waist, "You made me an audiobook."
You looked over your shoulder innocently, "I may have."
"You recorded..." She held up her phone. "Three chapters."
"I got a little carried away."
"You know," she said quietly into your shoulder, "I've spent a lot of my life believing people eventually get tired."
You rested your cheek against her hair, "I know."
"They stop showing up."
You tightened your arms on top of hers, "I won't."
"I know." She smiled, "You keep finding new ways."
You pulled back just enough to look at her, "And I'll do my best to keep finding them."
She searched your face, as if checking whether you understood the weight of what you'd promised.
Then she nodded, "Good."
You kissed her forehead, "So..."
"So?"
"Chapter forty-five?" You nodded to the couch, where her bowl of food was waiting, still steaming.
Amelia smiled, the tired, genuine smile that belonged only to the version of herself that existed at home. She took your hand and led you toward the couch.
And there would probably never be enough evenings, enough quiet hours, or enough pages to make up for the time the world stole from the two of you but, still, for now you just opened the book and began reading.
Rock and Roll - Emily Prentiss x Reader (Criminal Minds)
Okay after the mad rush of the past few days, we are back to a few pieces i wrote in preparation for this month (prep is unheard of for me) so acc should be on time now!! for a few days at least
also i love writing because it gets me googling different rocks and minerals and where you can find them at 2am.
Day 5, @fluffyjuly: emily prentiss, 'i'll never leave you, i promise' + alternative prompt, 'rock collection'
summary: You have been dating Emily Prentiss for almost a year, so finding out she's a big rock music fan doesn't come as much of a surprise to you. What does surprise you is to find out that it's not rock music but rocks, stones, pebbles. Maybe nothing about Emily should come as a surprise to you anymore.
Emily Prentiss had a rock collection.
At least, that was what JJ said.
You found this out on a Tuesday afternoon in the bullpen, when the coffee machine was making some odd, vaguely threatening noise that suggested it had completely given up on life and there had been a complete (suspicious) lull in cases.
"Wait," you said, glancing up from your paperwork. "Emily has a rock collection?"
Emily didn’t look up. "Don’t start."
"Oh, no, I’m starting." You pushed your chair back, grinning. "That’s actually pretty cool."
"It’s not cool."
"It’s extremely cool, I didn't know that about you."
Morgan’s grin widened, eyes glancing between the two of you, "Hold up." He held up a hand and raised a brow at you, "You’re thinking JJ meant music, didn’t you?"
You paused, a little perplexed. JJ laughed into her coffee and Emily finally looked up, one eyebrow raised.
You blinked. "Oh, so… not rock music?"
"As in rocks," Reid supplied helpfully, appearing from nowhere with a folder in his hands. "Minerals, stones, geological samples. Though technically, depending on the composition-"
"Thank you, Spence," Emily cut in, her cheeks a tad rosy.
You stared at her. "You collect actual rocks?"
Emily’s mouth twitched and she shrugged, aiming for nonchalant, "From places I’ve been."
"Oh my god."
"Don’t."
"How did I not know this about you? We’ve been dating a year."
"I work with all of you. I had to keep some mystery." She buried her head in paperwork, trying to move the conversation on but you were hooked in now.
You crossed the bullpen and perched on the edge of her desk, unable to stop smiling. "So when JJ said you had a rare rock collection, I pictured vinyl. Maybe some Springsteen. Bowie. You know. Cool mysterious spy woman music."
Emily leaned back in her chair, pushing her paperwork away with a little sigh, "And instead?"
"Pebbles." You grinned.
Her eyes narrowed, but she was smiling now too. "They are not pebbles."
Morgan coughed. "Some of them are definitely pebbles."
"Some of them are from historically significant locations, actually."
You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. "Emily Prentiss, international woman of mystery, collector of tiny driveway gravel. Wow."
"That’s it," She grabbed a pen and pointed it at you. "You’re uninvited from ever seeing them."
You gasped. "I was invited?"
"Not anymore."
"Devastating."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Later, when you found yourself in her apartment after dinner, shoes kicked off by the door and Emily moving comfortably around the kitchen in a soft sweater, you remembered.
"So," you said casually, leaning against the counter. "Where do you keep the famous rocks?"
Emily froze for half a second.
You grinned. "Oh, come on." She sighed and placed the pan of containing your dinner back on the stovetop, her shoulder brushing yours.
"You’re going to make fun of me."
"Absolutely." You turned to stand behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, resting your chin on her shoulder.
"Then no."
You pouted, "What if I make fun of you lovingly?"
"That doesn’t help your case."
You pressed a kiss to her shoulder and lowered your voice with a smile, "I promise to be respectful to your beloved gravel."
Emily sighed, but she was already smiling. "You’re lucky I love you."
"I know," She turned in your arms, kissed your cheek, then took your hand and led you down the hall.
The collection was not what you expected. You had been picturing a shoebox, maybe a small box. Something half forgotten and gathering dust on a shelf.
Instead, Emily had an entire narrow bookcase in her study dedicated to them. Small stones, crystals, chunks of mineral, smooth river rocks, and odd little fragments sat arranged in trays and glass boxes. Each had a tiny handwritten label beneath it: where it was from, when she got it, sometimes a note.
You eyes skimmed over the names, written in her blocky handwriting. Paris. Rome. Cairo. Istanbul. A black volcanic stone from Iceland. A piece of pink granite from Maine. A smooth green-grey pebble from beside a lake in Scotland.
You stepped closer, teasing smile softening, "Emily," you said quietly. "These are beautiful."
She shrugged, suddenly shy in a way you rarely got to see. "They’re just… places. Moments."
You picked up one from a small velvet square after glancing at her for permission. She'd nodded and you made sure you were gentle, soft. It was small and dark, threaded with silver, "Where’s this from?"
"Interpol case. Before the BAU." She leaned against the desk. "I was exhausted, freezing, and very sure I’d made the wrong choice leaving everything I knew. I found that near the station."
"And kept it?"
"It felt like proof I’d been there." Her voice went quieter. "You know? Proof that I had survived it."
Your throat tightened a little and you set the stone back with the greatest care, "I’m sorry," you said.
Emily glanced at you. "For what? The teasing? You don't need to be-"
"No. I’m still going to tease you," She laughed. "But I get it," you said. "It’s not about rocks."
"No," she said. "Not really."
You looked over the shelves again. Little pieces of the world, all carried home by her careful hands. Evidence that Emily Prentiss had been everywhere, had survived more than most people knew, and had still stopped to pocket something small and ordinary because it mattered.
You slipped your hand into hers, "I really love it," you said.
She looked at you then, really looked, like she was trying to decide whether to believe you.
So you squeezed her hand, "I do mean it." She kissed your forehead, pulling you back to the kitchen and shutting the office door.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The next week, you became slightly obsessed.
Not in an obvious way. You were subtle... mostly.
You researched gemstones during lunch breaks. You asked Reid about minerals, which turned out to be a mistake because forty minutes later you knew more about quartz formation than any reasonable person needed to know. You browsed antique shops, museum gift stores, online auctions, and one extremely intense geology forum where everyone argued about authenticity so much it totally frightened you.
You didn’t want to get Emily something shiny just because it was pretty. Emily didn’t collect rocks for decoration. She collected them for their meaning.
So when the team flew to Colorado for a case and had one spare hour before the jet home, you slipped away to a tiny local shop tucked between a diner and a bookstore. Inside, an elderly man showed you a piece of rhodochrosite, rose-pink and banded with white, polished just enough to glow but still rough at the edges.
"It’s local," he told you. "Colorado mineral. Good choice for someone you love."
You nearly dropped it, "I didn’t say-" He gave you a look that suggested you were not the first person to be wildly obvious in his store. Safe to say, you bought it immediately.
On the jet, you tucked the little wrapped box into your bag and tried to act normal. Unfortunately for you, you worked with profilers.
Morgan noticed first, "What’s in the bag?"
"Nothing."
"That was... suspiciously fast." He hovered over you, leaning on the back of your armchair.
"It’s a bag, Morgan."
"Yeah, a bag that you’ve checked six times."
Garcia, on the laptop screen from Quantico, gasped. "Is it a present? Is it a secret present? Is it shiny? For me?"
You glanced at Emily, who was asleep against the window, arms folded, dark hair falling across her cheek.
"It’s not shiny," you whispered.
Reid looked up. "Many rocks can actually be shiny depending on their mineral structure and how polished they are."
Morgan’s eyes lit up. "A rock?"
You glared at him, shushing him, "Keep your voice down."
"You got Emily a rock?" JJ joined the conversation, putting her book down and smiling across the aisle at you.
Garcia pressed both hands to her cheeks. "Oh my god. You got her a rock."
Morgan leaned in again, grin wicked. "So… this is code an engagement ring, right? We're all hearing that?"
You nearly choked. "No. No, it's not like that."
"Because people call those a rock."
"No."
"And I just thought how you've been together a while now and-!
"Derek."
"I’m just saying, if you’re proposing to Prentiss with a rock rock, that is weirdly on brand."
Across from you, Emily shifted in her sleep. Everyone froze until she settled again.
You pointed at Morgan and tried to whisper, threateningly, "I will end you."
Garcia whispered, "I want to be maid of honor."
"It’s not an engagement rock." You protested once more.
JJ’s smile turned gentle. "It's still a love rock, of sorts."
You looked down at your bag, embarrassed by how warm your face felt. "Maybe."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
That night, back in D.C., Emily came over to your place after you both showered off the exhaustion of the case. She looked tired but content, curled on your couch in one of your old shirts, socked feet tucked under your thigh.
You could have waited for a better moment but, really, you didn’t want to.
"I got you something," you said, clearing your throat.
Emily turned her head. "You did?"
"Don’t make it weird though."
Her eyebrows lifted. "That guarantees I will make it weird."
You reached for the small box on the coffee table and handed it to her. She studied you for a second before opening it. And for once, Emily Prentiss had no immediate comeback. She lifted the stone carefully from the tissue paper, thumb brushing over the pink bands.
"It’s... rhodochrosite," you said, suddenly nervous and trying not to trip over the name of the damn thing. "It's from Colorado. The guy at the shop said it was local, and I know your collection is mostly places and memories, so I thought maybe this could be from this case. Or not the case, exactly, because that was awful, but from coming home. From the after."
Emily didn’t say anything.
You rushed on. "And before you ask, yes, Morgan made an engagement ring joke. Several, actually. Garcia may already be planning a wedding. I told them it was not that kind of rock. Not yet, anyway."
Emily’s mouth curved, but her eyes were bright.
You swallowed. "And if you hate it then it can just be a paperweight."
She looked down at the stone again, cradled in her palm like something fragile, "I don’t hate it," she said softly.
"Good."
"I love it." Your chest loosened. Emily leaned forward and kissed you. It was slow, gentle, and so full of tenderness that you forgot whatever self-deprecating joke you had been preparing.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.
"You got me a rock," she murmured.
"I did."
"A love rock."
You groaned. "JJ said that."
"JJ is right."
"Please don’t encourage her."
Emily laughed, then looked down at the stone again, "No one’s ever done that for me."
"What, bought you a rock?"
"No," She traced the rough edge with her thumb. "No one's paid attention like that."
The words hit you harder than you expected, you reached for her hand and brushed your thumb over her knuckles, "Em."
She shook her head, smiling like she didn’t want to make it too serious. "I’m okay."
"I know."
But you also knew what she meant. Emily had spent so much of her life being useful, composed, unreadable. People saw the competence first. The sharp wit or the clean shot. The woman who could walk into danger with her chin up and her fear hidden so deep even she sometimes forgot it existed.
You loved those things about her but you loved this too... Emily tucked away on your couch, holding a pink rock like it was her own little treasure.
"I like paying attention to you," you said and you watched as her expression softened. You hesitated, then added, "You know, I’ll always be here for you. Whatever happens, I’ll never leave you, I can promise you that."
Emily went very still.
For one awful second, you worried you had said too much. You were too direct, it was all too soon. The words had slipped out because they were true, because they had been living in the back of your thoat for weeks, maybe months.
Then Emily set the stone carefully back in its box and reached for you. She pulled you into her arms with surprising strength, one hand at the back of your neck, the other wrapped tight around your waist.
You held her just as tightly.
"I mean it," you whispered against her shoulder. "I know people have. I know sometimes life does things we don’t get a say in. But I’m here. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you."
Emily’s breath trembled and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. "You can’t promise nothing bad will happen."
"No," you said. "But I can promise I won’t walk away just because loving you gets hard."
She held you tighter and for a while, neither of you moved.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the distant sound of traffic below. The little pink stone sat on the table, catching the lamplight.
Finally, Emily pulled back enough to look at you.
"I really love you."
You smiled and shook your head, "You might not for long because I know mineral facts now."
"Oh no."
"Like did you know that quartz-" She kissed you before you could finish and you just smiled against her mouth.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The next morning, Emily brought the rhodochrosite to work. She had tried to do it subtly at first, but Garcia spotted the box in approximately three seconds.
"Is that the rock?" she shrieked. Every head in the bullpen turned and Emily stopped walking.
You closed your eyes. "Penelope."
Morgan appeared from around the corner as if he had been summoned. "Prentiss, let’s see the engagement rock."
"It is not an engagement rock," Emily said, grinning from ear to ear.
"But it is from your lover," Garcia said, clasping her hands. "Which makes it romantic."
Reid nodded, "Technically, I would say that geology can be very romantic. The study of rocks often involves deep time, pressure, transformation-"
Morgan pointed at him. "See? Even the kid himself says it’s love."
Emily reached over and squeezed your hand lightly, once. She opened the box and showed them the stone. For once, everyone quieted.
Garcia’s expression melted, "Oh. It’s beautiful."
"Yeah," Morgan said, softer now. "It is."
Emily glanced at you. You gave her a small smile.
She looked back at the team, her usual smirk returning. "And if any of you call it a pebble, I’ll make sure your paperwork disappears for a month."
Morgan held up both hands. "That was your girlfriend. I personally wouldn’t dream of it." You stuck your tongue out at him from behind Emily, whilst she just nodded once.
"Good."
She set the box on her desk, right beside her monitor and, all day, you caught her looking at it. You couldn't help but notice that every time she did, she looked at you afterward. As though she was checking that you were still there.
Every time, you were.
And every time, you smiled back.
Always Have - JJ x Reader (Criminal Minds)
Day 4, @fluffyjuly: JJ, "you love me?" "always have."
summary: There's a killer in town, targeting a niche type. Hotch asks you and JJ to go undercover to help catch the killer. Isn't it a shame that the killer's type is married, domestic lovers living in a suburban house? Good thing Penelope Garcia is on hand to help photoshop your wedding photos.
You knew something was wrong the second Aaron Hotchner called everyone into the conference room and Derek Morgan was already grinning. That was never a good sign.
Morgan only smiled like that when one of three things was happening:
Either someone had already embarrassed themselves, someone was about to embarrass themselves, or he had information he was positively dying to weaponise.
And judging by the way he kept glancing between you and JJ, you were becoming increasingly concerned you fell into category three.
He knew something you didn't. Fantastic.
You slid into your usual chair and tried very hard not to read into anything as JJ settled beside you, just as she always did.
She also smelled annoyingly good, as usual. Expensive shampoo mixed with the kind of perfume you had spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending not to notice.
You did not have a crush on JJ, you simply had a manageable appreciation of her. Some may even call it a professional admiration. A tiny- Okay, fine.
It was a massive, 5-year-long crush. Ever since you had started working together.
But in your defense, basically everyone had one at some point. JJ was beautiful, intelligent, calm under pressure, and somehow capable of making even FBI-issued clothes look unfairly attractive.
It wasn’t your fault.
Hotch began the meeting quickly, "We have a serial offender operating in a suburban neighborhood outside Arlington."
The crime scene photos came up, showing a several couples, all victims. All of them women. Garcia’s spoke up, "All identified victims were in long-term same-sex relationships. Mostly married or cohabitating."
You straightened instinctively, and from the corner of your eye you were fairly certain JJ had done the same.
Hotch continued, "The unsub appears to be surveilling couples with highly visible routines."
The images changed, revealing the familiar brutality of the crime scenes alongside something altogether more unsettling... Photographs.
The victims alive. On morning runs, walking the dog, loading groceries into the car.
Snapshots of ordinary domestic life that the unsub had left neatly arranged at each scene.
"He targets predictability," David Rossi said.
"Hmm, routine creates opportunity," added Prentiss.
Hotch nodded once and glanced at his notepad, "We need undercover presence in the neighborhood."
You frowned but nodded. It was reasonable for that to be suggested, although unorthodox. Who would be asked, you didn't know. You'd heard Sarah from the fourth floor had a specialty in long-term undercover and-
You finally clocked that Hotch was looking directly at you.
Then at JJ.
Oh no... Absolutely not.
"We need a believable couple." He cleared his throat. There was a moment of silence whilst you caught Morgan’s grin widening in the corner of your eye.
No.
No, no, no.
Hotch continued like he wasn’t dropping the biggest work-related bomb you'd had since starting to work with the BAU. "You and JJ will move into the safe house as partners."
Your brain stopped. Like, fully 100% stopped. Nothing going on up there, complete white noise.
Beside you, JJ remained infuriatingly composed. She looked calm, professional and entirely unbothered, as though Hotch had assigned the pair of you to organise paperwork rather than spend several days pretending to be married.
Meanwhile your internal monologue had become incoherent screaming. Morgan leaned back in his chair, "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
You glared, "No." you muttered back through slightly gritted teeth. Morgan just ignored you and Prentiss smirked. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at another of your friends joining in to bully you.
"I mean, you two already bicker like a married couple." Prentiss shrugged.
"No, we do not," you said immediately. JJ, at the exact same time said, "No, we really don’t."
Morgan actually slapped the table, "Oh, come on!"
Prentiss laughed whilst Rossi hid a smile behind his coffee mug. Hotch, refusing to indulge in the nonsense, continued as though none of them had spoken, "You’ll need a convincing backstory."
Garcia chimed in, "I already made one!" Because of course she had.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, "Names?"
"No, no," Garcia protested, "we’re keeping your real names. Less chance of slip-ups." You looked at your friend, smiling down at you. She looked, and sounded, entirely too pleased with herself, "Relationship duration: five years."
You choked, "Five-?"
Garcia kept going, "Married for two." She placed a pair of wedding bands onto the conference table, and somewhere to your left Morgan made a noise that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
This was an actual living nightmare. A very attractive nightmare, don't get me wrong but... a nightmare all the same. And through it all JJ was still calm, composed even.
How was JJ not panicking? You risked a glance, which ended up being a big mistake because JJ had turned at that exact moment.
Your eyes met and... was that amusement? No, impossible. Maybe it was pity? God, that was even worse.
Then JJ leaned slightly toward you and said quietly, just for you, "You’ll survive."
The low murmur near your ear did absolutely nothing helpful for your nervous system. You swallowed and mumbled, "Easy for you to say."
One eyebrow lifted, "Why?"
Because I’ve been half in love with you for years and fake dating you sounds psychologically catastrophic.
You smiled tightly instead, "No reason." JJ held your gaze for a fraction longer before looking back towards Hotch.
"Pack for a week," he said, dismissing the meeting.
You gathered your files, the mission packet and your godforsaken wedding ring before making a determined escape for the door. Morgan caught up to you in the hallway.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"Don’t." You rushed away, but he kept pace.
"This is better than Christmas."
You rolled your eyes, "I hate you."
"No, you don’t."
Prentiss joined from the other side, "L-O-V-"
You groaned, "I need new coworkers."
Morgan grinned, "No, what you need is to admit-"
"No." You dropped your things on your desk, catching the ring last minute as it started to roll towards the edge.
"You don’t even know what I was gonna say."
"Yes I do."
Prentiss smirked, "He was gonna say you have the biggest crush in the BAU."
You huffed, stuffing the ring in your pocket, "You know, I’m going to report both of you to HR."
Then, a steady voice behind you, "Ready?"
JJ.
Your entire body straightened immediately, going into professional mode, "Yep." You nodded formally.
Morgan and Prentiss exchanged a look so obvious it bordered on offensive. So incredibly obvious that even JJ noticed, "What?"
Morgan smiled innocently, "Nothing."
JJ narrowed her eyes and then looked at you, "You packed?"
You blinked. Shook your head, "Not yet."
"Okay." She nodded once, "We leave in two hours." She started walking but then paused, looking back, "You coming, baby?"
Silence. The entire hallway froze. Morgan’s mouth dropped open, Prentiss stopped dead in her tracks and your soul quietly left your body.
JJ’s expression remained perfectly neutral and then, the tiniest smirk.
"Oh my god," Morgan whispered as JJ kept walking, not even a glance to check you were following.
You stood rooted to the floor and Morgan grabbed your shoulder as he walked past, giving it a sympathetic squueze, "You’re so screwed."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The safe house was… aggressively suburban, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it was unnatural to you.
The neighborhood was full of identical two-storey houses with identical trimmed hedges and identical little porches, each one looking like it had been copied and pasted.
It had all the classics: white picket fences, flower boxes lining windowsills, wind chimes. You stared at it all out the passenger window as JJ pulled into the driveway.
"This feels fake."
JJ switched off the engine before turning to you, "We are undercover."
"No, I mean this neighborhood feels fake." You gestured towards the house opposite, "Look at that mailbox."
JJ glanced over, "It’s a mailbox."
"It has flowers painted on it." You shrugged, feeling you had proved your point just like that.
She unbuckled her seatbelt, "Just to clarify here that you are judging a mailbox."
"What can I say? I just don’t trust it."
JJ’s lips twitched, very slightly, "You’re weird."
You turned to face her, “You like weird.” The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to throw yourself out of the car because what was that?
You shook your head, you can't be too familiar, too flirty, too-
JJ paused your thoughts halfway through as she leaned closer to you to get her bag from the backseat. She was close enough for you to catch the familiar scent of her perfume before she paused and looked at you, her expression perfectly unreadable, "I suppose I’ll have to," she said evenly, "considering we’re married."
Your brain stalled. Again.
She climbed out of the car before you had recovered enough to respond, leaving you scrambling after her with your own bag.
The moment she unlocked the front door, you stopped short. The house had been fully staged.
Photographs covered shelves, side tables and walls. Your favourite books sat neatly arranged on the bookcases as though they'd lived there for years. A pair of slippers rested beside the sofa.
It looked well and truly lived in.
Your eyes landed on a coffee mug sitting proudly on the kitchen counter.
World's Okayest Wife.
You picked it up, "Oh, Garcia." You sighed, quietly banishing it to the very back of the cupboard, to hopefully never be seen again. As you closed the cabinet, JJ appeared over your shoulder. Her laugh was soft, warm and entirely too amused.
"She’s enjoying this."
"She’s evil." You stepped back into the living room, "You know she made fake wedding photos?"
JJ froze, "What?"
You held up one framed photo. You and JJ, badly photoshopped into some random couple's wedding clothes, "It's horrifying."
JJ took the frame and studied it, "I think I look pretty good." She tilted it slightly before adding, almost thoughtfully, "You're not too bad yourself."
You choked, "That’s your takeaway?"
She shrugged, "They got my jawline right."
God, you needed a minute.
You left her looking at all the wedding photos and surveyed the house. What you saw didn't exactly settle you. You returned to JJ's side, a little frown on your face. She was looking through all the cupboards (and you couldn't help but notice that World's Okayest Wife mug was now front of the cabinet).
"There’s one bedroom." You blurted, glancing between her and the mug.
JJ glanced up, "Yes."
"Only one." You emphasised and she nodded, "You knew? One bed, JJ."
"Seems that way," She responded, sounding as calm as ever.
"That’s… less than ideal."
JJ crossed her arms, "Why is that?"
Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again because there were approximately six hundred answers to that question, and none of them were professional.
"I feel like HR would have something to say here, right?"
JJ raised one eyebrow, "We’re undercover."
"That doesn’t feel like it should be an official loophole," You grumbled.
A small smirk appeared, "There’s a couch."
You brightened, "Yes. Great. I’ll take it."
"No."
You paused, "No?"
JJ walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, crossing her legs, "You’re not sleeping on the couch."
"Why not?"
"Because you’ll complain about your back."
"I do not complain." JJ raised an eyebrow and you folded your arms, clearing your throat, "… That often."
"Exactly."
You narrowed your eyes, "So what’s your solution?"
She looked at the bed, then met your gaze again. "We share." She shrugged and you let your internal panic increase, only slightly. One bed... shared... with JJ... every night. What pyjamas had you packed again?
"Okay," you said, voice far too high. "Cool."
JJ’s mouth twitched, "You’re panicking."
"No, I’m not."
"You are."
"I’m just adapting is all." You shrugged as nonchalantly as you could, "You know, to married life... apparently."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Twenty minutes later, the first challenge arrived. The doorbell rang. You nearly jumped out of your skin.
