REQUESTS: open

ask me anything yo - send wlw imagine requests ! -- masterlist

[wlw-imagines]

MASTERLIST

{SOCCER/FOOTBALL}

uswnt

england women’s team

{TELEVISION&FILM}

bridgerton

criminal minds

doctor who

grey’s anatomy

supergirl

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& the others that I am disorganised and have not yet organised into pages yet are below the cut!

Law & Order: SVU

Olivia Benson

Falling Head Over Heels

Once Upon A Time

Ruby Lucas

A Hunter By Trade

The 100

Clarke Griffin

Space Oddity

Actors

Camila Mendes - Inevitable

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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!!!

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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.

[wlw-imagines]

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

[wlw-imagines]

Voicemail - Emily Prentiss x Reader (Criminal Minds)

a/n: we keep going!!!!! this is a personal victory for me - i don't think i have ever published this many fics ever

cw: explosion! that is it

summary: You and Emily have been circling each other for years, partners in the field, friends outside of it, and something undefined in between. You’ve both felt it. Neither of you has dared to name it.

Then, a case goes sideways. You’re separated during a raid. Your phone dies. Emily can’t reach you, she realises some important things.

Later on, still panicked, she leaves you a voicemail.

Part of the May Prompts: Day Six, voicemail

It starts like all good things do... quietly.

A missed moment here, a glance held just a second too long. You and Emily have worked together for years. Long enough to read each other’s silences, to finish each other’s reports mid-sentence, to predict each other’s next move in the field without saying a word.

There’s a rhythm to it, it's unspoken, easy. Banter in the car that softens into something warm. Shared takeout in hotel rooms when sleep feels too far away. Conversations in the quiet hum after cases, where the words don’t matter as much as the way she listens.

You notice the little things. The way she always checks your six before her own. How she carries an extra protein bar in her vest because you always forget to eat. The way her hand hovers at your back when the room gets too loud, like she can tell when your skin starts to itch with adrenaline.

It would be so easy to fall into her.

Sometimes, you think maybe you already have. Sometimes, you catch her watching you the same way.

But nothing happens. No lines crossed and no boundaries broken.

Garcia teases you about it constantly. She calls you 'Prentiss-adjacent', which she says is a lifestyle choice. JJ doesn’t say much, but she gives you this look whenever you and Emily brush hands and pretend it didn’t happen. The look that says you know she’s in love with you, right? The look that makes your stomach knot and you always make a choice to ignore.

You tell yourself it’s complicated.

That the team is family. That crossing that line would change everything.

And Emily… Emily never pushes.

Not even when she catches you watching her across the table during debrief. Not when you’re too tired to pretend you’re unaffected and lean against her shoulder on the flight home. Not even when you fall asleep there and she lets you stay.

She’s careful. Respectful.

You wonder sometimes if it’s fear that holds her back, or hope.

There’s a night in El Paso. You’re both up too late, the hotel air is dry and heavy. You’re splitting fries on the edge of your bed with a bad movie playing low in the background. She says something funny, it is dry, perfect, and it makes you laugh, too loud. She watches you. You feel it.

The moment stretches. Lingers.

You swear you could kiss her. She doesn’t look away and you think you will kiss her.

But then she blinks. Smiles. Looks down at the food between you like she didn’t just feel it too.

So you don’t move.

You just sit there. Almost touching. Almost saying it. Eventually, you tell yourself you’re playing the long game.

But some nights, alone in your own bed, you wonder if the game was actually over before you even got the chance to play.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It starts, as all things do in the BAU, with the first body.

Downtown D.C., 6:12 a.m. A parking garage tucked beneath a federal building. The car was rigged to detonate on ignition. One victim, a federal clerk, and a crater where her sedan used to be. The second comes four hours later. A brownstone in Columbia Heights. No warning, no call-in. Just an explosion that flattens two floors and takes a retired teacher with it.

By the time the Bureau pulls the BAU in, there’s already a weight pressing down on the team. It's heavy and suffocating. Bombings are always bad.