Before this assignment, you would have described yourself as a relatively good profiler. Someone who was calm under pressure, good at thinking on your feet. Yet somehow a fake marriage had reduced you to someone who startled at a doorbell ringing.
"Neighbor." JJ said, over her shoulder.
Already? Jesus.
She opened the door to a woman in her fifties, who stood there holding muffins. Of course she had muffins, "Hello! You must be the new couple!"
Before you had a chance to react, JJ moved closer, one hand settling lightly against the small of your back.
Immediately, every functioning thought in your brain disappeared. The gesture was so natural that, for one impossible moment, you could almost believe this actually was your real life. That you came home to JJ every evening, stood beside her in your shared doorway and welcomed neighbours together, all casual.
JJ smiled at the woman, as if this came easy to her. It was like she’d been someone’s wife- your wife for years, "Hi," she said. "I’m Jennifer."
The woman beamed, then turned to you, "And you are?"
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. JJ’s thumb brushed lightly against your back. A reminder of what you were here to do. It felt grounding or overwhelming, depending on how you looked at it.
You cleared your throat, "I’m- yes. Hi. I’m... the wife. Of Jennifer." Oh my god, why would you say it like that? JJ's eyes sparkled with barely concealed amusement, and you hurried to recover, clearing your throat, "I'm Y/N."
The woman smiled wider, "Well, welcome! I’m Nancy from next door," and with that, she launched into neighborhood gossip immediately.
You did your best to follow along, nodding when appropriate, and trying to log all of this information in the event that it was important to your case. You did pretty well at pretending to listen, at least. Mostly you were focused on one thing.
JJ’s hand, still on your back, making thinking and focusing a very difficult job for you. It was quickly becoming way more overwhelming more than grounding.
Nancy finally smiled, "Well, I’ll let you settle in." Then she looked between you, "Oh! Before I forget, it's the neighborhood barbecue tomorrow."
JJ answered before you could, "We’ll be there." and with that, Nancy left. The second the door clicked, JJ’s hand dropped.
You swallowed. "That was…"
JJ turned, "Convincing, right?"
"It was something." You tried to agree, still thinking about JJ's touch and not wanting to burst her bubble. She had done a convincing job, at least, you were very convinced that you were totally in love, unfortunately.
"You did okay too... mostly," She teased.
You let out a grumble, "I'm a woman of many talents."
"Hmm, that you are." JJ laughed. And it hit you for a moment that this wasn't your work JJ, the Agent Jareau from meetings or press briefings or crime scenes. This was JJ at home, relaxed, letting her hair down.
It suited her.
Then JJ stepped closer, close enough that your breath caught, and her voice dropped, "For the record…"
You stopped breathing, "Yes?"
She leaned in slightly, so close you could feel her warmth, "I've never been Jennifer to you. You’re supposed to call me something like..."
JJ paused and you frowned, pushing her to finish her sentence, "What?"
"I don't know... baby?" Her eyes met yours, "My love? Love of my life?" You simply stared and she nodded her head to the door, "In front of the neighbors." she finished, as though that explained everything. She tilted her head. "Makes it more believable."
You were still trying to formulate a response when she turned and wandered into the kitchen.
Over her shoulder she called, "Try not to panic, sweetheart."
You stood frozen in the hallway. Oh. This mission was going to kill you.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
By day two, you had come to one very important conclusion. That was that fake dating JJ was significantly worse than you had anticipated.
Not because the cover was hard.
Actually, that was the problem because it wasn’t hard at all, it may have been the easiest 'relationship' you had ever been in.
The neighbourhood had accepted the two of you almost immediately. Apparently, convincing the locals that you were happily married required little more than sharing a mailbox, JJ resting a hand on the small of your back every so often, and calling you sweetheart in front of Nancy, repeatedly.
After all that, the grocery store should have been absolutely harmless.
Instead, you were learning that absolutely anything became dangerous once JJ decided to commit to the bit.
She pushed the cart with ease while you grabbed ingredients for dinner, a long list in your hand. You sighed, throwing a punnet of strawberries into the cart, "This is unnecessary." You complained, shaking the list in your hand. The list that still felt 100 items long. JJ didn’t even look up.
"We need groceries. Even just for a week."
"No, I mean the list." You shook it again, closer to her this time to really prove a point.
She finally glanced at the paper in your hand, "What about it?"
You waved it, "It's just so... coupley."
Her brow furrowed, "We are a couple." The two of you stared at each other fora few moments, seeing who would break first.
Then, a small smirk from JJ. You narrowed your eyes, "You’re enjoying this way too much." JJ shrugged, pushing the cart into the drinks aisle.
Five minutes later, you found yourself holding a family-sized bag of Cheetos in open disbelief, "No."
JJ glanced over, "What?"
You shook the packet at her, "Absolutely not."
"They’re good." She shrugged, grabbing some other items that were actually on the list.
"They are bright orange, dusty, radioactive snacks. Besides, we already have two bags at home."
"Yes."
"This ingredients list sounds illegal," You protested and placed them back on the shelf.
Without missing a beat, she put them into the trolley.
You took them out again.
She put them back.
You looked at her, "Jennifer."
Then, before you could answer, a voice cut through, "Nancy told me you two were adorable."
A woman from the neighbourhood (how many nosy women could live in this one neighbourhood?!) stood beside the produce display, smiling warmly at the pair of you.
Right, undercover.
You instantly softened your posture into fake-wife mode and before you could do anything else, JJ moved beside you. Her arm slipped around your waist.
The neighbor smiled wider, "How long have you two been together?"
Your mind immediately blanked, no matter how long you had been studying your case file. But JJ answered without hesitation, "Five years." Damnit, you so knew that. It was literally true in real life too.
The woman sighed dreamily, "That’s lovely."
JJ smiled, "It is. It really is."
Your heart performed several deeply unprofessional manoeuvres.
The woman looked at you, "And go on, what do you love most about her?"
What kind of question- you looked at JJ. Big mistake because she was already looking at you softly, patiently waiting. She was entirely too convincing.
God. Say something. Anything.
You swallowed, "She…" Your voice nearly failed you, "She makes everything feel easier." The woman visibly melted and JJ froze, just slightly, composure be damned.
You kept going because stopping felt worse, "She makes people feel safe," Your voice softened and your eyes are pulled to JJ's, "She remembers things everyone else misses."
JJ’s gaze changed and you registered something flickering across her face, something you couldn't quite name.
You panicked and recovered, clearing your throat, "Uh, she also steals snacks, so... she;s not always perfect. Right, babe?" You emphasised the last word that you had been amping yourself up to use, hoping it seemed natural.
The woman laughed and the cloud of tension broke, thank god. After another minute or two of conversation, she wished you both a good afternoon and wandered away. Silence settled between you.
JJ slowly lowered her arm from your waist. You hated noticing her absence, every single time.
Then, JJ spoke, quietly, "That was good." She nodded, more to herself than you.
You frowned, "What was?"
She looked at you, "What you said."
Oh, right, yes... that. You forced an awkward laugh, "Well. Had to sell it. Even got the pet name in, right?"
JJ held your gaze for half a second too long, then looked away. "Right."
Something about that felt strange, it was just a little bit too quiet.
You finished the shopping in separate aisles after that, both of you claiming efficiency when, in reality, neither of you seemed particularly interested in continuing the conversation. The drive back home passed in comfortable-ish silence.
Home. It felt weird how easy it was to say that after only 48 hours.
Dinner turned out to be exactly as dangerous as the supermarket had been. The kitchen was far too small and you both kept reaching for the same utensils. Every accidental touch lingered a little longer than it should have.
Night, however, was worse.
Because night meant bed. One bed. One shared bed. With JJ.
You stood frozen beside the mattress. JJ was already under the covers, relaxing, a book propped open between her thumb and finger.
You cleared your throat and JJ looked up, "You okay?"
"Yeah, I- I'm ready for bed so..." You shuffled on the spot for a moment before JJ pulled back the comforter and patted the empty space besider her.
"Come on in, then," You climbed into bed stiffly, trying your best to keep a very respectable amount of distance.
You ended up lying flat on your back with your hands folded neatly over your stomach. JJ glanced over and then laughed, actually laughed.
"What?"
"You look terrified."
"I’m just... sleeping professionally."
JJ smiled into her book, "That isn’t a thing."
Eventually, you both settled. Lights were turned off, a soft 'goodnight' was shared between the two of you and JJ's soft snores filled the room. You had a moment of feeling jealous at how easily she could fall asleep but, before the thought could be fully formed, you too were asleep.
Until something woke you. At first, you were too sleepy to think, the thick pull of sleep fogging your brain. You listened for any sounds but there was nothing unusual and so you opened your eyes to the pitch black. You went to turn on your bedside lamp but found you couldn't move properly. Ah, that would be what woke you, something was pinning you-
Then your brain caught up, oh no.
JJ was fully curled into your side. One arm was draped across your waist and her head was tucked against your shoulder.
You took a deep breath, careful not to wake her. Heat crept into your cheeks as one of her legs shifted against yours.
This was bad. This was so, so bad.
You were so, so screwed.
JJ mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep before snuggling even closer, somehow managing to eliminate the tiny sliver of space that had still existed between you.
You stared, eyes wide, into the darkness. There was no way you were going to be getting any more sleep tonight as your thoughts began to race.
Yes, you were completely, utterly screwed, always had been.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
By the morning of day four, you had slept maybe very little in this safe house. Most nights full of wide-eyed staring at the ceiling, contemplating it all.
JJ had spent most of every night wrapped around you. You'd gone from this is nice to this is a complete disaster sometime around three in the morning the first time it happened, and by sunrise there was no question which side had won.
The problem wasn't simply that you had feelings for JJ, that part wasn't exactly new. The problem was that pretending to be married had made everything catastrophically worse, because now you knew things.
Like how JJ frowned in her sleep and mumbled when she was having a nightmare.
You knew every part of her morning routine, from what songs she sung in the shower to how she took her toast.
Worst of all, you knew she somehow managed to look even prettier half asleep, with her hair a mess, her voice still thick with sleep and the morning light catching against warm skin.
Which all felt rather unfair, if you were being honest.
You were halfway through making coffee when Garcia’s alert sounded through your work phone, an urgent beeping that pulled both of you out of your peaceful morning routine.
"I’ve got movement." Garcia's words tumbled out, no sweet hello or time for any jokes. Every muscle in your body tensed and JJ was instantly as alert. Sleepy JJ vanished and Agent Jareau took her place.
"What do we have?"
"Black SUV." Garcia replied, "Same vehicle from the barbecue and the shopping centre. It's parked two houses down."
Hotch's voice followed a moment later, "He’s circling."
"JJ, Y/N, he's looking for routine," Rossi added. "Give him one."
Right, routine. The whole domesticity thing. Be a couple, bait him out.
JJ looked at you, and neither of you needed to say a word.
Showtime.
She reached for your hand without hesitation, her fingers slipping between yours as naturally as breathing. Your heart, even after all this time, still did something really unhelpful.
You stepped out onto the porch together with your usual coffee mugs in hand, 'World's Okayest Wife' still proudly on display.
"He's watching," Garcia said quietly through the earpiece the two of you had quickly popped in.
JJ shifted closer until her shoulder rested lightly against yours. Then she leaned in a little more, her side pressing gently against yours. You focused very hard on remembering how to breathe.
"Relax," she murmured into your ear.
You stared ahead, jaw clenched, "I am relaxed."
JJ’s thumb stroked lazily across your knuckles, "No, you’re not."
"I’m undercover relaxing." You gritted out, swearing in your head to never agree to this undercover shit again. Whilst you were vowing to commit to a life working at a desk, her shoulders shook. Was she... laughing? Now?
Psychopath.
"He's moving," Garcia warned. "Be careful."
You spotted him this time. He was in his late thirties, his cap pulled low and he was walking casually, too casually. It only made him stand out more.
Your stomach tightened.
The unsub slowed near your driveway. He was watching you, assessing his choices.
Watching.
Assessing.
JJ's fingers tightened around yours. Then, without warning, her free hand rose to your face. Before your brain had any chance of catching up, she pressed a soft kiss against your forehead.
Everything stopped. Your thoughts, your heartbeat. The world around you.
JJ had kissed your forehead.
It could have passed as something affectionate between close friends, or a simple gesture designed to sell the cover, but your heart wasn't interested in reasonable explanations.
All it knew was that JJ had kissed you.
"Breathe," she whispered. Right. Yeah, air might be important here.
Garcia’s voice sharpened, "There. A shift in expression."
"He's committed," Rossi confirmed.
"Stand by," Hotch ordered, "No one do anything stupid."
The unsub took another step, then another. Then, all of a sudden, he was too fast now. Something had changed and JJ felt it too.
You could feel the subtle change in her stance, her muscles tight, and then the unsub lurched forwards. Everything seemingly happened at once.
Your team roaring to life, the unsub sprinting towards you, knowing he had been caught and trying to make one last attempt at what he felt he needed to do.
His knife flashed in the morning light and your brain barely processed it. He was fast but JJ moved faster.
"Down!" JJ's shout came a split second before her hand slammed into your shoulder, shoving you firmly behind her. Your coffee mug slipped from your fingers, smashing against the porch as you stumbled backwards.
The knife swung and a sharp sting burned across your forearm.
Then, impact. Bodies crashed into the unsub, Morgan hitting into him like a truck, "FBI, put your hands where I can see them!"
Prentiss had his arm twisted back in seconds and the knife clattered across the concrete.
The case was over, just like that.
But none of that registered immediately because JJ was turning to you, her face stripped of every trace of composure. There was none of her usual calm or focus, just pure terror, "Were you hurt?" Her voice had raised an octave and it came out loud, harsh.
You blinked, "I-"
She was already checking you over, her hands moving across your shoulders, your arms, your face, searching for injuries you couldn't even think about yet.
"Are you hurt?" Her voice was sharper now. Breathless. You looked down and saw the thin cut that crossed your forearm, blood beginning to gather around the edges.
It wasn't deep, in fact barely more than a scratch but JJ clearly disagreed. Whatever composure she’d had disappeared, "Shit." she breathed out, gently curling her fingers around your arm. Her hold was careful but her jaw was tight enough you were afraid she may crack a tooth.
"JJ..."
"Why didn’t you move?"
You stared at her, "What?"
"You froze," her voice shook, only slightly, but noticeably enough.
"I didn’t- I didn’t see him."
JJ exhaled sharply, the sound carrying far more fear than anger. Then before you could say anything, she pulled you into her.
Your breath caught. One arm around your shoulders. One hand at the back of your head. Shielding you, holding you. You could hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing, "I've got you."
Nothing about this felt fake because nobody said that unless they meant it, not the way she had said it anyway.After several long seconds, JJ seemed to realise what she was doing. Her body stiffened, then she slowly stepped back. The warmth disappeared.
Agent Jareau returned. She was professional, composed, controlled.
As though the last thirty seconds hadn't happened.
As though she hadn't looked at you like the thought of losing you had terrified her.
She cleared her throat, didn’t meet your eyes.
"We should get that bandaged."
And just like that...
The distance returned.
Which somehow hurt more than the cut ever could.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The cut on your arm barely needed three stitches, three. That was it. Only three tiny stitches and a bandage. For four days of undercover work, you considered that a fairly decent outcome.
Morgan and Prentiss, naturally, disagreed. The pair of them had spent the better part of the last hour mocking your 'war wound,' while your own thoughts had remained stubbornly fixed on two things.
JJ had kissed your forehead.
And the I've got you.
You sat in the passenger seat on the drive back to the safe house, staring out the window while those two moments replayed on an endless loop.
The forehead kiss and then the way she had looked at you afterwards. The fear in her voice. After that, the distance she'd thrown between you almost immediately afterwards.
It left you with one impossible question. Either JJ felt something real...
...or she was the greatest actress alive.
Neither possibility was particularly comforting.
The rest of the team seemed to sense that neither of you was in the mood for company. Suspiciously, they all found reasons to disappear.
Even Rossi had given you that infuriating expression older people perfected, the one that suggested he knew exactly what was happening without anyone saying a word.
Traitors, every last one of them.
You decided to leave them to it and headed upstairs with your duffel bag, telling yourself you were packing. In reality, you folded the same three shirts over and over again. An excellent use of FBI time and resources.
Your arm stung when you moved too quickly. It wasn't enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you of her hands, her voice. I’ve got you.
God.
You needed this mission to end.
So when footsteps sounded in the doorway, your entire body tensed before you even looked up. Because of course it was Jennifer Jareau.
She leaned against the bedroom door for a moment, quietly watching you before crossing the room. Without saying anything, she picked up one of your shirts, folded it neatly and placed it beside your bag.
"You’re packing... aggressively."
You didn’t look up. Instead, you picked up the freshly folded shirt, stuffed it into the bag and pulled the zip closed with considerably more force than necessary.
"I'm tired." You shrugged, "It's... I didn't really sleep last night. Or any night for that matter."
JJ didn’t move, so you moved around her, dropping your bag at the doorway of your bedroom and hovering over it, "Yeah, you’ve been tired a lot." She sat on the bed, hands fiddling with the edge of the blanket, seemingly hinting at something.
Your jaw tightened, "Maybe because I’m really just... tired."
"No," The answer came immediately, a certainty in her voice, "No, that’s not it." You let out a sigh and she lifted her chin, eyes connecting with yours, then, "You’re avoiding me."
That snapped something in you and you straightened up, scoffing, "Funny." You murmured.
JJ frowned, "What’s funny?"
"You tell me," You laughed once, a little sharp laugh, "No, go on. Tell me more about avoiding people."
Her expression changed very slightly but enough, "Don’t do that."
"Do what?" You challenged, the lack of sleep and sudden lack of adrenaline leaving you with no ability to actually think before speaking.
"This," she gestured at you and you stood, bag forgotten now.
"What, like you? Doing this thing where you act like nothing happened?" JJ went still and your heart pounded in your chest. You were committing to this then. Great. Another terrible idea but too late now to stop. "The case is over, JJ."
She said nothing so you kept going.
"No more neighbors."
Silence.
"No more fake marriage."
Her jaw tightened.
"No more pretending."
And that landed, hard. You saw it in the way her shoulders stiffened before she slowly stood.
She stood up and, very quietly, spoke, "Is that what you think?"
You swallowed, "What else am I supposed to think?"
JJ stared at you for long enough to make your skin feel too tight, then she pushed off from the bed, towards you. One step at a time, getting closer until barely any space remained between you.
"You think I kissed your forehead because of the case?"
Your breath caught because, oh, she was angry. Not even a loud angry but worse, a quiet angry. You went to speak but she moved even closer and you stopped.
"You think I held you like that because Hotch told me to?"
Another step.
"You think I nearly lost my mind over three stitches because I’m committed to my undercover work?"
Your pulse hammered.
"JJ..."
"No," She shook her head and now she just looked frustrated. Whether it was at you, at herself, or at everything, you couldn't tell, "No, because I need to understand how someone as smart as you missed something this obvious."
You blinked, "What?"
JJ exhaled hard, as if she was trying to hold something back but then she clearly decided she was done trying. Her voice dropped, "I wasn’t acting."
You stared because surely... surely- no, "I…" Your voice barely worked. "You weren’t?"
JJ laughed once, almost offended, "No." She watched your expression for a long moment before something softer replaced the frustration.
You swallowed, hard, "JJ…"
She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head, "You really didn’t know?"
Your silence clearly answered her question and her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. She'd truly thought you knew.
"You..." Your voice barely worked. "You love me?"
JJ went completely still, processing the fact you had finally put a name to this all-consuming wall of emotion. She held your gaze and for the first time since you’d known her... JJ looked well and truly nervous.
Then, quietly, "Always have."
You frowned, "Always?"
A quiet laugh escaped her, "You’re really stuck on that word."
"JJ." Your voice held a small warning, you didn't want to go off track now. No joking, just the truth that both of you had kept to yourselves for far too long.
She smiled, a small, warm (but slightly embarrassed) smile, "First week you joined the BAU, five years ago."
"What?!"
JJ’s smile widened just a little, "You wore mismatched socks."
You blinked. Twice, "And that’s when you fell in love with me?"
She shrugged one shoulder, almost casually, like she hadn't just changed your entire life, "I admit that I loved you." A beat, "I didn’t say I had sensible reasons."
You crossed the remaining distance before thinking, your hands finding her face. Warm skin and wide eyes.
Then, you kissed her. It was soft at first, almost like you couldn't believe this was finally happening. It was as if you needed some kind of confirmation that this was actually real.
JJ kissed back instantly, no hesitation or second thought, and that was confirmation enough for you.
Her hands found your waist, careful of your injured arm, always protective, same old JJ.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard, forehead resting against forehead.
You smiled, "So..."
JJ smiled back, "So."
"I spent four days having a nervous breakdown for nothing?"
She laughed, "It wasn't for nothing."
"No?"
She shook her head, "I got to call you baby without you reporting me to HR."
You groaned, "I was almost considering it."
"I know."
"What happens now?"
JJ's smile softened, "I was thinking we try this whole dating thing."
You stared at her, "We've basically skipped to year five. I mean, we've even survived married life." You held your ring finger up to her, still adorned with the wedding band Penelope had thrown at you days ago.
"Despite how oblivious you are, we actually work quite well together," JJ smiled fondly before leaning in to kiss you again, and again, and again.
High Fever - Eloise Bridgerton x Reader (Bridgerton)
Day 3, @fluffyjuly: eloise bridgerton - ‘come lay down with me’ + alternative prompt: nursing back to health
summary: As Eloise's maid, it is your job to be there for her - through thick or thin. So, when she comes down with a fever, of course you'll stay by her side but only because it's your job, right?
Three days.
That was how long Miss Eloise Bridgerton had been insisting she was not ill, a fact you knew because she had informed you of it at least twice a day.
"I am not ill."
Yesterday, she'd announced it while sneezing halfway through the sentence. Today, she looked pale enough to compete with the wallpaper in her bedroom.
You were not going to win this argument... or not immediately, at least. Perserverance is key with Eloise.
"You've been saying that since Monday." You sighed, placing her ribbons neatly in a line on the dresser.
Eloise barely looked up from the book balanced in one hand, "Because it's true."
"Mhm, so you keep telling me."
"It is."
You crossed the room, folding the fresh dress you'd brought up from the laundry before placing it neatly across the end of the bed. You noticed that she still hadn't turned the page.
Interesting.
"You've been reading the same sentence for the last ten minutes," You pointed out and Eloise rolled her eyes.
"I've been thinking about all that has been written."
"You've just been staring." You reiterated, stupidly determined to win one single argument with her.
"I can do both."
You smiled despite yourself.
That was probably true. If there was one person capable of simultaneously reading, arguing with an author who'd been dead for a hundred years, and planning how to annoy at least two of her brothers before supper, it was Eloise Bridgerton.
Ordinarily, she would have been pacing by now. Books rarely kept her still for long before some new thought demanded to be shared, and she would leap to her feet halfway through a chapter because she had spotted a bird 'behaving suspiciously', or decided society had found yet another inventive way to disappoint her.
Today, she had barely moved.
You noticed because noticing Eloise had quietly become second nature.
You noticed when she skipped breakfast because something had distracted her. You noticed when she tied her ribbons unevenly because she had been thinking about something else entirely. You noticed when a conversation with Lady Danbury had thoroughly exhausted her, because she would sigh exactly twice before disappearing into the library.
And today... today she looked exhausted.
She rubbed absent-mindedly at one eye before immediately pretending she hadn't. Your brow furrowed, "You didn't sleep."
"I did," she immediately protested. You were sure she hardly even knew what she was protesting about but knew she had to argue her way out of something and would wholly commit to it.
"You yawned three times while saying that."
"I was just... emphasising."
"You were tired."
"I was just joking. It was delibera-" Another yawn interrupted her mid-sentence. You laughed and she finally looked up at you, "There are entirely too many people in this house determined to convince me I've succumbed to some terrible plague."
"Who else has mentioned it?" You asked, smoothing a crease in her bed spread.
"My mother."
You nodded once, "Reasonable."
"Benedict."
"Also reasonable." You shrugged.
"Hyacinth," At that, you raised an eyebrow. "She called me 'all droopy.'"
You bit the inside of your cheek, "Well..."
"Don't."
"I was merely saying-"
"I know exactly what you were going to say," She pointed accusingly at you with the book, "You've joined them."
"Eloise, it's called common sense."
"I've lost you to the other side." She sighed dramatically, tilting her head back.
You crossed to the wardrobe and quietly corrected the collar she had somehow managed to leave folded beneath itself after dressing that morning.
Sometimes, you wondered whether she did things like that deliberately, simply to see whether you would notice but of course, you always did. It was your job.
You turned back to her for one final hurrah, "You've got a temperature."
"That's your opinion."
"No, it's a fact. Pure and simple."
She rolled her eyes dramatically, "Did you know that you are relentlessly persistent?"
"I've only learnt from the best. And it is part of the job."
Something flickered across her face but it was gone almost before you could register it. Then she looked back down at her book.
"...I don't think it is."
Your hands stilled.
You were not entirely sure what she meant by that, and judging by the way she immediately hid behind her book again, neither was she.
Silence settled comfortably between you.
Over the past year, you had grown used to it.
When you had first been assigned as Eloise's maid, your conversations had begun with idle chatter while brushing out her hair before bed. Then she had started asking what you thought about books, then politics, then marriage, then why society seemed perfectly content pretending women had no thoughts worth hearing.
You had answered, sometimes cautiously. You always tried to be honest, you knew she preferred that. She had once admitted she found it refreshing, and you had never confessed that being asked in the first place felt much the same.
Most ladies barely looked at their maids. Although, it could be said that maybe Eloise looked at you rather too often.
You thought it may be because she thought your opinions genuinely mattered. Sometimes you considered that it could be for an altogether different reason, maybe the same reason your own heart skipped a beat whenever she was near.
You were buttoning the cuffs of the fresh day dress when you realised she'd gone unusually quiet.
It seemed too quiet and so you looked up. The book had slipped slightly in her hands and her eyes had closed.
"Miss Eloise?"
They flew open at once, "I wasn't asleep." She blurted out, straightening up in her chair and wiping at the sides of her mouth, fearful of drool making it's escape.
"You absolutely were."
"I was... thinking."
"You were snoring." You took the book from her hand, gently placing it down on the dresser, next to the bows.
"I most certainly was not."
You smiled, turning around and holding your hand out, "There was definitely a little snore."
"I was..." She frowned, clearly trying to invent something believable. "...contemplating."
You couldn't help laughing. She frowned but still took your hand.
"I've never known someone quite so determined to argue with the truth," You commented, pulling her up from her seated position and gently tugging her towards the bed.
That finally coaxed the smallest smile onto her face and she allowed herself to be dragged over.
"There she is," you murmured before you could stop yourself.
The smile lingered for only a heartbeat before another wave of exhaustion pulled it away. You felt her grip on your hand loosen slightly and watched, with alarm, as she appeared to tilt slightly.
Your hands dashed out, holding her at her waist, before she could properly keel over, "Eloise?"
Her breath came out shaky, hitting the base of your neck as you held her close, "I am perfectly well." You helped her to the bed, letting her sit on the edge as you took a proper look at her.
"You nearly fell over," You frowned, putting the back of your hand to both cheeks, checking the temperature.
"I simply stood too quickly," She shrugged, batting your hand away.
You gave her a look and, to be fair to her, she returned it with admirable determination.
"You've barely stood up all day."
"I fail to see your point."
"My point is that people who are perfectly well generally manage standing without letting themselves fall face down to the ground."
She hesitated and let out a wheezy huff of air, "I dislike your point."
"I suspected you might."
She stood slowly and straightened, clearly intending to prove you wrong by walking across the room.
She managed precisely three steps and then the cough caught her without warning.
It bent her double, stealing every breath before she could draw another. One hand gripped the edge of the dresser while the other pressed against her ribs, her shoulders shaking with the force of it.
You rested a careful hand between her shoulder blades, waiting until the fit finally eased. When she looked up again, her eyes watered from the effort.
"There," she managed hoarsely, "I've survived. I'm fine."
You stared at her, "I have absolutely no idea how that's meant to reassure me."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The house had settled into the kind of silence that only arrived long after everyone had retired.
You rarely saw Bridgerton House like this. By day it was full of footsteps, conversations drifting from open drawing rooms and siblings calling to one another across corridors. At night, it felt almost unfamiliar, the silence making the house seem larger than it truly was.
You had only left Eloise for a few minutes. It was long enough to fetch fresh water, another cloth for her forehead, and reassure Lady Bridgerton that, yes, her daughter had finally fallen asleep.
Or so you had believed.
Balancing the basin carefully against your hip, you nudged the bedroom door open with a quiet, "I'm back."
No answer. You frowned.
"Eloise?" Still nothing. You looked around to find that the room was completely empty, not a Bridgerton to be seen.
The covers had been thrown back in obvious haste, one pillow lying half on the floor. Her book remained open across the bed, abandoned mid-page, while the candle beside it still burned.
She could not have gone far but that didn't particulalry ease your fear too much. You set the basin down so quickly that water splashed over the rim.
"Eloise?"
The dressing room was empty, so was the adjoining sitting room.
You turned back into the bedchamber, your pulse beginning to quicken, when a movement caught your eye.
The curtains stirred gently and the balcony doors stood open.
Cold night air was drifting into the room. You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it, you always noticed everyth- No time for that. You crossed the room at once.
The wind met you the moment you stepped outside, sharp enough to sting your cheeks.
Eloise stood with one hand resting lightly against the stone wall, gazing out across the sleeping gardens and she was wearing nothing but her thin nightdress.
For one fleeting moment, the sight was almost peaceful. Then you remembered that she'd spent the day burning with fever.
"Eloise," You tried to keep your voice low and calm. She hummed without turning, "What are you doing out here?"
"I needed some air," Her words came slowly, each one sounding as though she had to think about it before speaking.
You moved closer, "It is freezing."
"I know," She turned to face you slightly, her red cheeks shining and her sweaty hair clamped down on her forehead, "It feels nice."
"It only feels nice because your temperature is far too high." You said, lightly wrapping your fingers around her arm, wincing at how obviously thin the material was.
She frowned, considering that very carefully, "I suppose..." She agreed, "It was too warm in there," She rubbed tiredly at her forehead before giving a soft little laugh, "Everything keeps spinning."
You stepped properly in front of her. "Eloise," Her gaze found yours eventually, though it took longer than it should have. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, hardly able to latch on to you.
"You look worried," She murmured.
"I am worried."
"You shouldn't be," A sleepy smile crossed her face, "I shall be perfectly well in a minute."
You reached up and pressed the back of your hand against her forehead. The power of the heat startled you. She was burning.
"Oh, god, El." You muttered and she scrunched her nose.
"Don't fuss."
You bit at your lip slightly and shook your head, "I'm afraid it's rather too late for that."
"You always fuss." She mumbled, moving her hand around your shoulder and gently cupping the back of your neck, even her hand was giving off waves of heat.
"You give me every reason to," Your voice was low as a shiver ran through your spine, whether from the biting cold of the wind, or your proximity to Eloise.
She simply looked at you and then, very quietly, she smiled, "I do like when you fuss."
Your breath caught, "Eloise..."
"You must stay." She swayed closer, her hand dropping to rest on your shoulder now, her hand running through your hair. Her words slurred together just enough to make your stomach tighten, "You always stay." The fever had her in it's grips now. You felt like crying, never before had you felt so powerless to help her.
"I do," You agreed and she nodded, apparently satisfied.
"So..." She tilted her head, "...stay."
Your eyes stung, "I'm not going anywhere."
Another tiny nod and then her knees gave way. You caught her before she struck the stone, wrapping one arm firmly around her waist while your other hand caught the wall to steady you both.
"Eloise," She sagged against you with a weary sigh, all the determination she'd clung to for three days disappearing in an instant. "Sweetheart?"
Her skin felt impossibly hot through the thin cotton of her nightdress.
"Eloise, look at me," You could hear your voice begging slightly but you weren't ashamed of it. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Hm?"
"You need to stay awake," Your voice was tinged with urgency.
Her head lolled slightly, "I am awake."
"You're barely awake."
She frowned, "You called me sweetheart."
Your heart skipped, "I..." You could blame that on the fever, right? Was that an ethical thing to do? Tell your employer she's not hearing right?
"You never..." Her eyes drifted closed again.
"No," Panic finally took hold. You tightened your hold around her, "Eloise. Sweetheart?" You guessed you were willing to try anything but she barely responded. You shook her shoulder gently.
Nothing. She wasn't unconscious (not yet anyway) but she felt frighteningly close to it. Drawing a shaky breath, you did the only thing you could think of.
"Lady Bridgerton!" Your voice rang through the sleeping house, "Anyone? I need help!"
Doors opened almost immediately and lights flared along the corridor. You let out the breath you were holding as you heard the footsteps thundering towards the room.
"What happened?" Lady Bridgerton appeared at the doorway, face drawn in horror as she took in the scene in front of her. Her daughter sprawled out on the floor, being cradled by her maid.
"She's burning with fever!" Your voice shook ever so slightly as you pulled Eloise close in, trying to share any body heat you could to keep her warm.
Lady Bridgerton reached you first, gently cupping Eloise's face while calling for maids and the physician in the same breath. Anthony was close behind, the other siblings crowding the room.
Everything that was called for was quickly brought - candles, fresh water with towels and all the blankets that could be found as quickly as they were needed.
You found both Eloise and yourself bundled in between these thick, woollen blankets, still shivering away. Voices crossed over one another but you barely heard any of them from your little stool by Eloise's bed. You found yourself lucky that no one had yet tried to evict you. It was your mission to keep your attention fixed on Eloise for as long as was needed.
You slowly noticed that, even in the grip of fever, her fingers had curled tightly into your sleeve. She was stubborn and hadn't let go.
Somewhere beneath the delirium... she still knew where to find you. And you would stay for as long as you could.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
By the third night after the balcony incident, the fever had finally started breaking (thank god) because another twelve hours of Eloise half-delirious and trying to argue with you about whether medicine was secretly poison might have finished you off instead.
You sat slumped in the chair beside her bed, your neck aching from sleeping in positions no person was ever meant to sleep in. Every bone protested as you stood, stretching carefully before glancing towards the door.
You should sleep in a proper bed, for an actually healthy amount of time for once. You'd actually even just take a solid hour of sleep if possible.
You’d barely taken two steps toward the door when-
"Don’t."
You froze and, slowly, you turned. Eloise was awake.
The feverish haze had gone from her eyes, leaving them clearer than they had been in days, though they still carried the exhaustion she clearly felt.
"You need rest," you said quietly, sneaking back to her side, pulled in by the feeling of pure relief to see her coherent again.
"So do you," Her voice was rough, the fever leaving its mark, but there was no mistaking the determination behind it.
"I'll sleep in my own room. I was just going now to-"
Eloise frowned, "No." and you smiled despite yourself.
Even after several days confined to bed, she still managed to sound personally offended whenever someone tried to disagree with her.
"Miss Eloise..."
"I do not care. And don't call me that," The words were firm, but they lacked their usual bite. They still made you hesitate.
Instead of answering, you held up a glass of water, holding it gently to her mouth. Your hand reached for the back of her neck to support her as she took a few mouthfuls of the drink.
Your mind flashed back to the balcony, her own hand at the base of your neck, her body flush to yours, the word sweetheart uttered again.
You quickly put the cup down with a thud, bringing yourself back to reality. Eloise watched your expression carefully.
"Come lay down with me," She said, no trace of challenge or joke in her tone. A simple request, or a command. But she sound almost uncertain, as though asking the question had cost her more courage than she'd expected.
You stayed exactly where you were. Every rule you'd ever learnt insisted this was a line that could not be crossed. She was your employer.
A Bridgerton.
You were-
The hesitation did not escape her notice because of course it didn't. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face before she lowered her eyes and tried again, "Please."
That single word broke down any walls you had up because Eloise Bridgerton was many things. She was stubborn, opinionated and entirely too clever for her own good. But she was not someone who asked for anything so quietly.
You nodded before you could persuade yourself otherwise. At first, you just perched on the side of her bed because that felt safer somehow. You promised yourself you would stay only until she fell asleep again.
Eloise sighed and her hand wrapped around your wrist. Very carefully, she pulled you down. You didn't put up much of a fight and you stretched out on top of the covers, still leaving what you considered a perfectly respectable distance between the two of you.
It lasted all of two seconds.
Eloise shifted towards you without the slightest hesitation, settling against your side as naturally as though she'd always belonged there.
You forgot how to breathe. Her head rested lightly against your shoulder. Her hand stayed on your wrist before sliding down, her fingers fitting perfectly between yours.
You stayed perfectly still.
"You worry too much," she murmured. You stared at the ceiling, not sure how to take that.
"You wandered onto a freezing balcony because your fever convinced you cold would cure hot,"
She was quiet for a moment, "...It seemed entirely sensible at the time."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it and Eloise shifted slightly.
"Are you worried you stayed? Here? With me?" Her eyes held a vulnerability. You wanted to say that of course you were worried. What if someone found you, what if you lost your job, what if you never saw Eloise again?
But you stayed quiet. Maybe a white lie was okay, maybe it was ethical in times like these. You found that your hand had lifted almost of its own accord, gently brushing an unruly curl away from her forehead.
"No, I'd do it every time," You swallowed the lump in your throat, "Of course I stayed."
She closed her eyes again, "I know you're scared." So much for lying, "But I am glad you're here."
The words were so soft you almost thought you'd imagined them. After a long silence, she spoke again.
"You'll stay tomorrow?"
Your chest tightened. She wasn't asking about tomorrow, not really, and you knew that. She meant after the fever, after she was well. After everything returned to normal. After right now, this moment, curled together.
You looked down at her sleeping against your shoulder, "As long as you'll have me, sweetheart."
The corners of her mouth lifted into the faintest smile, "I was rather hoping you'd say that."
Within moments, her breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. You smiled to yourself. Perhaps, just this once, there was no need to move away. Not right away.
Candlelight - Natasha Romanoff x Reader (Marvel)
unchecked unedited because it is late and i am tired, if it doesn't make sense then don't think and just pretend it does!!!
Day 2, @fluffyjuly: natasha romanoff - candlelight, 'you kept this?'
summary: When a mission goes wrong, you and Natasha Romanoff are stranded alone in a rundown safe house, where injuries, candlelight, and terrible wooden animal carvings slowly chip away at Natasha’s walls.
Falling hurt.
Something about gravity dragging you towards earth at what felt like the speed of light was deeply aggravating to the human body.
And maybe speed of light was dramatic, but it definitely felt that fast as you plummeted toward the ground.
And maybe aggravating wasn’t dramatic enough either, because the second your body slammed into the dirt, it felt like your entire skeleton shattered on impact.
You let out a low growl as you forced your palms against the ground, trying very hard not to move too fast and accidentally discover three new broken bones. Every muscle screamed in protest as you pushed yourself into something vaguely resembling a sitting position. As you pulled your leg around, or tried to, you could help let a sharp gasp of breath out.
The pain in your thigh was bright. A sharp, dazzling pain that you were hoping would quickly disappear if you tried really hard to ignore it.
It wasn’t working yet.
You winced, thinking about how spectacularly the mission had gone sideways... from the aircraft malfunction, to the whole being-shot-out-of-the-sky situation, and finally to parachuting into the middle of nowhere.
"Fuck." You heard Natasha's voice mutter from somwhere close by, quickly followed by some crashing and snapping of branches.
"Natasha?" you called, every muscle tensing despite the pain. For a moment, you kept as still as you could, ready to defend yourself if this was some elaborate trick but then she emerged through the bushes to your left.
Alive (thank god). Although she looked pissed.
Natasha held up what remained of the parachute, sunlight streaming through several very obvious bullet holes.
"Tony could really do with working on bulletproof parachutes," she muttered darkly. "What’s the point of this thing if it has three holes in it?"
You grimaced, "It was my fault they got a clear shot-"
"It’s not your fault." She dropped the parachute and clambered through the roots to your side.
"I’m sorry."
She raised an eyebrow, "You’re sorry it wasn’t your fault?" A small smirk lifted the corner of her cheek.
You huffed a weak laugh, "No, I- I just feel bad."
"I’ve seen missions go worse." She shrugged.
"That’s a relief, I guess?"
"Well," she said, slipping back into mission mode, "as long as there are no serious injuries, we find the nearest safe house and sit tight. Couple of days, max. The team will track us."
"Yeah, okay." You nodded, shifting your body slightly to prepare to move. You suppressed the urge to wince.
Nevertheless, her gaze snapped to you, "You're not hurt, right?"
"Yeah, no, it’s all good." You affirmed, shifting your weight again, hoping you weren’t grimacing as obviously as you feared. You’d already felt like you’d fucked the mission in one major way, you didn’t want to be the problem again by creating dead weight.
Natasha paused a second and then just nodded and, with a last quick glance over you, turned around. "Okay. This way. I’m pretty sure we have a safe house somewhere near us. No more than ten miles," She said, adjusting her bag over one shoulder and securing the strap across her waist. "Hopefully it’s warm. If we can stay dry, we’ll be fine for a few days.
You wonkily stood to your feet, balancing yourself and keeping yourself steady, "A few days?" You repeated and Natasha glanced back.
"What? You want out already, princess?"
You quickly shook your head, "No, I'm good, it's fine. It'll be an adventure." She snorted.
"God, you sound like a girl scout. Is that where we're recruiting from nowadays?" She paused a moment longer, shook her head and set off.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You made it maybe half a mile before your body gave up on pretending.
At first it was manageable. You survived the limping, shifting your weight to the good leg, keeping half a step behind Natasha so she wouldn’t notice the way your breath kept catching. But soon the trees blurred together as dusk settled heavier around you and every step sent another bright pulse through your thigh.
You could definitely do half a mile further.
You could for sure survive another ten steps.
Another five steps would be fine.
Another- Your foot caught on a gnarky tree root and your world suddenly tilted. "Shit!"
Before you hit the ground, a hand caught your arm. Natasha spun fast, steadying you, but the second her grip tightened around your side, the pain shot through your leg so violently that you let a small cry out.
Natasha froze, her eyes narrowing. "What happened?" She snapped out.
You steadied your breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth, before shaking your head, "Nothing." She just stared so you tried again, "Just tripped."
"Sit." She nodded to a felled tree nearby.
You began to protest, "Nat-"
"Sit."
You hadn't known Natasha long but you did know that there was no arguing with that tone. She lowered you carefully against the fallen log and crouched in front of you. Her hands were surprisingly gentle as they moved to your leg, pausing at the torn fabric of your trousers.
"You said you weren't hurt."
"I'm fine."
She pulled the fabric aside and both of you went quiet.
Blood had soaked through almost the entire upper thigh. Not catastrophic but it was enough to make your stomach turn.
Natasha’s jaw tightened. "Bullet grazed you here," she muttered, her hand hovering over your skin, "It's deep."
"It's not too bad." You shrugged, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead.
"Well, it's bad enough."
You swallowed, "I just didn't want to slow us down."
She sighed, frustrated but also concerned, "Yeah, well, you passing out in the woods would slow me down more."
"That’s… fair." You winced, either at her reaction or from the pain, who really knows?
She exhaled through her nose and from her bag she pulled a med kit, a tiny bottle and a roll of bandages. "This is going to hurt."
"Great," You steadied yourself, prepared yourself. And then the antiseptic hit. "Fuck- Natasha!"
"I warned you." She gritted her teeth, ploughing on with the first aid fiasco she'd found herself in.
You swore under your breath and muttered out, "Sadist."
Her hand pressed firmly above the wound to steady your leg. "Hold still."
You clenched your fists, breathing hard while she worked. You could barely watch as she was cleaning, checking depth, wrapping a pressure bandage around your thigh, all with efficient movements.
Eventually, she patted your knee, "All done."
You looked down. "That was your quick fix?"
"We do the proper patch-up at the safe house."
You nodded, embarrassed, "Sorry... again."
"What are you sorry for this time?" Natasha tied off the bandage and started re-packing her bag with a small smile.
"For lying."
Natasha tightened the straps on the bag, clicking the clips closed and finally looked up at you. For a second, all sarcasm disappeared. "Next time," she said quietly, "you tell me."
Then she stood and offered her hand. When you took it, her grip tightened and, even though you were standing again and stable, she didn't immediately let go.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The safe house turned out to be less of a safe house and more of an abandoned shack. You weren't going to be racing to book a stay here again any time soon. It was one room, it had a leaky roof and a rusted stove that absolutely did not work.
There was a dusty cupboard with six candles, stale crackers, canned beans, and something that might once have been soup.
Natasha looked around once and sighed, "Well..."
You lowered yourself onto the rickety cot. "Five stars."
"Be grateful. It has walls."
"And mould."
"That’s insulation." She dropped her bag and crouched down by what looked like the remnants of a firepit.
The first night was mostly silence. Rain tapped against the roof while candlelight threw soft shadows across the walls. Natasha sat on the floor cleaning weapons with mechanical focus, the gun in her hand glinting every few seconds.
You watched for a while, glad to see a different version of Natasha. A new version that you could store away in your head.
Then your eyes landed on a small pile of firewood near the stove and it sparked an idea - a memory of being younger, sitting in your grandad's lap as he whistled a tune and whittled little figurines for you to play with.
You reached for one of the smaller pieces and your knife. Natasha noticed immediately, "What are you doing?"
"Just passing time." She raised an eyebrow but didn't question any further, not yet anyway. You shaved off a tiny sliver of wood.
An hour later, wood shavings were covering your lap and you proudly held up something vaguely animal-shaped. Natasha stared and stayed silent for long enough that you started to feel a little self-conscious.
"What is that?"
"It’s a fox."
She quirked up an eyebrow and deadpanned, "It looks like a potato with legs."
You gasped. "You just don't see it."
"I have eyes."
The next day you made another and another. Each one just as bad as the last. All the while, Natasha pretended not to care, but every time you started whittling, you caught her watching.
Sometimes when she thought you weren’t looking, the corner of her mouth twitched.
And by the second night, she’d started talking more. It was small things at first, like how she hated canned beans. Or how Tony overengineered everything except the useful things. And then about how Clint somehow survived exclusively on coffee and bad decisions.
You sometimes offered stories back or childhood memories and embarrassing training mishaps.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the silence stopped feeling tense and fragile. Instead, it started feeling comfortable, like you could wrap yourself in a blanket and actually enjoy it.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
"The latest masterpiece, huh?" Natasha hums, taking the little carving into her hands and rolling it over and over deftly.
"Hmm," You respond, slightly wary of her comments the past few days. "It's a-"
"Well, it’s a donkey, obviously." She shrugs, putting it back down and going back to shovelling more food into her mouth.
You sigh, your shoulders deflating slightly, "It’s meant to be raccoon." Natasha drops her spoon with a clank and looks back up to you before dropping her bowl to the side. She slowly reaches across, stretching to get the little carving back into her hands, a small smile lighting up her face.
"A ra- what?! What’s going on with the ears, they’re massive!" She strokes a gentle finger over the 'ears'.
"I thought you were going to be nice!" You protest, wishing you had stopped with the whittling approximately 2 and a half days ago, roughly when you had first realised it was not one of your many talents - and probably never would be.
"I am being nice! It’s just... got long ears. That’s all." She lets her grin grow wider, and glances over at you, looking softer than she has been with you before. You can see as she shrugs it off, letting the grin fall slightly as she clears her throat, "Maybe just get better at it." Nat places the carving back down, this time delicately ensuring it stays on it's little wooden feet.
"I think you still need to work on being nice, just get better at that, you know?"
"I’m nice." She protested, weakly.
"You’re alright, I guess." You caught her eye, sending her a little smile. She smiled and cleared her throat, nodding her head towards you.
"How’s the injury?"
You shrug, still a little ashamed about how you had behaved earlier in the mission, it had been reckless really, "I- yeah, fine."
"If I’m bad at being nice, you’re awful at lying." She rolls her eyes a little, but makes you feel less small now and more like you're in on her joke, "Here let me have a look." She pushes forward, closer to you.
"You don’t need to do that, Nat, just-" Her hands push at the bottom of your sheets, hitching them up to your hip, "Jeez, ask a girl out first."
Natasha's hands paused on the fabric, "We’ve had a candlelit dinner three nights in a row now, I think I’m good." For a second, neither of you moved, and then she looked up.
That dry, teasing expression was still there but her eyes had changed over the last three days. It was kinder, included you more than it excluded you. It was something you could get used to.
She carefully peeled back the bandage. Her fingers were light against your skin now, much gentler than during the first patch-up.
You tried not to react (and failed).
"Still hurts?"
"No... yes. But it's survivable."
Natasha examined the wound, expression focused. "Healing well. No infection."
You nodded along to all the good parts, "That sounds good."
"It is." She nodded. Her fingers brushed the inside of your thigh as she reached for clean gauze.
Your breath caught and she paused, keeping her hand there for half a second too long.
Then a whole second.
Then- she looked up. You were suddenly very aware of how close she was. You could feel the warmth of her body and see the way her hair had fallen loose around her face. You sensed her eyes and how they kept dropping to your lips before snapping back.
"Nat?"
Her thumb brushed once against your skin and then she finished wrapping the bandage and leaned back, breaking the moment. Mostly, "I'm done," she murmured.
You swallowed and nodded, "Thanks." She gathered the supplies, but before she could fully move away, you reached out and touched her wrist. She stopped moving, "Natasha?" She turned, "You really are alright."
She gave you a soft look and a shake of the head, "Don’t ruin it."
You smiled and, for once, Natasha didn’t pull away from your touch. She simply turned her hand and threaded her fingers through yours, just for a moment. Long enough to make your heart trip over itself slightly.