Random bombings are worse. There are often no demands. No manifesto. No sense of order. Just chaos in a city built on patterns.

Everyone feels it.

Garcia’s voice is tighter than usual in your ear, her normal routine dampened down. JJ hasn’t smiled once all morning. Hotch is clipped, short-tempered. Even Rossi’s jokes come sharp, brittle around the edges.

And Emily...

Emily keeps looking at you.

Not obviously. She’s too good for that. But it’s there, in the way she glances over during briefings, the way her hand lingers a second longer when she passes you files. In the field, she stands too close. Not protectively, no one on the team treats you like glass, but there’s something unmistakable in the way she watches your six today like it’s imperative. It's an instinct for her now, like breathing.

You don’t say anything. You never do.

It's late afternoon when you're canvassing with Reid, a routine sweep of the area around the latest blast. A witness reported a man pacing behind a hardware store with a heavy duffel bag an hour before detonation. It's probably nothing. Most things are. But you follow the lead anyway.

Reid splits off toward the front. You take the alley behind.

Your earpierce catches your attention, "Now be careful here," Emily's voice is low and guarded, a reminder for the both of you but mostly you. No one needs reminding but she has to say it, just in case, "You're looking for anything suspicious but that doesn't mean you push it."

"On it, Em." You promise, "Nothing yet." And Reid confirms similar news from his end too. "But it might be that we find a-"

And then it happens.

You feel it in your teeth before you hear it. That low, thrumming boom that knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s not right next to you but close enough. Close enough that the windows rattle, the sky flashes, and you’re thrown backward by the shockwave. Your ears ring. Your vision skews.

You hit the pavement hard. Brick scrapes your cheek. The scent of burning insulation fills your nose. Smoke rolls over you like fog, thick and chemical. You try to call it in, “This is-" A cough rips through you, "I’m-” There's a crackle in your voice, as the radio dips, "Em, I-" The radio dies in your ear.

Back at the mobile base, everything goes still. A blast, followed by your radio cutting out, silence. Emily doesn’t move at first. Doesn't even flinch as she hears your weak voice splutter out her name before being cut off. Her spine is straight. Her jaw locked.

“Was that—?” JJ starts, eyes wide.

Emily already knows.

“Where were they last? Her exact location?” she asks, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

Garcia scrambles, her fingers flying. CCTV feeds. Cell tower pings. Anything.

“They were in the alley behind Bloom Street,” she says, breathless.

Emily is already moving.

She doesn’t wait for orders. Doesn’t explain. She just goes.

She's hurtling out the doors, down the street, around the corners. Reid is hovering just round the third corner she whizzes past and she almost slams right into him. There is a quick mental check that he is okay, he is upright with no visible marks - not that she can see. Emily quickly brushes off the immediate guilt that she only had you on her mind, never Reid, but now she knows he is safe. There is no time to speak. She doesn’t speak until she sees you.

You're cradled against the back of an ambulance, EMTs checking your vitals. Your knuckles are scraped raw. There's blood dried along your temple, and your breathing comes shallow, but steady.

You’re alive.

She stops short.

You look up, eyes squinting through the remaining curling smoke and ache. You smile. “Guess I found something, huh?”

She doesn’t smile back. Not yet. She just walks over and crouches beside you. Her hand finds your arm, light and steady, like if she lets go, you might disappear.

You lean into her touch without thinking.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, back at the motel, the adrenaline fades and the quiet closes in. Everyone retreats to their rooms. Reid’s icing his wrist. Rossi pours two fingers of scotch. JJ calls Will.

Emily stares at her phone.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, fingers curled tight in the sheets. The lamp glows low beside her. You’re in the room next door. Safe. Breathing.

And yet her hands won’t stop shaking.

She doesn’t plan it.

She just pulls up your number. Hits call.

It rings. Once. Twice. Then cuts to voicemail.

And still, she doesn’t hang up.

You’re fine. You’re fine. Emily has to keep reminding herself.