Then, footsteps and voices sounded outside and both of you snapped around to look towards the door. Natasha was already reaching for a weapon.
"Friendly extraction!" a voice called. Tony.
Natasha let out a deep exhale. You just stared at the door, then down at your now-empty hand.
You had been saved.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It had been a week since you’d been hauled out of the forest and rushed straight to the infirmary.
A week of being on bed rest and of being forced to stay as still as possible, meaning no sparring. A week of physical therapy, painkillers, and endless lectures about 'taking recovery seriously.' just in case.
And, unfortunately, a week of noticing something else. Noticing how Natasha was avoiding you.
At first, you thought maybe you were imagining it and that she was probably just busy, working through some backlogs of mission paperwork.
Maybe you were reading too much into things because your brain had spent three straight days trapped in a tiny shack with her.
When the rescue had come, it had been a grab-and-go situation. There was no time for any kind of chat or goodbye. No lingering beside the mouldy couch and no packing up the last disgusting tins of mystery food.
Just extraction and you were home. You had found yourself warm and safe again. Yet, you were still somehow missing something. Or someone. So when you finally caught Natasha alone near her room, you decided enough was enough.
"Hey, Nat,"
"Miraculous recovery?" Nat grunts in your direction, meeting your eye for a fleeting moment before ducking her head.
"Yeah, I’ll be back to kicking your ass again soon." You let a half-hearted grin spread on your face.
"Sure thing." She hummed.
You let the silence linger for a moment before ploughing on, "I wanted to talk… about the mission."
She dipped her head, avoiding your eye, and cleared her throat, "Well, I should probably be heading to the gym, so-"
"It’ll be quick." You moved to stop her in her tracks, her avoidance tracks.
"I’m busy today, maybe tomorrow?"
You huffed a little, "Are you avoiding me?"
"I- no." She vehemently shook her head before looking in your eyes and softening slightly, "I’m not avoiding you. I’m right here."
You took that information in for a moment, unsure how to respond. She was right (technically), but it didn't sit well with you. You let out a small sigh, letting your eyes travel across her room, anywhere but on her. Otherwise you were in danger of reading into things too far, trying to convince yourself that maybe she still may feel some way or- your eyes caught sight of something on her shelf.
"You kept this?" Your train of thought was interrupted by the sight of a miniature carving.
"Your raccoon donkey? Yeah, it’s a memento, right? A way to remember the mission."
"You don’t strike me as the sentimental type." You murmured, rolling it around between your fingers.
She shrugged, "I like it."
Something warm, and somewhat painful, bloomed in your chest.
You carefully placed it back where it had been, "So we'll talk tomorrow?"
She hesitated, then said, "Or maybe I can do dinner, tonight?" Natasha shrugged and you just blinked for a moment.
"Tonight?" You frowned, "I- okay, yeah. Tonight."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Dinner turned out to be… confusingly nice.
Not confusing because of the restaurant. Tony had overheard some vague plans and apparently insisted on sending you somewhere 'that serves actual food and not the sad boiled chicken you two probably lived off in that shack,' which had earned an eye-roll from Natasha and a laugh from you.
No, it was confusing because Natasha was being… different.
Not wildly so. She was still herself, she was dry, sharp and effortlessly unreadable to anyone who didn’t know her but you felt that you knew her a little better now.
You noticed the things other people probably missed.
"You’re staring again," Natasha said, cutting neatly into her food.
You blinked, pulling yourself out of your own thoughts, "I’m not." She lifted a single brow and you sighed. "Okay, maybe a little."
Conversation came weirdly easily after that, it was like being back in your own little bubble. Apart from one little thing because you talked about everything except the thing sitting between you.
You covered conversations like Clint’s terrible jokes, Bruce’s increasingly passive-aggressive lab notes, Tony’s inability to respect a budget, the new recruits and even managing a little chat on training.
You managed to talk about anything but the mission, really. Anything but the shack or the way her hand had felt in yours.
However, dessert came and went (delicious by the way), the restaurant had emptied around you but still, neither of you moved to leave.
Eventually Natasha set her fork down and took a deep breath, "You wanted to talk."
There it was.
Your pulse jumped and you cleared your throat a little bit, leaning forward slightly in your chair, "Yeah." and she waited. You looked down at your hands, "When we got back… you pulled away."
There was a long moment of silence and you pushed forward before your courage could leave the restaurant.
"In the safe house, things felt…" You swallowed. "Different."
Natasha tilited her head slightly, a small nod, "They were."
You looked up at her and Natasha wasn’t avoiding your gaze anymore.
"Different how?" you asked quietly.
"It felt... simple." She let out a small sigh and you frowned. She leaned back slightly, considering her words. "In the field, there’s no noise. No meetings. No missions. No people watching. No expectations." Her voice lowered. "It's just about instincts and survival."
"And me?"
A flash of a smile, "And you." Your heart stuttered and she continued, quieter now, "You make things complicated."
That stung a little more than you expected, "Oh."
Natasha’s expression changed instantly, slightly mortified, "No." She shook her head. "Not bad complicated."
You let out a breath as she rubbed her thumb against the side of her glass, "I’m not good at this."
"At dinner?" Youasked, aiming for a little cheeky but her frown just deepened slightly.
"At…" she exhaled, almost frustrated with herself, "this." She motioned between the two of you.
Your lips curved despite yourself, appreciating the honesty but also at your current predicament. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"In the safe house, I forgot to keep distance," Natasha held your gaze now. Your breath caught and she continued, "I didn’t want to forget." She held your gaze, "But I also didn’t want to come back here and realize it was just proximity or stress.... adrenaline."
You stared, "And?" It wasn't going to end just like that, was it?
Natasha reached inside her pocket, pulling out your whittled monstrosity, she gently placed it on the table, "And then I went and kept your ridiculous raccoon donkey on my shelf."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it and she smiled.
"And every time I looked at it," she said, "I wanted to see you."
A week ago, falling out of the sky had felt like the worst thing that could happen to you.
But now?
Maybe falling wasn’t so bad after all.
Especially if Natasha Romanoff was there to catch you.
Shooting Stars - Addison Montgomery x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
it's hard to write fluff when angst is the future BUT here it is. i'm predicting a solid 4 day attempt at this challenge before my will to write crumbles once more but you never know, i may persevere for once!!
Day 1, @fluffyjuly: addison montgomery - shooting stars, ‘you will be okay’
summary: After a long, exhausting day, all you want is a drink and a bit of peace, plus maybe a chance to admire Addison from afar. Unfortunately for you, Karev has other plans.
The day had been well and truly shit. That was the only way to describe it.
Two surgeries ran over. One attending blamed you for something that wasn’t even your fault. Then the ER got slammed just as you were supposed to leave, which meant that instead of going home, showering, and pretending the day never happened, you spent another three hours getting yelled at by patients, families, and one particularly angry paramedic.
By the time you actually arrived at Arizona’s barbecue, you were running hours late and entirely on caffeine and spite. You had briefly considered not coming at all and instead going home, collapsing into bed, and ignoring your phone for the next twelve hours... but you knew yourself well enough to know that if you went home alone tonight, you’d just replay every mistake in your head until morning.
So... barbecue it was.
It was crowded in the garden. Music drifted from a speaker somewhere near the treeline at the far end of Arizona's yard, just loud enough to blend into the hum of conversation. A few pediatric nurses were gathered around the grill, loudly and jokingly arguing over burger temperatures like it was life or death. You rolled your eyes.
Fairy lights had been strung across the fence, casting everything in warm gold and making the whole place feel softer somehow. It was calm, peaceful.
You wished you could actually feel any of those things right now.
You finally sank into a patio chair with a quiet groan, taking a long sip of your beer as you tried to force your shoulders to relax. They felt permanently lodged somewhere near your ears after the day you’d had.
"Wow," You looked up to see Alex Karev standing over you, hands shoved in his pockets and an annoyingly smug grin on his face. "I didn’t know it was possible," he said, "but you somehow look worse outside the hospital."
You glared and aimed a lazy kick at his knee, missing on purpose.
"I think you’ll find," you said, nodding toward the chair beside you, motioning for him to sit, "that I am actually thriving."
He snorted, looking over as another chair scraped loudly against the patio and Cristina dropped into it beside you with an audible sigh.
"Sure thing," she said, immediately joining your conversation with an eyebrow raised at you as she appraised you. "That face screams 'thriving'."
You brushed her off, distracted by something going on further down the garden and, ever the observant friend, her eyes followed your line of sight across the garden and her eyes narrowed.
"Oh."
Karev frowned. "Oh what?"
Cristina pointed at your face, "She’s doing the thing again."
"What thing?" He frowned, leaning into your space and peering into your eyes. His close proximity brought you back down to Earth and you swatted him away, taking another sip of your beer.
"The staring."
You straightened immediately, clearing your throat, "Uh, no, I don’t stare."
Cristina let out a small huff of laughter, "You’re staring right now."
"I’m not staring." You set your jaw, deliberately keeping your eyes set on Christina in an attempt to prove your point. Then considered the fact that you were staring at Christina so maybe you should just look at Karev, or-
Cristina paused your internal monologue when she held out a hand to Karev, "Ten bucks if you can guess who."
Karev scoffed. "Ten bucks? Please. I’m not that desperate for-"
His gaze followed yours and he froze. Then he slowly grinned and let out a short burst of laughter.
"Oh."
Your stomach dropped and you firmly shook your head, focusing on your beer bottle, the label peeling off slightly at the corner. You couldn't be accused of staring at anyone if you were staring at the drink in your hand, "No."
"Oh, wow."
"Don’t, Karev."
"You’ve got to be kidding me. Easiest ten bucks I'll ever earn. You better cough up." He held his hand out to Yang as you finally gave back in to the pull you felt, letting your eyes settle over to her again. Across the garden, Addison Montgomery stood near the drinks table talking to Bailey, wine glass in hand.
Dark jeans, cream blouse and hair down. Unfair really. Very distracting.
Just completely unfair.
You sank lower in your chair. "I’ve had a bad day and I really don’t need this right now." You mumbled, feeling like a little kid being teased on the playground again.
Karev just ignored you. "Of course you like her."
You narrowed your eyes, "What does that even mean?"
He shrugged, "Well, she’s kind of an ass-"
"Hey, if I was into assholes, you’d be top of my list." You grumbled, shooting him a glare again. You seemed to be doing a lot of that recently. Maybe you needed a better attitude to life. Ah well, there's time for that, today sucks enough to be grumpy.
"I'm saying… she’s alright. For an attending. That’s all I’m saying. Older than you but... who am I to yuck your yum?"
You groaned, "Please don't ever say that again. I really hate this conversation."
Cristina crossed her arms, "Have you even spoken to her?"
"Yes."
Karev barked out a laugh, "Liar."
"I have." You leant back in your chair, finishing your beer, eyes on the look out for another one - anything to escape this conversation.
"When?"
You hesitated.
"…Around the hospital."
Cristina raised a brow, "Around?"
You leaned over to an ice box, grabbing another drink and waving Yang away, "You know. Corridors. Elevators. She gave me a coffee once. I think it was meant for someone else... but I still drank it so-"
Cristina stared. "That is so sad."
Karev nodded. "I think you just described having a coworker you exist near."
"You guys suck."
Karev suddenly leaned forward, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. You recognized that look instantly. A look of trouble. He was going to do something stupid. He was going to do something stupid... in your direction. You watched as he glanced down at your chair leg, to somewhere behind you, and lifted his leg.
"Karev, no-"
Too late. His foot slammed into the front of your chair, his foot landing on the edge and the chair jolted backward. Your new beer launched straight into the air and the cold liquid poured down your front.
"What the hell?!"
Cristina burst into peels of laughter. Karev leaned back, far too pleased with himself.
"You were saying you had a shitty day," he said. "I had to put things into perspective."
"You absolute-"
"Are you okay?"
Everything stopped and your heart nearly stopped with it. That voice, warm, smooth and familiar. You turned around to see Addison was standing right there, looking directly at you.
At your soaked shirt.
At Karev.
At the puddle of beer beneath your chair.
Then her gaze settled on Karev. One eyebrow lifted. “Karev.”
He straightened.
"She was complaining she was too hot."
You whipped around.
"I did not-"
Addison’s gaze sharpened, "So you kicked her chair?"
Karev raised both hands. "I carefully… helped her to-"
"You kicked her chair."
"So what? She’s fine. Right?" He shrugged. Addison gave him a look so sharp it could have cut glass and Karev cracked, "…Right. Sorry, I guess," he said and, upon facing you, a twinkle set in his eye and he winked at you.
Addison had already turned her back to him, missing his grin, and focused on you, immediately softer. "Come on."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
By the time you reached her car, your pulse still hadn’t settled.
You changed into the soft pullover she handed you, a soft, navy, and much-too-big pullover, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that it smelled like her.
When you were done, Addison climbed into the open trunk and patted the space beside her. "Just sit for a moment."
You hesitated but eventually the pull was too much and you found yourself sat beside her.
The street was quiet compared to the party. Music drifted faintly from the yard, softened by distance. Addison tucked one leg beneath herself and looked at you.
"So."
You exhaled. "So?"
She studied you for a long moment, eyes steady on your face.
"You okay?"
You attempted a self-conscious laugh, just about fighting the urge to completely brush her off, but decising to settle on middle ground - some truth. "I had a bad day. Karev was just trying to cheer me up." Her mouth twitched and you felt like you had to defend him, only slightly. "He has good intentions."
Addison gave you a look and took in a deep breath, "I think we may be thinking of different Karevs."
Despite yourself, you smiled. "Hmm, fair."
Her expression softened. "So. A bad day?"
Your shoulders sagged, "It’s nothing new." You shrugged a little but she waited.
That was the thing about Addison, she never rushed a silence. Never filled it just to make herself comfortable. And eventually, the words came.
"It’s just… the OR was a mess. The ER was even worse. I got blamed for things I didn’t do and everyone needed everything all at once and I just…"
Your voice caught and you swallowed hard. Crying in front of anyone was one thing but crying in front of the women that could have you wrapped around her little finger? Pure embarrassment.
"I don’t know," You gave a weak laugh. "...I think I’m just tired."
Addison was quiet for a moment. Then her voice softened, "Hey."
You looked up. Her eyes held yours, they were steady, warm and impossibly gentle.
"You will be okay."
The words hit harder than they should have and then your eyes burned instantly. "Oh no."
Her brows lifted. "Oh no?"
You laughed shakily. "I think I might cry, just a little bit." You scrunched your nose up as your eyes prickled with tears already forming.
"That’s okay." Her thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear and her whole expression shifted, softening even further. She hummed, her voice came out quiet, almost a whisper, "You really don’t see it, do you?"
Your brow furrowed, "See what?"
She exhaled through a small smile, "You’re actually going to make me say this out loud, huh?" Your pulse kicked lightly. She looked away for half a second, almost amused with herself, "God, I feel like I’m sixteen." She muttered under her breath.
You blinked slowly. "What?"
"Like I'm some lovesick teenager trying to confess to the girl she likes."
Your brain stopped completely. "…What?" And Addison looked back at you, only honesty in her steady gaze.
"I like you."
You stared, your brain feeling like it was short-circuiting slightly, "No, I don't... think so?"
She blinked, her head tilted to one side, "You don't... what? What does that even mean?"
"It means it doesn’t seem possible."
"And why exactly is it not possible?" She asked, a small grin forming on her face.
You made a helpless gesture between the two of you, "Because you’re Addison Montgomery."
She stared, her eyes sparkling through her smile, "That is... not an explanation."
"Okay. Fine. From my perspective, you are beautiful, terrifying, brilliant, and half the hospital is either in love with you or afraid of you."
She narrowed her eyes, "I'm not terrifying." You gave her a look and she sighed. "Fine. Occasionally intimidating."
You ignored the alteration to your own statement and forged on.
"My point is, why would I think you like me?"
Addison stared at you for a moment like she genuinely could not believe this conversation was happening. Then she said, very slowly, "Because I flirt with you."
Your jaw dropped, "You do not."
"I absolutely do." She folded her arms. "In the elevator last Thursday, I told you your scrubs were distracting."
You frowned and shook your head, "Because they had blood on them." She just stared and gently shook her head right back at you. Your mouth opened. And closed.
Oh.
Addison continued, sounding almost exasperated now. "I bring you coffee."
"You bring lots of people coffee."
"No, I really don’t." She shifted closer, just enough that the space between you suddenly felt very noticeable. "When you speak in patient conferences, I listen to what you’re saying, not because I have to, but because I want to hear what you think."
Your breath caught.
"When we’re in surgery together, I notice everything." Her voice had gone lower now, quieter, more intimate. "I notice when you’re tired, even when you insist you’re fine. I notice when you’re stressed because your entire posture changes like you’re turning inwards, trying to protect yourself."
You couldn’t move.
Could barely breathe.
"I know when you’re happy, too," she continued, softer now. "Because you get this little crease beside your left eye when you smile properly. Not the polite smile you give colleagues, the real one." She gently places her finger near your temple.
Her gaze flicked over your face with pure tenderness.
"I know exactly how your eyes change when you’re overthinking something. They get distant for a second, like you disappear into your own head."
She lifted her other hand slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t. Her fingertips brushed your cheek.
"And you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re anxious." Then, your entire body went still because she was right, and you were doing it now. You pushed your cheek out from between your teeth.
Addison’s thumb brushed once near your jaw, her voice softening into something almost impossibly gentle. "I notice you." She paused, searching your face like she needed you to understand. "I notice when you walk into a room, even when I’m in the middle of something important. I notice when you’ve skipped lunch. I notice when you pretend you’re okay because you don’t want to burden anyone."
Her eyes shone with raw honesty now.
"And I notice that you keep looking at me like I’m something unattainable, something distant, when the truth is…" She swallowed. "I have spent months trying to get your attention."
A tiny, disbelieving laugh escaped you. "What?"
"I always notice you."
Eleven - JJ x Reader (Criminal Minds)
a/n: i re-read to edit (not very well but anyway) and realise i have called jj 'soft' like a bajillion times but i will not change because she IS SOFT okay? so, sorry for the repetition -- i also realised pushing this trend of '5+1' to '10+1' is A LOT and how many times can you write two people dancing around the fact that they love each other ?!?!?! but ah well, so be the prompt and i still enjoyed it!!! hope you guys do too!
summary: A classic. 10 times something almost happened + the 1 time it did.
Part of May Prompts: Day Eighteen, eleven
1.
You sit on the curb outside the abandoned warehouse. The Miami heat is pressing down in waves and sweat slicks your skin. The day had taken a turn you never would have guessed at, and your guesses have grown to be pretty wild since your work began with the BAU.
Your sleeve is stained dark red. It's not your blood, but it still unsettles you. The coppery smell sticks to your nose. You’re shaking from adrenaline, every muscle tense, but the aftershock makes your hands tremble uncontrollably.
You can't get the picture of the bloody scene out of your head. The victim bleeding out, begging you for help, grasping at you like you were a lifeline. You should ahve been. You shake your head. It's all too much.
You try to breathe through it, slow in, slow out, but the world still feels too sharp, too loud. The noise of footsteps and radios fade into a distant hum behind your closed eyes. It’s like you’ve left your body and are watching from somewhere else, and that somewhere else is fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.
Then you feel her.
JJ’s crouching down beside you before you even open your eyes. She’s calm, steady. She's the anchor you didn’t know you needed right now. She pulls a bottle of water from her gear and holds it out. Your hand closes around it and you send her a short nod of thanks, hardly able to look her in the eye.
Her other hand reaches up, gentle and warm, brushing a streak of grime mixed with blood from your cheek. The touch is electric, yet soft enough to make your breath hitch. You lean into it, your eyes fluttering open to meet hers.
"You’re okay," she says softly, voice low but certain. "I’ve got you."
Her words seep into you. You want to believe her, want to sink into the safety she offers. For a brief moment, you imagine the way her hand might feel sliding down your jaw, the way her lips might press lightly against your skin, just for a heartbeat.
Her face is inches from yours, every breath shared. You almost taste the faint scent of her shampoo, something crisp and clean beneath the grit of the day. She looks at you with that steady, unflinching gaze. A gaze that is full of care and something more, something unspoken.
You nearly reach out, fingers trembling, to pull her closer. You nearly close the distance between her lips and your cheek.
But then there's a sharp, sudden slam of a car door breaks the spell. She pulls back immediately, hands dropping to her knees, eyes flickering away for just a second before she looks back.
"Drink," she says instead, pushing your hand to lift the bottle to your lips.
You swallow, and the moment is gone. The weight of everything still hangs heavy, but now there’s an undercurrent of something fragile and new.
You want to ask her what that was. Want to tell her how you almost felt that spark. You also want to truly let her in and tell her you've never seen anything like what you've seen today. That you need her now more than ever. But the words catch in your throat. The blood and horror clogging it shut.
The team is moving again, voices calling your names. You stand slowly, knees weak but steady, glancing at JJ who is already back on her feet, scanning the scene with the same professional focus she always carries.
But when your eyes meet, there’s a quiet understanding.
You’re not okay, not really.
But she’s got you. And maybe that’s enough for now.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
2.
It's a few weeks later. The steady hum of the airplane engine is oddly soothing after the chaos of the last case. You lean your head slowly against JJ’s shoulder, eyes heavy with exhaustion that slips in despite yourself. The rush of the investigation finally fades, replaced by the pull of sleep.
You feel JJ’s body shift just slightly beneath your cheek, warm and steady. The scent of her settles around you. Her breath is calm and even, her presence steadying in the cramped space.
You close your eyes, letting yourself drift. The subtle rise and fall of her breath becomes a gentle rhythm, it lulls you and makes you feel safe. You don’t quite realise you’ve fallen completely asleep until a quiet snap and a soft giggle breaks through the airplane’s noise.
Your eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim overhead light. Penelope’s unmistakable grin is the first thing you see, phone in hand, her voice barely above a whisper but full of mischief.
"Well, well, look who finally crashed." She turned her phone to you and wiggled her eyebrows, "This is going in the scrapbook."
You straighten quickly, a blush creeping up your neck as you glance at JJ. She’s sitting very still, her eyes fixed on the tiny screen in Penelope’s hand, lips twitching into a soft smile.
"Delete it, Garcia," JJ whispers, voice calm but firm.
Penelope lets out a laugh, throwing her head back slightly, "Delete? Honey, this is evidence of true lo-"
"Pen." JJ interrupts her, giving a soft shake of her head. Garcia just hums to herself, never losing her smile.
You want to sink down into your seat and disappear, but JJ’s hand finds yours under the tray table, fingers curling around yours like a silent shield.
You squeeze back, heart racing. You'd confess to her then, in that moment. If it weren't for the insecurity holding you back. And the team's presence. And... probably more reasons than you would care to count.
Penelope’s teasing fades into the background as you rest your head back on JJ’s shoulder, feeling, again, completely safe.
The world outside the airplane windows stretches vast and dark, but here in this small space, with JJ’s steady presence beside you, it feels like the safest place in the world.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
3.
The bar is dim and quiet. The day has stretched you thin. It had been purely long hours chasing leads, piecing together fragments that never quite fit. Your body aches, but it’s your mind that’s truly tired.
JJ slides onto the stool next to you, ordering two drinks without a word. The bartender sets them down in front of you both, and for a moment, you just sit there, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass.
She watches you with something that catches you off guard - it's all soft around the edges. "You okay?"
You take a slow sip, the bitterness of the drink spreading throughout your chest. "I’m fine."
"Yeah?" Her voice is gentle but firm. "You don’t look fine."
You laugh, a little bitter, just like the drink. "Should I be offended?"
"I'm- It's just that I want you to know I'm here for you." She bumps her shoulder softly to yours and then lets it rest there.
"You worry a lot."
JJ shrugs, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It’s part of the job. And part of caring about you."
The words hang between you, charged and vulnerable.
You meet her gaze, and it’s like the whole bar disappears. "I know. I just… don’t want to be the person who makes you worry."
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "It's a good thing really. I worry because I want you safe. Because I want you here, with me," She hesitates, brief but it is there, "with the team." She continues.
You swallow, heart pounding. "It’s scary."
"Yeah." She nods, eyes glinting with something unspoken. "But worth it."
You clink your glasses gently, and she smiles. "To surviving."
"To surviving," she echoes.
You almost say more here in this bar. About how much you need her, how you’re terrified of what’s growing between you, or perhaps what you're not allowing to grow between you, but instead, you change the subject.
"So, when do you think we will get a break?"
JJ chuckles softly, the tension easing just a bit. "Not anytime soon, that's for sure."
You grin despite yourself, the moment slipping away. But you carry it with you, the almost confession, the warmth, the hope.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
4.
You had finally caught a break. And it just so happened that this break coincided with a unit wedding. You'd all been invited to an agent's wedding, someone from in the office beside you in the BAU. The reception was already in full swing by the time you found JJ.
Warm light filtered through the old windows of the vineyard’s converted barn, casting soft gold across the polished wood floor. Laughter floated through the air. This felt so rare for a team that carried so much.
You’d seen her earlier during the ceremony, seated two rows ahead, blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ear, the silhouette of her dress elegant and quiet. She hadn’t seen you arrive, but you had noticed the way her shoulders relaxed when the vows began, as if the reminder of love existing and surviving had softened something in her.
Now, as she crossed the dance floor and found you by the edge of the room, she looked like something out of a dream. The midnight-blue dress clung just right, subtle and stunning, the kind of beautiful that didn’t need to try. And her smile, when she reached for your hand, was shy but real.
"They’re playing the slow stuff now," she said, almost too casually.
You blinked, your mouth parting. "And is that your way of asking me to dance?"
She tilted her head, amused. "That depends. Are you going to make me beg?"
You laughed, breathless, surprised at how easily she could still undo you with a smile. "Not tonight. I should warn you I have high standards. I danced with Emily earlier and she's risen the bar by quite a bit." She grinned and you let her take your hand. Her palm was warm against yours, her touch gentle but sure. She guided you to the floor just as a slow, honey-smooth song began to play. It was one of those soft acoustic tracks that made time feel slower.
You moved together without speaking, arms folding naturally around each other. JJ’s hand settled at the small of your back, her other holding yours loosely but securely. You could feel the tension in her slowly melt away, like warmth soaking into you both.
"You clean up nice," she murmured, gaze soft as she looked up at you.
You smiled, teasing. "You almost sound impressed."
She didn’t look away. "I am." Her voice was quiet, intimate in a way that made your pulse flutter. Then she added, barely above a whisper, "But you know me... I always am."
It hit you then, the weight of her words. The way she said them like a secret she hadn’t meant to share, or maybe had meant to, just not like this.
You didn’t reply, not with words. You just looked at her, long enough that she started to blush and glance away. You wanted to say everything: I notice you too. I’m always watching you across rooms, in briefing sessions, in the way you worry about all of us more than you let on. I’ve loved you quietly for so long I don’t remember what it felt like before.
But someone brushed past too close, jarring the moment. You both stepped slightly apart, your bodies still touching but your bubble broken.
She didn’t meet your eyes again, not directly.
Instead, she rested her head lightly against your shoulder, and you closed your eyes to memorize the feel of her there, how natural it felt, how right. The music played on. Your feet moved gently with hers. And it was enough, for now, just to hold her. To let the quiet weight of almost fill the space between your heart and hers.
You would hold this night close. The song. The way her voice trembled when she told you she was impressed. The way she didn’t need to say the word beautiful for you to feel it humming underneath her every glance.
And the way, if you hadn’t been so afraid of ruining the fragile thing between you, you might have kissed her right there, in the golden light, surrounded by strangers and music and maybe-miracles.
But you didn’t.
You just kept swaying, letting her stay close, memorising the way she felt in your arms. Because you were still waiting for the moment that would finally tip everything over the edge.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
5.
You’re still in your Kevlar when the clock ticks closer to midnight.
The BAU bullpen is quiet, the kind of quiet that always follows a long, soul-draining case. Everyone should be home. No one should be working on New Year’s Eve. But the case wrapped late, and no one had the energy to do much more than change into clean clothes and gather upstairs.
You and JJ are the first to be ready. It's 11:55 and you are sure the rest of the team are going to miss the new year. But it feels safe with JJ here. She’s leaning against the wall beside the BAU doors, arms crossed, her profile lit up by the blinking red digits of the wall clock.
You step outside with her, breathing in the crisp December air. It's colder than you expected, and your jacket’s still inside, but you don’t want to go back in. Not when she looks like this, her hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks pink from the wind.
You manage to avert your eyes, checking your watch as an excuse: 11:57.
"They say how you spend midnight sets the tone for your year," you say, just to fill the silence.
JJ glances sideways at you, smiling faintly. "So… freezing outside the Bureau after a murder-suicide? Sounds promising."
You huff a laugh, the breath visible in the cold. "Maybe we should focus more on the present company than the vibes."
She looks at you fully then. And the smile doesn’t leave her lips, it just softens.
"You think?"
"Yeah, I think," you say, smiling.
You glance up and suddenly, fireworks crack the sky open above the city. Loud bursts of color and sound scatter the quiet. Reds, blues, golds. It’s jarring, a little surreal, but you can’t take your eyes off it.
Neither can she, or at least that's what you think. She’s not watching the fireworks. She’s watching you.
Your heart stumbles. There’s something in her gaze, it's open, intense, full of all the things she doesn’t say.
Your fingers brush against hers. She doesn’t pull away. Her breath fogs in the air between you, slow and steady.
You step closer.
She doesn’t move.
Your chest brushes hers with every breath, and your hand finds the side of her coat, gripping the fabric near her waist. You tilt your head just slightly, just enough that your nose grazes hers.
Her eyes flutter shut.
And then-
"Happy New Year!" Morgan’s voice cuts through the night, loud and oblivious.
You jerk back like you’ve been burned.
JJ blinks fast, clearing whatever had just clouded her expression. The moment shatters like glass, fragments of something that almost was.
The rest of the team spills out of the building, Garcia in a glittery jacket, Emily holding champagne in paper cups, Reid offering scientific trivia about the origin of fireworks. Laughter rises into the night. Music blares from a car stereo somewhere nearby.
JJ takes a small step back, her arms wrapping around herself. You shove your hands in your pockets. She doesn’t meet your eyes.
Garcia flings an arm around your shoulder and hands you a cup of champagne. "You almost missed it!"
"Almost," you echo, gaze flicking to JJ. "Seems to be a theme."
Garcia doesn’t catch the undertone, but Emily does. Her eyes narrow slightly as she looks between you and JJ. She doesn’t say anything. Just smirks knowingly and sips her drink.
JJ retreats toward the edge of the group, slipping on her quiet, polite smile like a mask she’s worn too many times before.
You don’t follow.
Not yet.
Instead, you take a sip of the lukewarm champagne, watching fireworks burst and fade in the sky, beautiful and gone before you can really appreciate them.
Later, when everyone’s started to drift home and Garcia’s hiccuping over a resolution list no one asked for, JJ finds you again.
You’re sitting on the steps outside the Bureau, arms braced on your knees.
She sits beside you. Doesn’t speak for a while.
Then, softly, "Sorry, about earlier- I..."
"Yeah, no, completely." You agree, just to fill the silence really, but you're not entirely sure what you are agreeing with.
"I think we just kind of got swept up... by it all." She doesn't look at you.
"Oh?" You fidget, "Right, yeah. I know what you mean. Big case, big fireworks, new year... all that stuff." You nod along as if what you're saying and what you actually feel has any connection or meaning here.
"Happy new year, Y/N." JJ puts her hand on your shoulder as she stands up and lets it linger there for a few moments.
You try to smile as she leaves, "You too, JJ."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
6.
You were trying to act like everything was still normal, like you were okay. You thought you'd done an alright job so far. Nothing felt too weird since the almost-kiss and you thought you may have gotten away with it. You had taken the time to retreat in private and lick your wounds.
And besides, most of the time, you were never alone with JJ.
Clearly, this time, you were out of luck.
But it felt just like old times, maybe you could relax a little back into this friendship.
The apartment was quiet except for the flickering glow of the TV, the sound of a horror movie droning softly in the background. The rest of the team had bailed on movie night, either exhausted or caught up in other things, but you and JJ had forged on.
You felt the buzz of wine warming your cheeks, the kind of soft, relaxed feeling that only comes when the world slows down enough to let your guard down. JJ was curled up beside you on the couch, her head resting lightly on your shoulder. Her sock-covered feet were tangled with yours beneath the blanket, and you could feel the steady rhythm of her breath against your skin.
She sighed, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Why do we always pick the worst horror movies?”
You glanced over at her, catching the sparkle in her eyes that had nothing to do with the movie and everything to do with being here, now, back together.
You turned your head slowly, meeting her gaze. She was already looking at you, her eyes soft and warm, the kind of look that still made your heart skip, even though you knew it shouldn't.
For a long moment, the only sound was the movie’s eerie soundtrack and the occasional creak of the apartment settling around you. Then JJ spoke, her voice a whisper, "You know, I never get tired of this."
You swallowed hard, feeling the words settle deep inside you. "Me neither."
She smiled shyly, brushing her fingers against your hand, sending an unexpected jolt through your entire body. The closeness was electric, and suddenly the space between you felt charged once more with all the things neither of you dared say aloud.
The movie played on, but your focus was entirely on JJ, the way her lips curved in that soft smile, the way her eyes held yours with unspoken meaning. You felt the warmth of her body pressed against yours, steady and reassuring.
The night stretched on, full of quiet moments and the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need words. Every glance, every touch was a promise waiting to be fulfilled, a secret kept between just the two of you.
As the credits rolled, you found yourself leaning into her again, heart pounding, breath catching. JJ’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.
But then her phone buzzed on the table and she laughed softly, pulling back just enough to break the spell. "Bet you it's Pen with major regret on missing out."
"Well, I'm glad you didn't bail." You smiled, giving her space to read her message, not wanting to press in on her personal space. "It's- I'm glad I have you as a friend." You winced slightly, did that seem too obvious? Did she now know you clearly did not want to be friends with her? "I mean-"
JJ's head snapped up slightly and an eyebrow quirked up, "Yeah, one hundred percent." She smiled and shifted on the sofa, typing out a reply on her phone, "I'll always be here for you- for whatever you need."
You let out a breath and turned the TV off before stretching out on the sofa, not sure you could trust your voice to correct your previous fuck up without making it ten times worse.
Eventually, JJ had walked you to the front door and pulled you close, "You get home safe, you hear me?"
"I'll text you." You nodded, hardly able to look her in the eye as your mind was on other things. You were already preparing to kick yourself the whole way home for the stupid comments your brain manages to produce. She does not like you like that. If you could just repeat that mantra enough times, it was bound to stick, right?
xxxxxxxxxxxx
7.
This time, it starts with a bottle of wine (or two) and a night that goes sideways.
Garcia had planned a team dinner, her usual bright, glittery affair, full of mismatched cushions and rainbow-coloured charcuterie boards. But then a case came through and almost everyone was pulled in five different directions before dessert could be served. Everyone, that is, except you and JJ.
You had both managed to sneak away early. Garcia insisted you take the wine she'd picked especially for the night, waving you off with a wink and a "Have fun, my little delinquents."
So here you are, hours later, curled up (again) on JJ’s couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket (again), both of you more than a little tipsy and flushed (again). The second wine bottle is nearly empty. Her living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp, and some quiet folk song hums in the background from her speaker.
She’s leaned back beside you, hair down and loose, eyes a little glassy from the alcohol and the hour. You think she’s never looked more undone. Or more beautiful.
You’re warm in that way where your thoughts start spilling out without warning. Dangerous. Familiar. The kind of spilling out you have been trying desparately to keep in. But you are way too drunk to remember this in the morning so... who cares?
"I like your stupid throw pillows," you mumble, nudging one that says Wine Not? with your foot.
She lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating in your shoulder where her head is resting. "That’s the wine talking."
"Maybe," you say, tipping your head toward hers, "I also like your face."
JJ snorts, then lifts her head to look at you. "Are you drunk?"
"Definitely, but I’m not blind," you counter, grinning. "You’re really pretty and I didn't mean to say that you're my friend." You rush out, "I don't want to be your friend. I want... more. And I want you to want that too." There's a moment of silence and you think... fuck it, let's go all in, "And I should have kissed you on New Year's."
Her smile falters just slightly. Just enough that something shifts. She studies your expression with more seriousness than the moment deserves.
"You’re very drunk," she says softly. "You won't remember this."
You lean your head against the back of the couch, closing your eyes for a second too long. "That doesn’t mean I’m wrong."
She exhales. "If it helps, I agree."
You blink your eyes open at that, you are drunk and things are muffled and you're not entirely sure what is real and what is not any more, "Wait… what? With what?"
JJ shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "Nothing. Bed."
You groan. "You can’t just say something cryptic and then send me to bed like I’m a toddler." Your eyes close again, the alcohol in your system preparing you for shut down.
"You’re not a toddler," she replies, standing slowly, balancing herself by putting a hand on your shoulder. "You’re a drunk profiler who doesn’t know when she’s about to say something she can’t take back."
You look up at her, blinking slowly. "I’d never take it back."
There’s a silence that settles then. Soft and heavy. Her hand is still on your shoulder. She’s looking down at you like she might say something else, something that could change everything.
Instead, she just says, quietly, "Come on. You’ll thank me in the morning."
You let her help you up, even though every part of you wants to stay in the warmth of the moment, clinging to the almost.
She leads you down the hallway to her guest room, flicking on the bedside light with the same kind of careful gentleness she always uses with you. She tosses you a soft T-shirt from a drawer, something lived-in, something that smells like her shampoo and something else warm and safe.
"You okay to change?" she asks, hovering in the doorway.
You nod. "Yeah. I think so."
JJ lingers. Like she doesn’t want to leave just yet.
Then, finally, she offers a small smile. "Sleep well."
As she turns to go, you call after her, voice barely above a whisper.
"JJ?"
She pauses.
"If I wasn’t drunk… would you have kissed me?"
She hesitates for longer than you expect. Then she glances back at you, eyes unreadable in the low light.
"Go to sleep," she says again, but softer this time. Like she wishes the answer were different. Like she wants you to ask again in the morning when your heart is still brave but your mouth isn’t slurring.
And then she’s gone.
You sit on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slowly around you. You don;t manage to change into pyjamas in the end, too drunk to even attempt it. Instead, you bury your face in the fabric of the new shirt. You don’t sleep for a long time. Your mind keeps playing back her voice, her hand on your shoulder, the almost that hangs there between her words.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
8.
It's been a few weeks. You've been trying to balance the feelings you have for JJ, the bits and pieces of memory of that night after Garcia's party, and the way that she has been handling you since - still soft, loving in a way, but maybe more distant. You wish you could remember what happened properly, what had made her change.
You had probably said something stupid, you often find yourself doing that around her.
It's been a tough couple of days, you're hardly sleeping. Normally, you would immediately call JJ - the perfect parnter of insomnia. But this time you haven't, not yet.
You don’t remember falling asleep. Just remember waking up, sweat-soaked, tangled in sheets, heart in your throat.
Your mind is a battlefield. The dream is already slipping through your fingers, but the fear lingers like smoke. Blood. Screaming. The sound of JJ’s voice calling your name, distant and desperate. And then silence.
You sit up fast. The room is too quiet. Your hands are shaking.
You reach for your phone without thinking about the past, without even checking the time. The contact is muscle memory.
JJ.
It rings twice before she answers. Her voice is sleepy but alert beneath it, like she’s already preparing for the worst.
"Hey… you okay?"
You don’t speak right away. Can’t. The sound of her voice cracks something open in your chest. You inhale sharply, trying to keep it together.
"Hey," she says again, gentler this time. "What’s wrong?"
"I…" You close your eyes. "I didn’t know who else to call."
There’s silence on the other end for a beat. Not hesitation, just quiet understanding.
"You did the right thing," she says, already moving. You can hear it, the rustle of her blankets, the creak of a floorboard. "I’m on my way."
"I didn’t ask you to-"
"You don’t have to."
You grip the phone tighter, grounding yourself in her voice.
"I don’t want to be alone."
There’s a pause, just long enough that you think maybe you said too much.
Then, steady and sure, "You’re not."
She’s at your door twenty-two minutes later.
You open the door and she’s there in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair pulled back, keys still in her hand. No makeup. No pretense.
Just JJ.
Her eyes sweep over you quickly, gently. "Bad dream?"
You nod.
She steps in without waiting to be asked. You close the door behind her and the lock clicks into place. You don’t speak again until you’re both seated on your couch, knees almost touching. There’s a blanket across your lap. JJ’s brought two mugs from your kitchen although neither of you really drinks the tea.
"I was bleeding," you say quietly, staring down at the untouched mug. "In the dream. It was my blood. You were trying to stop it. And I was trying to tell you it was okay, but you couldn’t hear me."
JJ doesn’t speak. She just nods, her eyes on yours.
"And then it got quiet. Too quiet. Like the end of a case when it’s over but not really. And suddenly you weren't there and I didn’t know if you made it out. Or if-"
Your throat closes a little. You hadn’t meant to say all of it. You hadn’t meant to say any of it.
But JJ reaches out, her hand finding yours under the blanket. Her thumb traces the back of your knuckles slowly.
"You’re safe," she says. "I’m here."
You want to believe her. The last few days, it hasn't felt like she's there. It feels like she's pulling away. You don't know how to say that part of your fear, you've already said enough.
You want to sink into her voice and pretend that the dream wasn’t a mirror of something real. That you haven’t come too close too many times. That JJ hasn’t nearly died for you more than once. You can't handle her giving you some space, let alone leaving you completely.
"I just think I’m falling apart," you whisper.
"No, you’re not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you," she says simply. "And I’ve seen you hold yourself together when no one else could. I’ve seen you take hits no one else would come back from. I’ve seen you save lives in the middle of hell."
You squeeze her hand, just to remind yourself she’s real. "What if-" You stop yourself, knowing there's no point in 'what if' questions. "I’m tired, JJ." You mumble instead.
"I know," she nods. "Me too."
And you leave it there. You don't talk about anything else. You don't talk about drunk words or missed chances. Instead, JJ sits by you and waits for you to fall asleep again.
She's gone by the time you wake up, but you have to admit that you feel more rested than you have been for a while.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
9.
The case isn't quite over yet. For now, you all need a moment. You don't know it yet, but the case will turn, and so you might as well enjoy the time untainted by what is to come.
You’re still wound tight from the week - the lack of sleep mounting on top of the pressure of the job, but you’re also starved for something normal. Something that doesn’t involve blood or bulletproof vests.
Which is why you end up in a dive bar near the local precinct. The place is dim, worn in around the edges, with sticky floors and a jukebox that plays too many Springsteen songs. JJ and Emily are already there when you arrive, drinks in hand, nursing beers and the familiar buzz of post-case relief.
"Look who finally joined us," Emily calls, raising her glass.
JJ turns toward you, smile warm, eyes softer than you expect from her after the past few weeks. You feel it land, low in your chest. It's been weird between the two of you and you ache for it to return to normal.
You slip into the booth beside her, close enough to feel the press of her thigh against yours. The contact should be accidental. It’s not.
And then, maybe to make this small, good thing worse, maybe just to make it interesting, or maybe because you are sleep deprived and you think you've already fucked up the one good thing you had going in your life, you let a random girl buy you a drink.
She’s tall. Brunette. Nice enough in that I’ve-never-seen-a-bad-day kind of way. She’s not pushy. Just chatty. You let her talk while your eyes flick over to JJ now and then, hoping to catch her gaze. You're being childish really.
She’s not looking at you.
But her jaw is tight.
Eventually, you return to your table. Emily gives her a long look across the table. "So… new friend?" she asks you, tone light, some slight teasing.
You shrug. "She offered me a whiskey sour. Felt rude to say no."
JJ’s eyes finally flick toward you. "She seems... nice." You meet her gaze. Something sharp glints behind her words. "But she wasn’t your type," she adds, too casually.
Your eyebrows raise. "Oh? And what exactly is my type?"
JJ opens her mouth, then closes it again, jaw tensing once more.
Emily raises her eyebrows and mutters, "And I suddenly need to check on the jukebox," before slipping away.
The air between you and JJ turns heavier. Louder, even in silence.
You lean forward slightly. "Seriously. I want to know. What’s my type, JJ?"
She looks at you then, really looks. Her lips part like she’s going to answer, but it takes her a moment. Too long.
"Someone who doesn’t flirt for sport," she says finally, voice low and even. "Someone who means it."
You blink. The words land sharper than expected.
"And what if I did mean it?" you ask. "Would that make it worse?"
JJ stares at you, unreadable. "With her? Or with me?"
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you push your glass toward the edge of the table, watching the condensation trail down your fingertips.
"With you," you say, barely more than a breath.
There’s a long silence. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Then her voice comes quiet, tight. "You shouldn’t say things like that if you don’t mean them."
You sit up straighter, frustrated. "But what if I do, JJ?"
JJ looks away. "Then you’re two months too late."
Your stomach twists. "What does that mean?"
She doesn’t answer at first, just runs a hand through her hair. Her voice, when she speaks again, is soft but firm.
"It means I’ve been trying not to want this. You. For a long time. And it’s getting harder every day but I made the choice."
You feel your heart stutter. "Then why haven’t you-"
"Because we work together. Because it’s messy. Because you can't seem to tell me anything without having a drink first. Because you flirt with girls like her when I’m sitting right next to you."
"I- I wasn’t flirting really." You respond, meekly.
She turns to you again, blue eyes steady. "You were."
You sigh. "Okay. Maybe I was. But not because I wanted her. I was just-"
"What? Testing me?"
You blink. "No. God, no. I just… you've been ignoring me and I... I wanted to see if you’d care."
JJ lets out a sharp breath. "Of course I care. But I know you're better than this."
That silences you. Not because it’s shocking, you’ve suspected for a while, but because of how quietly devastating it sounds coming from her lips.
She shifts closer, so close her knee presses firmly against yours. Her voice drops to a whisper.
"You don’t get it, do you? You’ve been in my head for months. Every look, every laugh. And tonight… watching her smile at you like she had a chance?" Her throat works around the words. "It made me want to punch something."
You don’t know whether to smile or apologise. So you fuck something else up and do neither.
You eventually find your voice, "I didn't think-"
Her fingers curl lightly around yours. But her voice is still cautious, cutting you off. "No, you don't think." She frowns.
You hold her gaze. "That's not fair, I've tried-" You hesitate as her eyes bore into yours, "I'm trying to figure it out but you're..." You hold your breath before bursting out with, "you didn't kiss me."
"What?"
"New Year's. And then you ignored me."
"Oh my god." She lets a small laugh out. For a moment, it feels like she’s going to kiss you right there in the booth to make up for it. Her eyes drop to your mouth. Your heart trips.
But then the bartender calls out last call, and someone bumps your table, and reality slips between you again.
She lets go of your hand - slowly, like it costs her something. Then she leans in, her breath brushing your ear.
"I’m going to walk you home. And tomorrow, when we’re both sober, we talk about this."
You nod. You don’t even hesitate.
Because this time, there’s no almost.
Just a promise.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
10.
You wake up the next morning, sober. You meet JJ at the precinct, ready. You will tell her the truth. You will talk about how you feel. You will be honest.
But first, the case throws some left hooks your way. You're thrown into chaos before you can really take a breath.
The city was a mess of sirens and shouting. You could barely hear your own thoughts over the cacophony, but you knew you had to stay focused. The sober talk with JJ could wait, must wait, for work.
The team was spread out, moving like a well-oiled machine, but the chaos was unpredictable, and your instincts told you to stay sharp.
Your pulse hammered in your ears as you dashed down the sidewalk, heart racing with the urgency of the moment. JJ was just a few steps beside you, her presence grounding even as adrenaline surged through your veins. Your eyes locked for a split second, an unspoken understanding passed between you, fierce and raw.
The world around you slowed, the sounds dimming to a distant hum. Her face was so close, breath mingling with yours in the cool air. You were so glad to have her in your life, watching your back. You could almost blurt out I love you right there-
A shout echoed from down the street, a teammate signaling a threat, a break in the scene. Instantly, you were pulled apart, both of you snapping back to reality. You took a step back, chest heaving, trying to steady yourself.
JJ’s eyes searched yours, full of something you couldn’t quite name, concern, maybe, or something deeper that hovered just beneath the surface. She looked away quickly, jaw tightening as if holding herself together.
You wanted to say something, to break the silence before it dragged on for another three weeks like last time. More fool you for not being brave enough to face your fears.
The adrenaline faded, replaced by a pounding ache in your chest. You moved away, each step heavier than the last. Now was not the time, not when there was still a killer out there. You needed to get your head screwed on properly. Focus.
You glanced back once, catching the same flicker in JJ’s eyes before she turned to follow orders.
The city’s chaos swallowed you whole again, but inside, you carried the weight of that almost - too close, too real, and yet still just out of reach. Not for much longer.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
11.
It’s quiet.
You’re in the incident room. The team is gone. Files boxed up, evidence logged, statements signed. Another case closed.
JJ is wiping down the board. She looks tired, her shoulders tight with the kind of tension that doesn’t ease with sleep.
You’re sitting at the long table, sorting through victim statements, not really reading. Just… touching each paper like it might make you understand something deeper.
It’s been a long one.
Too many kids. Too much loss.
You don’t know why you’re still here. Maybe you just didn’t want to leave her.
JJ glances over her shoulder at you. "You don’t have to stay, you know."
You nod. "I know."
She hesitates, then sets the marker down. "You okay?"
You almost lie.
You almost say yeah, I’m fine or just tired or been worse.