You may be bruised and exhausted, but you're safe. You’re sleeping off the worst of it in the next room, unaware of how close it got, how close she got to losing you.

She should walk away. She should let you rest. She should wait for morning, when your eyes open and you meet her with that tired smile you always save for her.

Instead, her voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too soft for a woman who’s stared down death more times than she can count. It’s a whisper she doesn’t intend for anyone else to hear.

“I know you’re okay.” She speaks into the waiting voicemail.

She leans her head back against the wall. Exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the explosion.

“I know you’re just in the next room. Breathing. Healing. Probably dreaming about not getting blown up.”

She huffs a laugh. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“But earlier, for a few minutes, I thought... I thought I was going to lose you. And I realized... if I had, I wouldn’t have said it. Not once. Not when it mattered.”

She swallows. Her fingers tighten around the phone.

“So I’m saying it now. Even if it’s the wrong time. Even if you’re not listening. Even if you’ll never hear this. I know you never listen to your damn voicemail but... I don't know, maybe it's a coward's way out...”

A pause. Then, barely a breath:

“I love you.”

She closes her eyes. Lets it sit there in the air between them, even if you’ll never know.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” she continues, quieter now. “Longer than I should’ve. Longer than I’ve let myself admit. But it’s true. It’s always been true.”

Her fingers twitch toward the hang-up button. She doesn’t press it.

“I don’t expect anything. I just… needed you to know. Because if anything ever happened and I hadn’t said it…”

She trails off.

Then softly, “Goodnight.”

She ends the call before she can say more. Before she does something really reckles. If it were up to her, she would knock on your door or curl up in the chair outside it just to listen to you breathe. But she doesn't. She can't.

She deletes the log from her phone immediately. No trace, nothing to remind her of the potentially idiotic move she has just made. It will now remain a distant memory that she can choose to ignore. However, she must admit, she feels better for the words being out there in the world.

She feels emotionally spent, and now, after a confession, she can rest.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You wake to sunlight pushing through the thin hotel curtains, pale and golden and warm against your face. Your body aches, deep and dull and everywhere, a patchwork of bruises and stiffness, the sharp memory of being too close to the blast echoing in your ribs.

But you’re alive.

You remember the scramble to safety. The radio calls that did make it through amongst the long silences where you felt so alone. The sound of Emily’s voice over comms, clipped, professional, but trembling at the edges.

You remember her hand on your back when you made it out. The way she held on, just a second too long. The way she didn’t let go even after the medics cleared you.

You push yourself upright, muscles protesting. A bottle of water waits on the nightstand. So does your phone, charging where someone, probably her, left it. There's a quiet hum to the room. No TV, no voices. Just the low buzz of distant city noise.

You rub at your eyes, then tap the screen of your phone.

One new voicemail.

Your heart jumps a little. Emily Prentiss. A timestamp that marks it as a late message. From last night. After the dust settled. After the adrenaline wore off. After you fell into this bed and didn’t move.

You hesitate. You feel the weight of the message as if it had actually weighted down your phone. You're not sure you can deal if it's a butt dial. You need it to mean something.

Eventually, you press play.

Emily’s voice filters through the speaker, it is low, uneven, tired. But something else is there too. Something unguarded.

“I know you’re okay.”

You freeze.

“I know you’re just in the next room. Breathing. Healing…”

You sit back slowly, the phone pressed tight to your ear. Every word is soft, but it hits hard. She doesn’t sound like the agent you’ve worked beside for years. She sounds like someone who almost lost the person she loved and didn’t know how to say it until it was almost too late.

Your throat tightens.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes.

God.

She said it. She really said it. Like the words had been waiting all this time, coiled up and burning.

You listen all the way through. Twice. Maybe even a third time.

You don’t delete it.

Instead, you save it.

Then you get up, carefully, tug on your hoodie, and step into the hall.

Her door is closed. You know she’s inside, her room is always next to yours. You’ve never questioned it. Garcia calls it convenient. JJ calls it obvious.

You don’t knock. Not yet.

Instead, you slide the phone back into your pocket and breathe.