But you don’t. You've promised yourself that there will be no more lies.
Because you’re so far past pretending you can’t feel it, this ache, this exhaustion, this quiet, blooming thing between you that has survived every almost for so long it doesn’t feel like it’s hiding anymore.
"No," you say softly. "I’m not."
JJ nods like she understands. Because she does. Of course she does.
She walks over, sits across from you at the table. Close, but not touching.
"I keep thinking about the little girl," she says. "How calm she was. Like she’d already made peace with dying."
Your throat tightens.
"She didn’t even cry," you whisper.
JJ’s eyes glisten. "You held her hand the whole time."
"She reminded me of Henry."
JJ reaches across the table and rests her fingers over yours.
You look down at your hands. Her thumb brushes your knuckles. It feels like breathing again.
"I can’t keep doing this," you say, voice barely audible. "I can’t keep pretending I don’t love you."
There it is.
Not soft. Not careful. The truth, laid out bare.
JJ doesn’t speak. She just rises slowly, walks around the table, and stands in front of you.
She reaches down, cups your face in both hands.
Her thumb brushes under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had fallen.
And then she kisses you.
Not a rush. Not a crash. Just lips on lips, it's gentle and sure, like she’s kissing you the way she’s always meant to.
It’s soft. It’s sad. It’s everything you’ve both been too afraid to say for far too long.
You don’t move for a moment after it ends. Your foreheads touch. Her hands still cradle your face.
You whisper, "I thought maybe I fucked it, maybe we missed our chance."
JJ shakes her head, eyes closed.
"No. We just had to actually communicate. Who knew that was a thing?" She asks, sarcastically, a laugh breaking through.
Later, at her place, the quiet returns.
But this time it’s different.
You’re in her kitchen. She's in sweats, hair damp from a shower, bare feet padding across the tile as she pours tea for both of you. Her presence is warm, grounding.
She hands you a mug. Your fingers brush, like always.
But this time, she holds on.
"I love you," she says, just like that. No preamble. No fear. Just truth.
You blink at her, stunned by the simplicity of it.
"Say it again?"
She sets the mug down, steps closer, and cups your face again, that same steady way she did in the incident room.
"I love you. I have for far too long without saying it once. I’m done waiting."
You kiss her.
This time, it isn’t sad.
It isn’t haunted or hushed.
It’s real. Present. Alive.
You hold onto her like you’ve waited a hundred lifetimes to get it right, and maybe you have. You don’t need words after that.
Not right away.
Because her arms are around you, and you’re still standing, and this time, nothing pulls you apart.
Closet - Jo Wilson x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
summary: There's a shooter in the hospital and you're forced into a closet to hide. Maybe it's too late.
Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Eighteen, alt 5 shoved into a tight space @may-lancholy
The first shot rings out like a car backfiring - loud but distant, almost unreal. But when the second one echoes through the emergency department, way too close, followed by the unmistakable bark of a security officer yelling "Shooter in the building!", chaos unfurls like wildfire.
Jo barely has time to process before she’s grabbing your wrist.
You’ve been working together all afternoon, triaging patients from a pileup off the freeway.
As she drags you behind a nearby trauma cart, she notices that you’re pale, quiet, but she thinks you’re just tired. That is until she catches the way your other hand is clamped awkwardly against your side, the growing red bloom beneath your scrubs.
"Wait-" she starts, but a nurse barrels past, wild-eyed, shouting, "Closet, get in, now!" before she shoves you both into the nearest supply room and slams the door behind you. There's a horrible clunk from the other side.
You're sure she means for the best but it's not ideal. You reach for the handle. It doesn’t budge.
"Shit," Jo mutters, jiggling it. "Shit, it’s jammed. It locked behind us."
The closet is barely big enough for two people. Shelves of gauze and gloves press in on all sides. There’s no window, just the hum of a flickering overhead bulb, and your ragged breathing echoing in the stale air.
Jo finally turns to you, really looks at you, and sees the blood soaked through your scrubs.
"Oh my God."
You try to laugh but it comes out wrong. "Guess I should’ve said something sooner."
She doesn’t waste time in yelling, there's no point to it. She’s already yanking supplies off shelves, digging for gauze, gloves, anything. "How bad is it? Let me see."
You’re too weak to argue. When you move your hand away, blood seeps faster. Jo presses gauze to your side with trembling fingers.
"Bullet went through," you mumble. "Side. Maybe hit a rib."
"Through-and-through is good," Jo says quickly, like if she says it fast enough it’ll make it true. But your skin is clammy, your body leaning heavier against the wall.
You’re both crouched awkwardly on the ground, your legs folded beside hers in a tangle that the tight space refuses to accommodate. She has to press close to get any kind of angle, her knees bumping yours, her breath hot against your cheek.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay."
But you’re not. Not really.
The heat starts to build quickly. No ventilation. The air is thick and stifling. Sweat beads on your forehead. Your eyelids flutter, body slumping sideways.
"Hey. Hey- no. Stay with me." Jo’s voice is sharper now, cracking at the edges. "Don’t you dare go anywhere."
You blink, trying to focus on her face. It’s hard with the room spinning. "Sorry," you rasp. "Not many places to go... not here."
"You're not funny," She grumbled, "And don’t apologize. Just... don’t close your eyes." Her hands press harder into your side. "You’re losing a lot of blood."
"Feels like it."
Jo exhales sharply. "I hate you."
You try to smirk. "You love me."
She swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Which is why you don’t get to die like this. Not in a damn closet. Not with me holding your hand and shouting at a locked door."
Your head slumps forward. She catches you, guiding you to lean fully against her. You curl into the space between her neck and shoulder as she continues to hold pressure and whisper frantic reassurances.
The heat is unbearable now. Your skin is hot and damp, your breathing shallow. You can feel Jo’s heart racing where your head rests against her.
"I can’t-" she whispers, tears burning in her throat. "I can’t lose you... I should- I'm a doctor. I should be able to do something."
You can’t answer. She feels your weight shift, limp now.
"Hey!" she shouts. "No. No, no, no, wake up!"
She adjusts your body in the cramped space, pulling you fully into her lap despite the awkward angle. Her hands shake as she fumbles for more gauze, more pressure. Your blood is everywhere, it's on her hands, on her scrubs, smeared across the floor.
You groan faintly, head rolling back.
"There you are." Her voice breaks. "Okay. Stay with me, just like that. Just breathe. I’m right here."
Outside, distant footsteps. A voice over the intercom, too muffled to make out.
But the door doesn’t open.
Jo leans back against the shelves, one hand cradling your head, the other pressed to your wound.
"You’re going to be fine," she whispers, like a prayer. "I’m not letting you go. Not like this."
Minutes stretch. Sweat drips from Jo’s hairline. You fade in and out. Sometimes your eyes open and lock on hers. Sometimes your lips twitch like you want to speak.
And sometimes, terrifyingly, there’s nothing.
Jo leans down, forehead pressed to yours.
"You are not dying in a closet."
The silence swells again, broken only by your rattling breaths and Jo’s quiet sobs. But then-
A clang. Metal-on-metal.
Voices. Real ones this time. Closer.
Jo yells. Screams.
"WE’RE IN HERE! SHE’S SHOT!" Another second. Then the lock jiggles. Clicks.
The door bursts open. Light floods the closet. There's a few blurry moments where nothing happens, eyes just stare in as they survey the scene. Eventually, security and trauma staff surge in, radios buzzing, stretchers waiting.
Jo doesn’t move at first, arms locked around you. Paralyzed.
One of the nurses crouches beside her. "Jo. Let go. We’ve got her."
She does... barely. She follows you out on shaking legs, hand still smeared with your blood, jaw clenched against a scream.
You’re wheeled down the hallway, team swarming. But Jo stays right beside you, gripping the edge of the gurney like she might fall without it.
And even now, she doesn’t stop whispering.
"I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere."
And all she can do now is hope that you've heard her.
Anything on the menu for Eloise Bridgerton?
ugh, i love eloise so hell yes, just for you (and for me too)!! i will add in some more eloise over the next week!!!
Knifepoint - Amelia Shepherd x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
a/n: ignore this is a day late and also that i have disapperead for a week, work was high stress - i may upload previous days or i may disappear for another week. with me - who knows!!!
summary: You’re a trauma surgeon known for rocking black scrubs and keeping cool under pressure. When a tense situation turns dangerous and you get hurt, Amelia Shepherd steps in to save you and things get a little complicated. Between the hospital chaos and all the unspoken feelings, you both start to realise maybe there''s more to your rivalry than just work.
Part of May Prompts (a black scrub top) AND Maylancholy 2025 (held at knifepoint - @may-lancholy) - that's right, we have a combo one in day sixteen!
Early on in your career, you made a choice to wear black scrub tops.
Not charcoal. Not navy. Not a trendy graphite hue that someone from plastics might mistake for fashion. Just black. The kind of colour that takes no prisoners.
They drape like shadows around you, absorbing everything, blood, questions and grief. You make no explanation for them, and in your silence, everyone else fills in the blanks.
Some say it’s a trauma thing, a symbolic mourning, whilst others think it’s rebellion. A way to set yourself apart from the chaos of surgical life, from the rainbow of department colours that try to make life-and-death look less... well, less like death.
You don’t confirm or deny. You just keep moving.
There’s something in your gait, unapologetic and smooth, that makes people step aside before they consciously decide to. You walk like someone who’s already memorised the next fifteen steps. Your stethoscope is always coiled neatly, and there is not a strand of hair out of place.
The residents know not to chatter around you. The interns whisper your name with reverence and fear, as if you’ll materialise behind them with a glare sharp enough to lacerate.
You’ve heard the nicknames: The Void, Reaper in Reeboks. One ICU nurse calls you death in Danskos when she thinks you’re out of earshot.
You don’t mind. Better that than someone trying to make small talk.
Only one person doesn’t keep their distance. Amelia Shepherd.
It didn’t begin as antagonism. More of a clash. She barreled into the scrub room mid-glove up, her ponytail swinging. Her badge hit her chest as she moved, the words NEUROSURGERY catching the light. She stopped short in front of your locker, her arms folding across her chest.
"You’re not hijacking my OR just because you’ve got seniority and a God complex," she snapped, voice sharp with adrenaline and annoyance.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up from the chart in your hand. "My patient is crashing. Yours is stable, sedated, and prepped."
"So that’s a yes on the God complex, then?"
"I’m trying to save a life," you said, calmly sipping from your water bottle before slamming your locker shut. "If you’d like to argue about it with the chief, be my guest. But I’ll be done before you even know it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You better or you can be the one to apologise to my patient's family."
You met her gaze finally, with the slightest quirk of your eyebrow.
You’d been circling each other ever since.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a few weeks later. The hospital had finally quieted to a dull hum, most of the chaos seeping into night shift rounds and whispered consultations. You sank onto the cracked leather couch with a sigh, unwrapping the worst vending machine sandwich known to mankind.
"You know," came a familiar voice, dry as desert air, "I’m starting to think you enjoy suffering."
You didn’t look up right away. "Big talk from someone eating back-to-back protein bars."
Amelia Shepherd let the door swing shut behind her with a soft thud. She was still in her scrubs, top untucked, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair escaping in every direction. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in twenty hours, which, given the shift schedule, was probably accurate.
"They do the job and at least they taste somewhat alright," she said, biting into her bar without a flinch. "You, however, look like you’re one bite away from a stomach pump."
You risked a glance at her, brows arching. "Did you come in here just to roast my dinner, or…?"
Amelia’s lips twitched. "I came for silence. I stayed for the opportunity to roast your dinner, obviously yes."
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. You tore a piece off the sandwich, then paused, glancing over at her. "Rough day?"
She gave a noncommittal shrug, flopping into the chair across from you. "They’re all rough days lately." You didn’t respond right away. Amelia tapped her thumb rhythmically against the side of her protein bar wrapper. "You haven’t been sleeping."
You blinked at her. "Is that an observation or an accusation?"
"Just an observation." She leaned back, regarding you with that unnervingly perceptive look she had, the one that always made you feel a little too seen. "You’ve got the whole haunted-in-the-hallway vibe going."
You bristled slightly. "You don’t exactly radiate sunshine and puppies yourself."
"Touché," she said with a smirk. Then, after a beat, "But I’m not the one deflecting by working double shifts and pretending it doesn’t bother me."
You met her gaze, something sharp and vulnerable flashing across your face. "And what would you suggest I do, Shepherd? Meditate? Journal? Scream into a pillow between rounds?"
Amelia didn’t flinch. "No. I don't have an answer yet. I wish I did."
"Ah, so you dish out this empty advice for free, huh?"
For a long moment, you sat there, two people balancing on the knife’s edge between pushing each other away and pulling each other in. Then Amelia sighed and stood, tossing her wrapper into the trash with unnecessary force.
"I’ll bring you real food next time," she muttered, already halfway to the door. "Try not to die of sodium poisoning before then."
You looked up, surprised. "You cook?"
She paused in the doorway, turning her head just enough to send you a small wink, "No. But I have very convincing delivery menus."
And then she was gone, leaving the door swinging quietly in her wake and something strange in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was annoyance or interest. Maybe both.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Another three weeks later, you’re mid-chart, back hunched at the nurses’ station, eyes moving too fast over patient notes that make you wish you could just go home, when you feel it.
A presence. Off-kilter.
You look up.
The man standing in the lobby doesn’t... belong. That much is obvious from the way his body holds tension. It's coiled, like a spring waiting to snap. He wears a hoodie too thick for the weather. His eyes dart from nurse to wall to floor. Sweating, fidgeting, vibrating with something that doesn’t match his surroundings.
You’ve seen that look before, where someone balances on the edge of unreality. A place where people either break down or break through.
Then you place him.
Angela Vasquez’s brother.
Angela, seventeen, who came in with a sudden thunderclap headache and collapsed in the elevator. You’d operated for six hours, cut and clamped and prayed with every ounce of precision you had. But the bleed was too fast. Too much.
She never woke up.
You were the last one to touch her. You’d stayed after the code was called. Sat beside her body. Pressed your palm against her cooling wrist and whispered her name.
Now her brother is here, standing across the atrium with that look in his eyes.
You push back from the desk and murmur low to the charge nurse, "Call security. Quietly." But it is too late.
He’s already moving. Three strides, maybe four. He closes the distance with a speed you don’t expect. There’s no time to back away. His arm rises.
Metal flashes.
The folding knife is cheap, dull silver with black tape around the handle. It catches the light for half a second before pressing hard into your chest.
There’s a shout. A dropped clipboard. Somewhere, someone screams.
But all you see is him.
His eyes are red-rimmed. His breath comes in short gasps. He’s not a killer. But he’s grieving.
"Say her name," he growls.
You exhale, slowly. Keep your body still.
"Angela," you say. "I remember. I was there."
He breathes harder. The knife digs in. You feel the press of it, sharp enough to pierce fabric, bite skin. "She walked in here. Alive."
"I know."
"She had a headache. That’s it."
"I know," you repeat. "I’m sorry."
The blade jerks. He presses it harder. Blood wells and there's a sting, then warmth. You'd hardly be able to see the liquid bloom through your shirt but you feel it become damp.
"Say it again!" he shouts. "Say it!"
"I’m sorry."
His eyes glisten, fury cracking into anguish. The whole hall is still. No one dares move.
And then- "Hey!"
The voice slices through the tension. Amelia.
She’s standing at the end of the corridor, wide stance, hands half-raised, eyes locked on the man’s trembling grip. She’s wearing her normal clothes and must have just come off shift. But her presence shifts the air.
"Don’t move," she says, calm and razor-edged. "It's just us."
The man twitches. The blade shifts slightly. Your blood spreads slightly wider beneath the black.
"She didn’t care," he says, voice cracking. "Didn’t even say sorry till I made her."
Amelia takes a step closer. "You’re right. It wasn’t enough."
You shoot her a glance. She doesn’t look at you. Her focus is entirely on him.
"Hurting her won’t bring Angela back," she says, voice thick with compassion and authority. "You don’t want to carry that weight."
He trembles. The muscles in his forearm twitch. "She was my baby sister."
"I know," Amelia says. "And I’m sorry. I should’ve caught the bleed. I’m the neurosurgeon. Maybe I missed it. Blame me."
Your heart spikes. "Amelia. No."
She finally looks at you, just for a second. And what’s in her eyes is not fear. It’s fury. It’s fire. It’s something too big to name.
"I’m not letting him kill you."
The man is confused now. His rage flickering, not knowing where to land. You feel his grip loosen. And so you move. It’s instinct. You slam your elbow into his ribs. The knife slices downward as he staggers, leaving a hot, burning trail across your chest.
Then you’re falling.
But you don’t hit the ground.
Arms catch you, steady, strong, too warm. Amelia's hands are on you, pulling you back against her body, her breath right against your ear. "Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe. Stay with me."
You feel her pressure against the wound, fingers trembling just slightly. Blood soaks into her sleeves. Her hair brushes your cheek.
"That was monumentally stupid," you whisper.
"You’re a fucking idiot," she chokes. "A stupid, noble, infuriating idiot."
You wince. "Didn’t know you cared so much."
She huffs a broken laugh. "Don’t flatter yourself."
But her hand never leaves your chest.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You wake up in post-op and feel sore. Slow. Heavy.
And you’re not alone. She’s there. Curled in the corner chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her cheek resting on her fist. Her eyes are closed but not asleep.
You whisper, "Did I ruin your day?"
Her head jerks up. "You ruined my fucking month."
You give her a tired smile. "That dramatic streak. Neurosurgeons really are the worst."
"You bled on my sweater. And almost died. You don’t get to talk shit."
You reach out. Your hand finds hers. "You stayed."
"Yeah, I never left."
There’s a silence. Then, "Why?"
She swallows. "Because I didn't want to. Not when you owe me for that takeout. It's your turn to buy me food."
"That makes sense." You smile softly and she shakes her head.
"Maybe I want to keep you around to see what happens too." She hums, a slight anxiousness in her eyes. But you are too blunt for this.
Your voice barely makes it out. "Say it."
She leans in, forehead brushing yours. Her breath is warm, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
"I care about you," she murmurs. "More than I should. More than I ever wanted to."
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, it doesn’t hurt quite so much to feel.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Three weeks later, you’ve been back on rounds for almost a week. You turn a corner and stop.
Amelia’s waiting for you and she is in black scrubs.
She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Well? Do I look intimidating?"
You glance at her, lips twitching. "You look like my evil twin. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
She smirks. "I can think of some other things."
Teddy walks past, gaping and tilts her head, eyeing both of you, one brow lifting. "Okay. You can’t both wear black. People are going to think you’re in a cult."
Amelia didn’t even look up from her coffee. Her tone was bone-dry. "We are. It’s called the surviving trauma and deflecting with sarcasm cult."
You leaned back against the nurses’ station, a grin spreading slowly as you raised your coffee like a toast. "And caffeine. Don’t forget the daily sacrifices to the coffee gods."
"You need a catchier name, there's no way that'll catch." Teddy came to a stop next to Meredith, who was leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Meredith lifted her head and blinked at you both and deadpanned, "You two realize you’ve been matching every day for a week now, right?"
You shrugged with mock innocence. "Coincidence." Amelia, at the exact same time, replied, "Solidarity."
That earned an amused snort from Teddy, who shook her head. "So… solidarity in looking like you’re two seconds away from scoring a record deal with a broody indie hospital soundtrack?"
Amelia finally turned toward her, her grin blooming slowly. "If the scalpel fits."
Meredith took a slow sip of her coffee, clearly savouring the moment before droping in her next line, "Honestly, I just want to know how long until you two finally stop pretending that this is just a trauma bond."
You choked on a laugh and pretended to clutch your heart. "Meredith Grey with emotional insight? Who are you and what have you done with our queen of avoidance?"
Teddy leaned in, stage-whispering to Meredith with a gleam in her eyes. "I give them two more days before Amelia ‘accidentally’ kisses her in the elevator."
Amelia didn’t miss a beat. "Please. It’ll be the supply closet. Have some respect for tradition."
"Just for the record," you said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made Teddy raise her brows and Meredith pretend very hard to be engrossed in her phone, "if it were the supply closet... I wouldn't exactly object."
Amelia tilted her head, mouth curving upward into that mischievous little half-smile she wore when she was two steps away from doing something reckless and brilliant. "Noted," she said, her voice just as soft.
Teddy cleared her throat, "Well. That’s my cue to make myself scarce before someone violates HR policy behind the linen cart."
Meredith finally looked up, smirking. "Just make sure someone actually does kiss someone before I waste another bet on emotional repression."
Amelia chuckled, stepping close enough that your shoulders brushed. "No promises," she murmured.
But the glint in her eyes said otherwise.
Loose Batteries - Olivia Benson x Reader (Law & Order: SVU)
a/n: might try and catch up on the days i missed but also may never get time to go back - who knows!!
summary: You’re a civilian profiler - a trauma consultant often called in to support SVU victims who can't speak for themselves. You’ve been working with Olivia on a complex case involving a missing teenage girl, and what was meant to be an ordinary consult spiraled into a full-blown field operation, one that ended with you held at gunpoint and Olivia talking the suspect down. You survived. But something in you didn’t make it back whole.
Part of May Prompts: Day Eleven, loose batteries
You don’t remember the sound of the gunshot. Not really.
The report was that it was deafening, sure, but that’s not what stuck with you. It was Olivia’s voice. Calm. Measured. Impossible in the chaos. You were on your knees, a suspect’s hand trembling around a trigger inches from your temple, and Olivia was talking him down like she had all the time in the world.
You made it out. Physically, you were fine.
But something inside you had shifted. Subtle. Invisible. Like a wire that quietly snapped behind the drywall.
You stop sleeping. Not on purpose. You just lie awake and stare at the ceiling, running through every second of that day like you’re watching a movie on repeat. Loud noises make you flinch. Sharp movements make you sick.
You withdraw, professionally and personally. You miss a call from Fin. Leave a text from Olivia unread. You start turning down consults. The city never quiets, and now it feels like it’s moving too fast, like you’ve lost the rhythm.
Olivia notices. Of course she does. She always does.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It starts with small things. A gentle knock on your office door when you haven’t shown up to the precinct in a week. A carefully worded voicemail - "Hey. No pressure. Just… wondering if you’re okay." And then one night, she shows up at your apartment with two cups of coffee and a bag of takeout, no badge, no agenda.
You eat in silence. Cross-legged on the couch, a movie playing low in the background, you've started playing them 24/7 to distract you. But it's something neither of you are watching. Olivia opens the cartons, passes you a fork, lets the quiet fill the room like steam.
It should be awkward. But it’s not. She makes even the silence feel like something alive.
Halfway through the meal, the overhead light flickers. You both glance up. It buzzes once, then dies completely, dropping the room into dusk. You blink into the sudden shadow. Then stand up with a resigned sigh.
"Hang on," you mutter, padding barefoot to the kitchen. You rummage through the drawer that holds the flashlight - the old, cheap one you always meant to replace.
You click the button. Nothing.
You smack the end against your palm. Still nothing.
"Flashlight’s dead," you say, voice flat.
Behind you, Olivia shifts on the couch. "Maybe the batteries just got knocked loose."
You freeze. The words echo - too perfectly. You look down at the flashlight in your hand, then back at her.
You give a sharp, humorless laugh, "Yeah. Sounds familiar."
Her eyes catch yours, dark, unreadable. There’s a long pause.
And then, gently, she reaches out, her voice soft, "You don’t have to fix it alone."
You want to scoff. To retreat behind sarcasm or stoicism or something easier. But you’re tired. You’re so tired. So instead, you whisper, "I’m not even sure how to start."
Olivia sets her container aside. Wipes her hands slowly on a napkin. Then she leans forward, forearms on her knees, voice soft and impossibly certain.
"You can start by sitting in the dark with someone who’s not afraid of it."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
That night, you don’t ask her to stay.
She does anyway.
You fall asleep on the couch, finally, cheek pressed to a throw pillow that smells like takeout food and your vanilla dryer sheets. When you wake up at 3 a.m., the throw blanket you forgot about is tucked around your shoulders, and Olivia is sitting in your armchair, half-asleep, arms folded across her chest.
She doesn’t say a word. Just gives you a sleepy smile and closes her eyes again.
You don’t dream that night but you also don't wake up in a sweat, crying out from nightmares.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Days pass. Olivia starts showing up more.
Not every day. But often enough that you stop questioning it. Sometimes she brings food. Sometimes books. Once, she shows up with a six-pack of AA batteries and a deadpan look.
"In case anything else around here is running low."
You raise an eyebrow. "Is that a metaphor, Benson?"
She shrugs, setting them on your counter. "Only if you need it to be."
You don’t laugh, but your lips twitch. That’s the first time in weeks.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You try going back to work. Once.
It’s an easy case, or it should be - a witness statement, routine follow-up. The victim is a teenager with wide, frightened eyes and a stammer that reminds you too much of yourself.
You freeze mid-question. The words evaporate.
Across the room, Olivia stands. Her movement is subtle, it's not rushed, not pitying. She crosses the space with practiced calm, her voice filling the silence where yours faltered.
She finishes the interview without breaking rhythm. The girl relaxes.
Later, in the hallway, you turn to her but avoid her non-judgemental gaze. It's too soft, it makes you feel too secure, "I couldn’t speak."
"I know."
"I let you down."
"No, you didn’t."
You look at her then, really look. And Olivia’s gaze is fierce and warm, all gravity.
"You’re not broken," she says. "You just need a minute to find the energy again. You'll get there." And she says it with so much certainty that you find yourself starting to believe her.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The blackout hits Manhattan on a Sunday night.
You’re alone. A storm’s been crawling across the city all day, dark and impatient. When the lights die, it’s like a thread snaps in your spine. Your chest tightens.
It’s not the dark itself, it’s what it reminds you of. The chaos. The silence after.
You reach for the flashlight in your drawer. The old one.
It still doesn’t turn on.
Your hands start to shake. You try again, but your fingers are clumsy, frantic. You feel your breathing spiral, too fast, too shallow. A panic attack in slow motion.
You can’t speak. But you grab your phone and hit one number. Olivia.
The line connects. You don’t say anything. You can’t.
She knows.
"I’m on my way," she says. "Don’t hang up."
Eleven minutes later, there’s a knock at your door, her rhythm, sharp-then-soft. You open it with trembling hands.
She doesn’t ask questions. She just steps inside, drops to the floor with you, presses a hand to your back.
"Breathe with me," she whispers.
You try. You fail. You try again. Eventually, the storm passes. You’re left in the silence, heart still raw, when you finally whisper, "I really hate the dark."
"I know," she says softly. "You don’t have to be in it alone."
She reaches for the flashlight in your hands. Twists the end.
Click.
A soft beam of light flickers to life, weak but steady.
She holds it between you like a peace offering.
"See?" Olivia murmurs. "Just loose batteries. It's okay."
You don’t say thank you. Not out loud.
But the next day, she finds a sticky note on her desk that reads Still here. And a week later, when she shows up with dinner, you reach for her hand without thinking.
You never quite tell her everything. You don’t know how. But she never asks for more than you can give.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
She leaves a new flashlight on your counter. Sleek. Heavy-duty. Industrial-grade. A quiet promise in solid black metal. You don’t say thank you.
But the next time she’s at your place and your hallway flickers again, you grab it without flinching, and she watches you with something close to pride in her eyes.
One night, weeks later, she’s leaving. You walk her to the door, and she pauses in your doorway, pulling her coat tighter around her frame. There’s something in her face, something she’s not saying. You decide to tell her what you haven't been saying, to open up.
"Olivia."
She glances back. "Yeah?"
You take a slow breath, "You’re the reason I didn’t burn out completely."
Her expression falters for a heartbeat, something unguarded and almost vulnerable flickers across her face. Then she steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You were never broken," she whispers. "Just… shaken. Happens to all of us."
Your eyes burn. You reach up, not thinking, and thread your fingers into hers. "Yeah. But not everyone has you to put the batteries back in."
That earns a smile, one that is real and soft-edged.
She leans in and presses her forehead to yours, breath warm against your cheek.
You don’t kiss.
But maybe you don’t need to.
Not yet.
Because in the dark, once again, you’re not alone.
A Crystal Ball - Olivia Benson x Reader (Law & Order: SVU)
summary: Olivia Benson doesn’t believe in magic... not in happy endings, not in fate, and certainly not in crystal balls. But after a strange encounter with a woman who claims to see visions, Olivia begins to pull away, retreating behind walls you thought had started to fall. Maybe it wasn’t just fiction after all, maybe the vision hit a little too close to the truth she’s been too scared to face.
Part of May Prompts: Day Seven, a crystal ball
The street fair is exactly the kind of chaos Olivia usually avoids, children with sticky hands, food on sticks, teenagers screaming at carnival games. It was Carisi’s idea, of course. "Team morale," he’d said brightly, flashing that grin that makes it impossible to argue. Amanda had seconded it, her eyes already darting toward the funnel cakes. Even Fin, ever the skeptic, agreed to swing by, mostly for the food. So Olivia grumbled but came anyway, still in her blazer, a coffee clutched in her hand like armour.
The booths line the street in cheerful disorder, colours too bright under the late afternoon sun. Olivia keeps a healthy distance from most of them, sipping her lukewarm coffee and half-listening as Amanda drags you - her colleague, and lately, the quiet ache behind Olivia’s stern glances - toward a ring toss booth.
"Come on," Amanda calls over her shoulder. "Don’t be such a grump. You could win me a goldfish."
"I don’t want a goldfish," you say dryly, already letting Amanda press a handful of rings into your palm.
"You don’t get to decide until you try."
Olivia leans against a lamp post, half-smirking behind the rim of her cup, watching you toss with exaggerated laziness. You miss the first one deliberately, make a show of the second, and somehow land the third, to Amanda’s loud cheer and a plush frog being thrust into your arms.
"You’re welcome," you say, deadpan.
Amanda grins. "You’re such a softie."
Just behind the ring toss booth is a tent, decked out in beads and glittering scarves, a cracked sign above it reading: Madame Zeta: Visions of Your Future.
"Oh God," Olivia mutters, eyeing it like it might bite her.
You snort. "Twenty bucks to be told I’ll meet a tall, dark stranger," you say, eyebrow raised. "Waste of money. I already met you."
Olivia turns to you with a dry smirk. "I’m not tall."
Amanda doesn’t miss a beat. "Perfect, then. Get in there."
Before either of you can object, Amanda shoves you inside, and Olivia follows, protesting only a little. The tent is dim, filled with the scent of incense. A woman in layered scarves and oversized earrings sits behind a dusty crystal ball, muttering something indecipherable.
"Welcome, seekers," she intones, gesturing theatrically. "The spirits speak… of unspoken feelings, of doors left closed, of timing too tender to trust…"
You blink, unimpressed. "Wow. She nailed it. I’m tragically repressed and in love with someone too emotionally constipated to notice."
Olivia chokes on her coffee.
The psychic doesn’t even flinch. She just waves her hands over the glass again, muttering about 'guarded hearts' and 'emotional wounds' and 'the pain of silence.'
Amanda looks delighted. You look amused. Olivia… looks anywhere but at you.
Later, as you emerge from the tent, your arm brushes Olivia’s. Your voice is quieter now, less mocking. "You okay, Captain?"
Olivia offers a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. "Fine. Psychic nonsense."
But something shifts in the air between you, subtle as a breeze. Something about being seen, even by a fraud with a scarf and a prop, has cracked the surface just a little. Olivia feels it and hates it. You feel it and don’t know what to do with it.
Amanda tosses a piece of cotton candy into her mouth, watching you both like she’s just won a bet.
"Let me know when the wedding is," she says sweetly.
Olivia rolls her eyes. You laugh. You hope you can leave it at that.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
The street fair faded into memory with the scent of popcorn and sugar still clinging to your clothes. You told yourself it was just a moment, just a joke inside a fake psychic’s tent. But something about the way Olivia wouldn’t meet your eye afterward stuck with you like a splinter under the skin. She hadn’t laughed. Not really. She’d smiled, the kind of practiced thing she wore like a uniform, polished and distant. But when your arm brushed hers… she flinched. Not away, but inward. Like something inside her tightened and wouldn’t let go.
Back at the precinct, you sat at your desk pretending to read over a report. She stood across the room, pouring herself another cup of coffee she didn’t need, her posture rigid, her jaw tight.
You could still hear the psychic’s words: guarded hearts, emotional wounds, the pain of silence…
"I think I freaked you out," you said finally, keeping your voice low, conversational. Your screen was still glowing in front of you, your cursor blinking.
Olivia didn’t turn around. "Don’t flatter yourself."
But her tone lacked heat. It was more deflection than denial.
You leaned back in your chair, studying her in the reflection of your monitor. "C’mon. I was kidding. Mostly. You know that, right?"
She turned just slightly, eyes catching yours for the briefest second, and then skittering away. "It was inappropriate."
You frowned. "To joke? Or to admit any feelings?"
That hung in the air like smoke from a match. You watched her swallow it down.
"I don’t have time for this," she said, almost gently. That was the worst part. Not the cold shoulder, not the avoidance. It was the softness in her voice when she pushed you away. Like she thought she was doing you a kindness.
"Right," you said, nodding like it didn’t sting. "Me neither."
But that wasn’t true. You had nothing but time when it came to her. Time to sit in silence across desks. Time to notice how often she looked at your hands when she thought you weren’t watching. Time to wonder what it meant when she touched your shoulder longer than necessary or brushed by you in the hallway without moving quite far enough.
You closed the report, eyes burning.
The squad room buzzed around you. Carisi was laughing at something on his phone. Amanda was arguing with Fin over pizza toppings. Life moved on. But Olivia stood by the coffee pot like she’d forgotten how to move.
And you stayed at your desk, fingers curled into your palms, pretending not to wait.
You didn’t speak again that night. You didn’t need to. The silence said everything, and nothing, like it always did.
But when you finally stood to leave, you felt her eyes on your back. And it felt like maybe, just maybe, she’d started listening to the quiet between the words.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Days passed. A week, maybe two. You stopped counting after the third time Olivia avoided you in the hallway by turning sharply into the break room. She never used to do that, not with you. But now it was all clipped nods and polite distance, her voice measured like every word was run through a filter before it could reach you.
You weren’t innocent either. You kept conversations short. Stopped cracking jokes. Left the bullpen early and took longer lunches. You told yourself it was self-preservation, giving her space. But if you were being honest, it was punishment too. A quiet kind. You didn’t know whether it was for her or for you.
You missed her.
Not just in the obvious ways. Not just the warmth of her voice when she said your name or the safety you felt walking beside her on a case. You missed the stupid stuff, the way she’d tilt her head when something didn’t sit right in a suspect’s story, the way she offered you gum on long stakeouts like it was some sacred ritual.
You missed how easy it had been. How right it had felt, until that goddamn psychic cracked open something between you that neither of you knew how to name.
"Hey," Fin said, nudging your arm with his elbow as you sat hunched over a file. "What’s going on with you and Liv?"
You looked up, caught off guard. "Nothing."
He gave you a look that made it clear he didn’t buy it. "Right. You’ve been walking around here like someone cancelled your favorite show and murdered your goldfish."
You opened your mouth, closed it, then tried again. "I think I said something I shouldn’t have. And now she’s… avoiding me."
Fin raised a brow. "Olivia avoids people all the time. It’s kinda her thing."
"Not like this," you muttered, mostly to yourself.
There was a long pause, then his voice softened. "She’s got her walls. Hell, they’re reinforced with steel and trauma. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care."
You blinked. "You think she…?"
"I think," he said carefully, "that you two have been orbiting each other for a while now. Eventually, one of you’s gonna crash."
He walked away before you could ask which one.
The next day, you were paired with Amanda on a case, a missing girl, suspicious boyfriend, the usual. Olivia stayed behind to coordinate from the precinct. You found yourself constantly checking your phone, half-expecting a message from her that never came.
And when you got back late that night, tired and scraped up from chasing a lead through an alley, Olivia didn’t ask if you were okay. She didn’t meet your eyes. Just handed you a fresh case file like you were coworkers and nothing more.
You took it without a word. But the ache in your chest pulsed worse than the bruises littering your body. The distance between you wasn’t physical. It was made of things unsaid. The kind of things that echo louder than shouting.
And every day, the silence grew heavier.
But still, you didn’t stop waiting.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
You didn’t expect the breakthrough to come from something so small, a cheap keychain from a bodega on 10th and Avenue C. But there it was in the surveillance footage, dangling from the suspect’s backpack just as he walked out of the missing girl’s building.
"Gotcha," Amanda muttered, zooming in.
You sat beside her, exhausted but wired, the buzz of potential finally cutting through the haze that had been clouding the entire case. Olivia stepped up behind you, quiet but present, her gaze locked on the screen. You could feel the heat of her standing there, closer than she’d been in days.
"That’s enough for a warrant," she said softly.
You didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. You just nodded. "I’ll write it up."
"I’ll take it to the judge," she offered, too quickly. A beat passed. “Unless you want to-”
"No," you said, standing. "Go ahead."
You handed her the paperwork, careful not to brush her fingers, and for a moment, her eyes lingered on you like she was about to say something else. But then she blinked, turned, and was gone, her coat sweeping behind her.
The team moved fast after that. Warrant. Apartment raid. Empty, of course - the guy had run. But he’d left behind just enough to charge him with kidnapping, enough blood to scare you, and one half-used MetroCard that gave you a trail to follow.
It was almost midnight when you found yourself back at your desk, typing up the statement from a frightened neighbor who’d seen the girl through the window days earlier. Your hands ached. Your heart did too.
"You should go home," Olivia said, somewhere behind you. Her voice was low and even. Guarded.
You didn’t turn around. "So should you."
Another pause. This one stretched, uncomfortable. Then the chair beside you scraped across the floor. She sat.
"I’m not good at this," she said finally, quietly. "Whatever this is between us. I’m better with facts. Timelines. Evidence."
You stared straight ahead. "I noticed."
She let out a faint breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just… I didn’t know what to say."
You finally looked at her. Her eyes were tired, open in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks.
"You didn’t have to say anything," you murmured. "I just wanted you to look at me like you used to."
"I’m scared," she admitted. Two words, so heavy they nearly flattened the room.
You swallowed. "So am I."
There it was again, the silence. But this time, it felt different. Less like a wall. More like a breath held between two people standing on the edge of something terrifying and real.
"We’ll get her back," you said, nodding toward the open case file.
She nodded, too. But her gaze stayed on you.
"I hope so," she said.
You didn’t know if she meant the girl - or the two of you.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
The rain had been relentless all evening, but you hadn’t thought anything of it. Just a storm, just weather, until the knock came.
You opened the door and froze.
"Olivia?"
She was soaked through. Jacket clinging to her shoulders, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes wide and searching. She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.
"I didn’t know what to say," she blurted out, shivering. "So I stood outside like an idiot. I just- I couldn’t let this be another thing I don’t say."
"…okay," you said, barely a breath.
Her voice cracked, desperate: "I don’t have a crystal ball. I don’t have the perfect line. But I know I want you. I’ve wanted you since your third sarcastic comment about my coffee addiction. And I’ve been too scared to say it."
You stepped forward, hand brushing against the cold, damp edge of her sleeve. "So you’re saying it now."
She let out a breath that shook her whole body. "Yeah. I am. Finally."
You reached up, fingers threading gently through her wet hair, brushing it back from her forehead like she was something precious.
"So," you said quietly, "is this where I let you in?"
She nodded, barely. "Only if you still want me."
You pulled her inside without hesitation. "Always did."
And then you kissed.
It was slow. There was no urgency to prove anything, no fear clawing at your throat. Just lips and hands and two people who had circled each other long enough.
She trembled in your arms, the weight of all her silence collapsing into the warmth of being held.
Not flashy. Not fast. But real.
And enough.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You woke to quiet. The kind you could feel more than hear.
Olivia was still beside you, curled on her side, hair a soft halo against the pillow, one hand resting across your hip like it had always belonged there.
You turned slowly, watching the way her face looked in daylight: peaceful, unguarded.
"…You stayed," you whispered.
Carefully, you brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, fingertip tracing along the curve of her temple.
She stirred, lashes fluttering, voice gravel-soft from sleep. "I am usually better at leaving."
You smiled. "I like you better like this."
Her mouth lifted just slightly. "I like me better like this, too."
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Safe.
You ran your thumb gently across her knuckles where her hand still rested against you.
"Still scared?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
She opened her eyes. "Terrified. But I think that's okay."
You leaned in, kissed her once on the temple. "Good. Because I’m a very patient person, but I’m not waiting another three years for a second date."
She snorted - honest-to-God snorted - and looked at you with something between amusement and disbelief.
"So this was a date?"
You pretended to think. "Well… you showed up, poured your heart out, kissed me in the rain, I’d say it qualifies in most ways."
Her smile was crooked. Warm. Real.
And when she kissed you again, slow and unhurried, there was no question left in either of you.
This was the start of something.
Something that had been a long time coming.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You don’t arrive together.
That would be too obvious. Too much, too soon.
Instead, it’s like any other morning. Olivia walks in first, her coat slung over one arm, her face composed but - something’s different. Not enough to set off alarms. Just… less tension in her shoulders. A softness at the corners of her mouth.
Rollins notices it first. Watching Olivia from her desk, brow raised.
"…is it just me," Amanda murmurs, "or does Liv look like she actually slept for once?"
Carisi, flipping through a folder, "And is that… is she humming?"
Fin, without looking up from his cup, deadpan as ever, "Either she got laid or the apocalypse is finally here."
Amanda snorts. "Honestly? Could be both."
And then you walk in, ten minutes later. Same jacket. Same quiet swagger. Just two coffee cups in hand, one yours, one not.
You don’t say anything. Just walk over to Olivia’s desk, set the second cup down beside her monitor. She doesn’t look up right away. Doesn’t need to. Her fingers curl around the cup and she smiles, just a little. The kind of smile people save for someone specific. Someone known.
Carisi, mid-bite of a donut, nods like it’s the final clue in a case. "That’s love."
Fin sips, smug, "Told you."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Amanda corners you later. She has the tact of a hurricane. "So. You and the Captain?" she says, voice casual but eyes sharp.
You raise an eyebrow. "Subtle."
Amanda grins, unapologetic. "I try."
You hesitate just long enough to be honest. "We’re… figuring it out."
Amanda softens. "I’m glad. She deserves someone who doesn’t scare easy."
You glance down at your hands. "She doesn’t scare me. Not in the ways that matter."
Amanda nods. It lands, that honesty. Lingers. And later, when Olivia walks past you and lets her hand brush yours, brief and discreet, the whole squad definitely pretends not to notice.
But everyone’s smiling.
Crawling to Safety - Teddy Altman x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
cw: war zones, injury, blood, etc. (also bad writing, there's only so many googling of facts i can survive)
summary: Years after serving together as medics in a warzone, you and Teddy Altman reunite at Grey Sloan Memorial and slowly rekindle a love that never got the chance to fully bloom. After surviving a hospital collapse and confessing your feelings in the rubble, you both realise how important you are to each other.
Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Six, crawling to safety. @may-lancholy
It was always hard being the new one - anywhere. Your first day of school? Your first job at 15? Your first day with the army? All terrifying. This was no different.
The hallway smells like antiseptic, lavender soap and... something else. That strange combination unique to hospitals and nowhere else. You're used to it by now, plus it's better conditions than you were used to as a soldier.
You're doing your best to remember your way around and remember new names. You're mumbling them to yourself, repeating them again and again in the vain hope they'll stick by lunchtime. You round a corner, flipping through a patient chart, head down, heart steady.
Until it isn’t.
She’s standing at the nurse’s station. Hair pulled into a familiar twist. Light catching on the thin line of a surgical mask looped under her chin. Her laugh, soft but edged, carries even through the hum of pagers and footsteps.
Teddy.
The world stills.
She looks up. Sees you.
Everything about her face freezes, her posture, her hands, her smile. For a second, she’s a statue of the woman you once knew. And then her eyes flicker. There is recognition, disbelief, something too complicated to name, before she schools her expression back into neutral.
You don’t manage that much. Your heart’s somewhere in your throat.
“Dr. Altman,” someone calls. A nurse. A lifeline, calling out a name that you definitely will not be needing to rehearse.
She nods, barely, and walks away. Doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look back.
And just like that, history breathes itself back to life in the air between you.
You don’t say anything that first day. Or the next. Just keep your head down, your rounds efficient, your charts double-checked.
You’ve worked too hard to lose focus now. But she’s everywhere. Scrubbed into trauma surgery. Discussing a cardiac consult at the end of the hall. Her voice curling under doors and through vents, memory-soaked.
Eventually, you’re scheduled on the same case. MVA. Crush injuries. Emergency thoracotomy.
“Dr. Altman, Dr. Y/L/N,” Bailey says, nodding at you both. “Get in there.”
Teddy doesn’t look at you until you’re scrubbed and masked, gloved and sterile, standing over the open chest of a young woman whose heart is doing its best to stop.
But when she does look over, it’s like no time’s passed at all.
“On my mark,” she says, voice even.
You pass her the retractor without needing to be asked.
She clamps the bleeder like it’s nothing. You suction. She sews. You close. It’s seamless. Rhythmic. A dance you didn’t forget how to do, even if you told yourself you had.
Outside the OR, you both strip gloves in silence. Peel off caps. Neither of you moves to walk away.
Teddy finally breaks it. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I didn’t know you were either.”
She nods. Doesn’t say more.
But she doesn’t walk away this time.
That night, long after the trauma bay’s been cleaned and the halls have emptied to soft echoes, you find her in the resident lounge, a forgotten cup of coffee cradled in both hands, gaze unfocused on the dark window.
“You still take it black,” you say, gently.
She glances over. Her expression is unreadable, but her voice is quieter than you remember.
“Some things don’t change.”
You take the seat beside her.
The silence stretches, but it’s not sharp anymore.
It’s soft. Almost familiar.
Like maybe, just maybe, you’re both still learning how to breathe in each other’s presence again.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Kuwait. 112 degrees in the shade, dust curling off the horizon like smoke. The air hangs heavy, every breath filtered through sweat and sand. It’s your third day on base and already your boots feel too tight, your uniform too stiff, your bones too tired.
You're elbow-deep in a busted field stretcher when someone kicks a rock your way. It skitters across the sand, landing just beside your hand.
“You look like you’re losing a fight with that thing.”
You glance up, squinting against the sun and there she is.
Major Altman. Blonde hair tied back under a faded cap, dog tags clinking softly with every step. She’s got a hydration pack slung over one shoulder, grease under her nails, and a smirk that’s half challenge, half curiosity.
You don’t know who she is yet. Not really. Just the medic who stitched up two soldiers in half the time it should’ve taken. Just the woman who didn’t flinch when someone vomited blood on her boots. Just the one everyone calls 'Teddy,' even though her uniform reads 'Theodora Altman.'
You tilt your head. “You offering to help or just heckling from the cheap seats?”
She grins, dropping to a crouch beside you. “Depends. Do you bite?”
You arch a brow. “Only when I’m cornered.”
That makes her laugh... a quick, warm sound that feels wildly out of place in a camp surrounded by sandbags and distant mortar echoes.
She grabs the wrench from your kit without asking, reaches in, and loosens a bolt like she’s done it a hundred times. Maybe she has.
“I’ve got the trick for these,” she says. “They freeze up in the heat. You’ve got to angle the tension release manually.”
You watch her hands. Steady. Efficient. A little too fast for someone who should be taking her time.
“You always jump in like this?”
She shrugs. “Only when I see someone drowning in broad daylight.”
You side-eye her. “You call this drowning?”
“It's cute. And also yes, to the drowning.”
You don’t blush (not really) but the heat behind your ears spikes, and you’re grateful for the camouflage of sweat and dust.
The stretcher gives with a creak. She pulls back, wiping her hands on her pants.
“There. Saved you the embarrassment of losing a fight to military-issue gear.”
You stare at her for a beat. “Thanks.”
She leans back on her heels, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to place you. Then, without preamble, “You’re new.”
You nod. “Transfer from Kandahar.”
“Altman,” she offers, sticking out her hand like this is a normal introduction and not one made in the middle of a makeshift warzone.
You take it. Firm grip. Warm palm.
“Y/N,” you reply.
There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, dust swirling at your feet, dog tags glinting in the sun.
She smiles. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
You don’t know it yet, but she’s right.
And that moment, that strange, charged little nothing of a moment, will echo in the space between you for years to come.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The Grey Sloan ER is chaos, as always. Alarms, overhead pages, and a gurney being shoved into a bay with more urgency than grace. You sidestep a nurse and nearly trip over an unplugged vitals monitor, muttering under your breath.
And then, with an audible snap and the kind of wheeze only ancient hospital machinery can manage, the splint arm of the crash bed you’re leaning on breaks clean off in your hand.
You freeze, staring at the broken metal like it might fix itself out of shame.
Of course, that’s exactly when you hear it, the unmistakable soft laugh behind you, and a familiar voice that hasn’t stopped living in the corner of your mind.
“You still losing fights with medical equipment?”
You turn slowly.
Teddy Altman is standing a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of her scrubs, an unreadable expression on her face, equal parts amusement and something quieter. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy bun, strands coming loose at her temples. She looks tired. Still beautiful. Still unfair.
You hold up the broken piece like it’s Exhibit A. “In my defense, this one has nothing on the good stuff.” Your sarcasm dripping off you.
Teddy bites back a smile. It tugs at the edge of her mouth anyway. “And yet you still couldn't handle that. Although, you never know, maybe the military stuff has improved since Kuwait.”
“Doubt it,” you mutter, crouching down to inspect the damage. “The hinges are just as shot. Probably hasn’t been serviced since the building was put up.”
She stays quiet for a beat, then steps a little closer, not quite beside you, but within reach.
“You want help?” she asks, voice soft. Careful.
You glance up. There’s something wary in her posture. Like if she leans in too far, she might lose her footing again. Might lose you again.
You shake your head lightly. “I remember the trick.”
And you do, the angle, the tension release, the bolt that sticks if you don’t come at it just right. It’s not the same bed, but it’s close enough. Your fingers work from muscle memory, and it feels oddly like muscle memory of her. Of sand and heat and banter that meant more than either of you could say.
Teddy watches you for a few seconds. You can feel her gaze like pressure against your skin.
“You were good at that,” she says finally. “Learning the rhythm of things. Fast.”
You don’t look at her. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”
A breath. Heavy. Then, softer, “No. You didn’t.”
You finish tightening the last bolt, test the arm, and give a satisfied nod. “There. Embarrassment averted.”
“I dunno,” Teddy says, and this time there’s a flicker of warmth in her voice, a real smile, faint but genuine. “I kind of liked watching you struggle.”
You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re slipping, Altman. That almost sounded like flirting.”
She meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. But something changes, the teasing quiets, like a tide pulling back before it can get too high.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she says, not quite under her breath.
You blink. “Fixing the crash bed or...?”
She exhales a laugh, dry and self-conscious. “Both... Maybe.”
There’s a beat of silence. The ER hums around you. And then you stand, dusting your hands, not quite brushing past her but close.
"I'm not sure I can handle that kind of indecision. Can't fix me as easily as these beds." You aim for a jokey tone, but end darker than you meant. Either way, it got your point across.
You leave before she can respond. Not sure what you want from this conversation. You're both better at leaving than you'd like to admit, you can feel yourself slipping in to old roles.
Maybe some things just aren't meant to be.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The tent smells like iodine and dirt. Outside, the wind kicks up another swirl of sand, raking it against the canvas like fingers clawing at the seams. But inside, everything’s still. Still and too quiet.
You crouch beside her, a roll of gauze in one hand, antiseptic in the other. She’s sitting on a cot, forearm stretched out, split open by shrapnel no bigger than a fingernail. It shouldn’t be serious, you’ve seen worse, done worse. But still, your hands shake a little as you clean the wound.
She watches you. Not flinching. Not speaking.
“You always take care of me,” she says after a beat.
You tape the last piece of gauze down, thumb brushing the edge of her skin. “Somebody has to.”
Teddy smiles, soft, tired. Like she’s been waiting for you to say that.
Your hand stays there longer than it needs to. Just resting on her wrist, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse. You think about all the things you can’t say here, in this tent, in this place where people disappear before you get to know their middle names. Where love feels like a luxury no one’s allowed.
She leans in before you can overthink it. Kisses you, quick, warm, desperate. Just once.
It feels like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
But the moment she pulls back, her eyes change. She straightens. Clears her throat.
“Thanks for the patch job,” she says, voice clipped.
You watch her recede into professionalism like she’s diving for cover. You want to ask what that was. You want to say don’t do that. You want to kiss her again, slower this time. Mean it.
But instead, you nod. Collect the wrappers. Pretend your heart isn’t in your throat.
“Anytime,” you say.
You leave the tent before she can say anything else. You leave the tent before she can leave you.
And she lets you go.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Grey Sloan runs on caffeine, adrenaline, and emotional landmines. You and Teddy work around each other like old ghosts, sharing space, pretending the air between you isn’t charged.
At first, it’s just that. Space. Cold professionalism. The occasional glance that lingers too long in OR lighting. Civil, strained silence in elevators. Awkward goodbyes in scrub rooms.
But slowly, and with the help of that broken gurney, something shifts.
It starts with small things. She hands you a cup of coffee from the old pot at the nurse's station one night without a word. You don’t drink it, but you hold it, let it warm your palms. She doesn’t look at you when she hands it over, but her fingers brush yours. On purpose, maybe.
Then there’s the case, a ten-hour trauma surgery. You and Teddy scrub in together. The patient crashes halfway through. Everyone else looks to you, but you already know what she’s thinking. You hand her the right tool before she asks. She meets your eyes over the drape.
Later, alone in the on-call room, she sits beside you on the edge of the cot. You’re both too tired to pretend you don’t remember what it’s like to sleep two feet apart. In a tent. In a warzone. Your knees touch. Neither of you moves.
“I keep thinking about that night,” she says suddenly.
You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at the wall like it might answer for you.
“I kissed you,” she says softly. “And then I... you left. But it was me and I-”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
You turn to look at her then. Really look. Her face is drawn, but her eyes, her eyes are the same. Brave and terrified. Full of things she never says.
“Why did you push me away? I tried again because I thought... I don't know.”
Teddy exhales like she’s been holding that breath for years. “Because I loved you. And that felt too dangerous.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest.
You reach for her hand. She lets you.
This time, no tents. No explosions. Just two surgeons in too-bright fluorescent light, surrounded by the echo of what almost was.
“Maybe we try again now,” you say. “Slower this time. No running.”
She nods. Presses her shoulder to yours. Doesn’t speak, but doesn’t move away.
The next morning, she brings you real coffee. And a blueberry muffin.
You don’t call it anything. Not yet.
But she starts walking you to your car after shifts. You start texting her when it rains.
She spends the night at your place, once. Then twice.
When you brush her hair off her cheek before bed, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Stay.”
You do.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It was one of the worst nights of the tour.
Three mass-casualty arrivals. Two DOAs. One young soldier with shrapnel in his chest that you couldn’t save, even though you tried until your arms shook and the tent spun.
Teddy hadn’t said a word since.
You found her sitting on a cot behind the triage tent, her hands still stained with blood, her scrubs damp with sweat and sand and something heavier. The desert wind whipped through the canvas, dry and sharp, but she didn’t flinch. Just sat there, hollow-eyed and silent, like she was trying not to come apart.
You knelt in front of her, quietly. Reached for her arm, she didn’t stop you, and unwrapped the dirty gauze from where she’d scraped her elbow during the chaos. She’d been moving patients like she was made of steel.
“Still taking care of me, huh?” she said, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Yeah... somebody has to.” You repeat the same words, too tired to give her something new, something more. The words don't hit the same. It's been different... since. You crave her.
The antiseptic stung. She hissed, just barely, then smiled. Barely.
Your hands lingered, bandage half-tied, heart half-broken.
You didn’t mean to lean in.
But you did.
And she met you there, halfway.
Her lips were chapped. Yours tasted like salt and adrenaline. It wasn’t a kiss made for fairy tales. It was desperation and comfort, grief and needing something to hold on to before the next siren went off.
She pulled back first. Guilt already blooming in her eyes. Regret, not for the kiss, but for letting it happen. For how much it meant.
“No, Teddy-” You tried to ground her, thinking this time you had it right. Maybe she would stay, maybe you would.
She stood. Pulled on her jacket. Didn’t look at you when she said, “Get some sleep.”
Then she was gone, leaving the tent flaps swaying behind her.
Hours later, when the med bay finally went quiet, you fell asleep on a cot in the corner, your arm curled around her old jumper like it might make her stay.
She didn’t wake you when she came back.
She just tucked her dog tag into your hand.
You woke up to it tangled in your fingers, warm.
And her gone again.
But you kept it.
You always did.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It starts with a smell.
Gasoline. Acrid, sharp, metallic in the back of your throat. You’d only just noticed it, halfway through restocking surgical kits in the basement supply hallway, tucked between the boiler room and the old lab. You paused, frowned. Something about the air felt wrong. Too still. Too hot.
The hospital hum carried on above you, the clatter of gurneys, faraway voices, overhead paging, but here, down in the bones of the building, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.
Then the light flickers.
Then the floor trembles.
A low, guttural groan splits the silence. You don’t even have time to process it before a deafening crack tears through the ceiling above.
And the world collapses.
You don’t scream. There’s no time. A beam falls, the ceiling gives way, and something huge slams into your shoulder and back. knocking you flat, pinning you to the tile. You can’t breathe. There’s dust in your lungs, blood in your mouth, your vision swimming with sparks.
Then… nothing. For a moment. Or maybe minutes. Time warps in the dark.
You come to with your face pressed to tile, grit in your teeth, something warm trickling down your temple. You try to sit up, but pain lances through your ribs. You scream, or try to, but it comes out hoarse and strangled.
Smoke thickens around you. Somewhere nearby, water hisses from a burst pipe, and sparks sizzle from exposed wires. You taste copper. Your ears ring. There’s no way out.
And then-
“Y/N!”
Her voice.
Your heart stutters so hard it hurts.
“Teddy!” you rasp, coughing hard. “Teddy, where are you?”
Another groan. Metal shifting. The sound of something - someone - dragging across debris.
“I-I’m here!” she gasps. “West corridor. My leg- I can’t, fuck, I can't move-”
Her voice is thin. Weak. Your blood runs cold.
“Teddy, stay with me,” you shout, already clawing your way forward with your good arm. “Keep talking... just keep talking.”
“I thought- I thought you were upstairs,” she cries. “I was coming to find you.”
You choke back a sob. Of course she was.
You push. Crawl. One arm, one knee. Over glass, tile, rubble. Your whole body screams. Every breath is fire. But it doesn’t matter.
You’d crawl through hell for her. You have before.
A flicker of movement- then you see her. Through a mangled doorway, bathed in the red pulse of emergency lights. She’s slumped against the wall, her leg slick with blood, her hand pressed uselessly to the wound.
“Teddy,” you breathe, dragging yourself the last few feet.
You drop beside her and immediately apply pressure. She winces hard, teeth gritted. Her other hand reaches blindly and finds yours. Grips tight.
“We always find each other,” she whispers, voice broken with pain.
“Even in hell,” you whisper back.
You press your forehead to hers, your breaths are shallow and ragged. Some blood pools beneath you both, the corridor still groaning under its own weight.
And in the half-dark, you say nothing else. Just hold on.
In case this is it.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The dog tag sat heavy against your chest for weeks after she left. Heavier still than your rifle. Heavier than your breath.
Teddy didn’t say goodbye. You woke to an empty cot and the faint smell of her shampoo still clinging to the blanket. She was gone by first light, reassigned to a different base, closer to the front, they said. No explanation. No request from command. Just gone.
You tried to hate her for it.
You tried to rip the tag from your neck the next morning. Got as far as tugging it halfway over your head before you stopped, chest tight, throat burning, hand shaking.
You put it back on. Quietly. Like a secret prayer.
And then you got your own transfer orders.
Different country. Same war. Sandier this time. Less stable. You didn’t ask questions. You just packed.
You didn’t know she’d be there until you stepped off the transport truck and saw her silhouette framed in the distance, shoulders squared, hair tucked under a sweat-soaked cap. Your boots hit the ground. Your heart did, too.
Teddy didn’t move when she saw you. Didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. But her eyes locked on yours like a radio frequency finally tuning in. A breath passed between you.
Then she turned away and vanished into the tent.
You worked two rows down. She was triage, you were surgical intake. Close enough to sense each other’s tension. Far enough to pretend the ache between you was just heat stroke. You never spoke. But you felt her watching. Felt the way her steps always slowed when she passed your section. Felt her pulse through the dirt like a phantom limb you couldn’t cut off.
Then came the bombing.
Third watch. Just before dawn.
You were inside when the blast hit, merciless. Dust and metal rained from the sky. The world turned sideways. Alarms blared. Somewhere, someone screamed.
You staggered out of the wreckage with blood in your ears and fire dancing in the corners of your vision. Your shoulder was burnt. Your left arm wouldn’t lift. But you weren’t dead.
And neither was she.
Because even before the med team could regroup, before the roll call started, you felt it, her presence. Not near, but tuned in. You felt her checking in on you without ever coming close. Like a frequency only the two of you could still hear through all the static.
She didn’t come to you.
And you didn’t go to her.
But that night, in the silence between the aftershocks, someone left a bottle of iodine and fresh bandages on your bunk. You didn’t need a note to know who.
Neither of you ever said it.
But both of you knew.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You don’t know how long you sit there, forehead to forehead, trying to slow your breathing... trying not to panic. The smoke is thicker now. You can’t tell if it’s getting darker from the fire or if you’re just starting to black out.
“Teddy,” you whisper again. Her hand is limp in yours now, fingers sticky with blood. “Hey. Hey, no- no, no. Stay with me.”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to speak but only manages a hoarse sound.
“Okay, okay,” you murmur, your free hand trembling as you pull your jacket off, folding it, pressing it harder to the deep gash in her leg. The bleeding’s slowed, but not stopped. You know what that means.
You’ve seen it too many times before. This is field medic math. And she’s running out of time.
You press your hand to her cheek. Her skin is pale and clammy, her breath shaky.
“I’ve got you,” you say, voice thick with tears. “But we have to move.”
Teddy groans faintly. Her head tilts toward you, barely conscious. “Can’t… leg’s gone numb.”
“Then I’ll drag us both,” you whisper fiercely.
You wedge your body under hers, one arm across her back, the other gripping whatever’s solid. Every movement sends shockwaves through your cracked ribs, but you grit your teeth and keep going. You think about that cot in Kuwait, where she tucked her dog tag into your palm like it meant something sacred. You think about all the nights you couldn’t sleep, picturing this exact kind of moment, losing her, again, without ever saying what you meant.
You won’t let that happen.
You didn't spend months patching her up, keeping her alive, to let it all go like this.
Piece by piece, you drag yourselves down the corridor, a graveyard of sparking wires, shattered tile, and collapsed beams. You grunt with every inch forward, gasping through the pain in your chest. Teddy is half-limp in your arms, but awake. Barely.
“You’re insane,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering. “You’re bleeding out. And still… carrying me.”
“I’m stubborn,” you rasp. “And you’re heavy.”
That gets a tiny, broken laugh out of her. It’s weak, but it’s real.
You make it to a clearer stretch of hallway. The emergency lights are flickering above, casting everything in red and shadow. You lower her gently against the wall, cradling her head in your lap. Her blood seeps into your clothes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, brushing the dirt from her face. “You’re not alone.”
Her eyes search yours. There’s pain in them, but something else too. Something soft. “You always come for me.”
“Every time.”
You can hear shouting now. Faint. Far away. Maybe help is close. Maybe not.
But she’s still breathing. Still holding your hand. And for now, that’s enough.
She squeezes your fingers, barely there. “You’re the safest place I’ve ever known.”
And it’s like the wind’s been knocked from your lungs.
You lean down, press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re mine too.”
You don’t know if help will come in time.
But you’ve got her. And she’s got you.
Even here. Even now. In the wreckage, together.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The lull came like they always did, sudden, uneasy, too quiet. No gunfire, no incoming wounded. Just wind kicking up the dust between tents and the hum of overworked generators thrumming like a heartbeat gone still.
You found her sitting on a crate behind the surgical unit, stripped down to her undershirt, her new dog tags clinking softly as she wiped sweat from the back of her neck with a shaking hand. Her fingers were stained red at the edges. You didn’t want to know whose blood it was.
But still, she looked up when you approached. And for a second, her eyes softened like they used to. Like she’d missed you.
You sat beside her without asking.
Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched long and tight, until you couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I saw your name on the evac list,” you said, keeping your voice low, casual. It wasn’t casual. “They really sending you home?”
She didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.
“Couple days. Paperwork’s through. Just waiting for the transport.”
You let the words settle between you. Like dust. Like ash.
“I didn’t know you were going,” you said. "Again."
Teddy’s jaw flexed. “That’s kind of the point.”
You flinched. She sighed, like she hated herself for the words even as she said them.
“I just...” you started, heart hammering. “I thought maybe we could talk. Before you go.”
A beat.
“Talk about what?”
She knew. You knew she knew. But she was going to make you say it anyway.
You reached into your breast pocket and pulled out her old set of dog tags, the one she gave you months ago, back when you were still pretending you’d both survive this and come out clean.
“I never took it off,” you said, laying it gently between you on the crate. “Even when I was pissed. Even when I thought I’d never see you again.”
Teddy’s eyes stayed locked on the tag. Her hands curled in her lap, knuckles white.
“I wanted to ask you why you pulled away,” you said. “Back then. Before you got transferred.”
Nothing.
“And I wanted to tell you-” Your voice cracked. You swallowed it. “I just wanted to say that... it wasn’t one-sided. Whatever it was. I felt it too.”
You looked at her, searching for something. A flicker. A breath. Anything.
But she was a fortress.
Her mouth trembled just once before she set it in a hard line. She stood.
“I have to go pack,” she said, already turning away.
“That’s it?” you asked, standing too. “You’re just walking away?”
She paused. Just long enough to kill you a little.
“I’m trying to protect what’s left of us,” she said softly, over her shoulder. “And if I stay... I won’t be able to.”
“Teddy-”
“I can’t be the reason you don’t make it home.”
And then she walked away.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t say goodbye.
Left you in the dust with her dog tag still sitting on the crate, catching the sunlight.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The shouts are louder now.
Closer.
But you barely hear them over the rush of your own pulse, the quiet, uneven rasp of Teddy’s breathing, and the crackle of flames somewhere behind the walls. Your hand is still pressed to her leg wound, your fingers locked with hers as she lies in your lap.
She blinks slowly, struggling to stay present. Her face is pale, streaked with soot, blood drying at her temple. But her gaze, that stubborn, steel-edged gaze you’ve known since the desert, is on you.
“You should’ve left me,” she murmurs.
You shake your head. “Not a chance.”
"I did. I left you."
"You were trying to do the right thing. You were protecting me in your own stubborn way. I'm doing the same now."
"No, you always looked after me, always stayed," she mumbled, "I should have done the same."
"You're here now. Don't leave me now."
She winces as another tremor rumbles overhead. “If the ceiling comes down again-”
“Don’t,” you say, too quickly. Too harsh. Then softer, because she deserves soft, even now: “Don’t talk like that.”
You meet her eyes, no shadows between you now, no uniforms, no operating rooms, no titles. Just the two of you. Bruised. Bleeding. Still choosing each other.
“I waited for you,” you say, voice thick. “After the war. I didn’t say it then, but I wanted a life with you.”
Teddy blinks, startled. Her lips part, but no words come.
“I didn’t stop,” you whisper. “I kept hoping maybe someday we’d run into each other in a hallway again, and- God, Teddy, I would’ve taken it all. The guilt, the scars, the silences. I would’ve loved the broken pieces too.”
Her eyes well with tears but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shut down. Not this time.
“I was afraid you’d see them,” she whispers. “The broken parts. What I let death do to me. What I let it do to us.”
“I saw them,” you say, brushing a trembling hand along her jaw. “I always saw them. And I never looked away.”
She leans into your touch. Her body is shaking, but her voice is clear.
“If I die this time…” She trails off, struggling for breath. “If I die- at least I die loving you.”
You can’t stop the tear that falls down your cheek.
“You’re not dying,” you choke out. “Not today. Never again.”
And just in case, just in case the fire reaches you before the medics do, just in case the ceiling falls again, just in case the world has one more cruel twist, you say it.
“I should’ve told you a hundred times already. I’m in love with you.”
Teddy gives a ragged, almost laugh. “You’re an idiot,” she gasps. “You’re bleeding and still flirting.”
“I wanted you to know. In case we-”
She stops you with her mouth. It’s not perfect, it’s desperate, a little shaky, full of soot and pain and every moment you both lost.
But it’s hers. And it’s yours.
When she pulls back, forehead resting against yours, she whispers, “Not dying today. Not without more of that.”
And when the doors finally crash open and hands reach in to pull you out, you hold on tighter. To her. To the promise.
To the truth that finally has a voice.
The world comes back in pieces.
First it’s the harsh glare of floodlights breaking through smoke. Then the static-laced shouts of first responders. The groan of metal being lifted. A sudden rush of cold air as the trapped hallway finally breathes.
But you don’t move. Not until you’re sure they see her.
“She’s bleeding, here!” you shout, voice hoarse, half a sob. “She’s going into shock... please-”
A firefighter kneels beside you. Another is radioing for a stretcher. Gloves brush your hands, trying to take over, but you don’t let go of Teddy’s hand until her fingers twitch, barely there, but still hers.
“She needs fluids,” you manage, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “She lost too much-”
“Got it,” someone says. “We’ve got her.”
Still, you don’t move until they lift her onto the gurney. And even then, your hand is wrapped around the rail until a medic pulls you back, gently.
“Hey, hey. You’re bleeding too. You need to sit.”
You glance down and finally feel it... the sharp throb of your ribs, the warm slick of blood on your side. The adrenaline was masking it all, but now your body is screaming. Knees buckle. Arms catch you.
You don’t remember being lifted. But you remember asking- no, begging- as the ambulance doors slam shut.
“Is she with me? Is she in the same rig?”
“She’s right here,” the medic reassures you. “She’s not going anywhere.”
You twist enough to see Teddy through blurry vision, her oxygen mask in place, an IV snaking from her arm, heart monitor beeping steadily. Her eyes flutter open as the sirens start.
And then, her fingers shift.
Toward you.
You reach. So does she.
Somehow, your hands find each other again, shaking but solid. And in the chaos of sirens and speed and shouted vitals, you hold on.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You wake up hours later in a hospital bed, your side aching, bandages tight across your ribs. There’s a nurse at your bedside. You ask the only thing that matters.
“Teddy?”
“She’s here,” the nurse says with a soft smile. “Still sleeping. Surgery went well. You’ll both be okay.”
Relief hits like a wave.
You blink against tears and nod. “Can I-?”
“I’ll give you a minute,” she says, already wheeling your IV closer so you can shift, sit, breathe.
When the nurse leaves, you don’t try to stand. Just turn your head.
And there she is.
A thin curtain separates your beds, but it’s been drawn back. Teddy’s lying on her side, face pale but peaceful, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. The monitor beside her beeps in time with yours. A mirror rhythm.
Your hands find each other again. Across the gap between beds, your fingers interlace like muscle memory.
Teddy stirs, lashes fluttering. Her eyes meet yours.
“You stayed,” she whispers, barely audible.
You nod. “Always.”
No one says the word love again. Not yet.
It’s in the silence between you. In the soft, stupid smile she gives you before falling asleep again. In the way your thumb rubs slow circles against her palm.
In the peace of knowing: you’re both here.
Still breathing. Still choosing.
Still holding on.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The first morning you don’t wake up to a heart monitor feels unreal.
Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. The air smells like coffee and clean laundry. Your ribs ache, her leg’s still stiff, and there’s a bright pink scar over your left hip, but you’re home. You’re in Teddy’s apartment. There’s a dog barking faintly down the block. The world didn’t stop spinning after all.
Teddy’s in the kitchen, moving slow but determined, crutch under one arm as she nudges the coffee maker. Her hair’s still messy, and she’s wearing one of your old t-shirts, desert faded and a little too big. You wonder if she knows you’re awake, or if she’s just letting you rest. You wonder how many mornings she did that in the field -watching you sleep, listening to your breathing, pretending the world was softer than it really was.
You sit up slowly, careful not to tug your stitches, and she glances over her shoulder.
“You’re up,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. But her voice warms on the second word, and you catch the relief in her smile.
“I smelled coffee,” you rasp. “And the apocalypse didn’t follow?”
She rolls her eyes affectionately and limps toward you, crutch clicking softly against the floor. “You’re going to ruin this moment, aren’t you?”
“Little bit.”
She hands you a mug, her fingers brushing yours, and then lowers herself gently beside you on the couch, pulling a soft fleece blanket over both your legs. You clink mugs in a silent toast.
There’s a long, peaceful quiet. No sirens. No screaming. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the birds outside the window.
Then she says, almost shyly, “You still have it?”
You glance at her, brow furrowed. “Have what?”
She reaches toward your collarbone and gently pulls at the thin chain there. The dog tag slips out from under your shirt, warm from your skin. Her name is etched into the metal. Your own dog tags hanging next to them. Paired together, the same one she left in your palm all those years ago, when you were too asleep - or too scared - to follow her.
“You still have my dog tag.”
You smile and wrap your fingers around it. “Never took it off.”
Teddy stares at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Even after everything?”
You reach over, take her hand, and press her palm flat over your heart.
“Especially after everything.”
Her forehead tips against yours. There’s no rush to kiss. No sudden swell of music. Just the quiet, trembling gravity of finally being allowed to stay.
“No more running,” she whispers.
“No more waiting,” you reply.
And just like that, the war is over.
Not the kind with explosions or triage or blood on the floor but the kind between hearts that were always meant to find their way back. The kind that ends not with a bang, but with a second cup of coffee and a promise not to disappear again.
She leans into your side. You press a kiss to her hair.
Home was never a place.
It was her.
And this time, you both stayed.
That Emily Prentiss fanfic you just posted was amazing!! 1000/10 ⭐!!
<3 thank you thank you thank you!!! i'm big in the emily feels right now (actually i always am) and very close to watching the entirety of criminal minds again just for her lmao