Later. Not now.

She said it first. She said it when she thought it might be her only chance.

And that matters. That means everything.

When you finally see her, when she opens her door later that morning in sweatpants and a faded FBI tee, coffee in hand, hair still damp from the shower, you don’t say anything at first.

But you hug her.

Longer than usual.

And this time, she holds on.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Emily’s been quiet the whole plane journey home.

Not tense exactly, not visibly, but you know her too well not to see it. The way her jaw tightens when you crack a joke. The way her eyes flick to you too often, like she’s checking for damage. Like she’s checking for distance.

She’s giving you space. Or trying to.

She thinks you didn’t hear it. Or worse, that you did, and you’re choosing not to respond. She’s always been good at hiding her fear in the field, but this is different. This is personal. This is her heart, left unguarded in the dark.

And now she’s not sure what’s left of it.

The case had been wrapped by late morning. The bomber’s in custody, the paperwork is filed, and the team splits off in pairs as soon as your feet hit the jet. Some playing cards, others talking, one or two already on paperwork.

Despite her attempts at avoiding you, you and Emily end up in the back seats, alone.

Of course.

She lets her body relax into the leather, arms crossed loosely, head tipped back against the fabric. Her shoulders curve inward like she’s bracing for something... an impact, a silence, a goodbye. You watch the clouds rush past the window.

Then, “I got your message.”

Her eyes fly open. Her head turns sharply. “What?”

You glance at her, lips tugging into the smallest smile. “The voicemail. I heard it.”

Emily doesn’t move. Not at first. Her mouth opens, but whatever apology she’s about to form dies before it makes it out. “I’m s—” she starts, and that’s all it takes.

You shake your head gently. “Don’t be.”

The plane hums.

You shuffle in closer, slow and sure, until you’re in her space, not crowding, just close. Close like you always are, but this time there’s no pretending. No safe distance.

“Because I love you too.”

There. Said. Simple and clear.

Emily exhales, sharp and shaky, like she’s been holding that breath for a year. Maybe longer. “You do?” she says, and it’s not doubt, it’s disbelief. Hope, raw and cracking open.

You nod. “Yeah. I think I have for a while.”

Her lips part, eyes glinting, and you can see it all in her: the fear, the relief, the flood of everything she hasn’t let herself hope for.

Someone wins a round of cards at the other end, there's some laughter, applause.

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

You reach for her hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing hers until she laces them through yours.

“You could’ve told me,” you say softly.

She nods. “I know. I just didn’t want to risk losing you.”

You squeeze her hand. “You never would’ve.”

And she believes you.

Because you’re still here. You came back. And this time, there’s no almost. No missed timing. No unsaid thing left floating between hotel rooms and half-glances.

This time, it's real.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It's the next day and the moment you walk into the BAU together, you know you’ve been made.

It’s not the holding hands - you’re not, though your hands did brush on the way in, fingers hovering like it’s second nature now. It’s not even the matching coffees or the fact that you tried to arrive a minute apart on purpose like it wasn’t planned.

It’s the look on Garcia’s face.

She clocks you both from across the bullpen, blinks once, and immediately abandons her desk.

“You!” she stage-whispers, pointing dramatically. “And you!”

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, do anything that might buy you a few minutes of peace but Emily just lifts her coffee and takes a slow sip, as if to say go ahead.

Garcia gasps like you just proposed in the elevator.

“I knew it! Oh my god. Oh my god. When? No, don’t tell me yet, I want to guess. Vegas? The jet? Wait- were you secretly dating during that Seattle case last year?!”

Emily finally smirks, setting her coffee down on her desk. “You’re spiraling, Penelope.”

“That’s because I’ve waited years for this and no one told me!” Garcia clutches at her heart like you’ve both committed high treason. “JJ owes me twenty bucks. She said it wouldn’t happen until one of you almost died again.”

“Technically,” JJ says as she walks up, grinning, “I said it would take another near-death experience. Which it did.”

You groan. “You all bet on us?”

“Not bet,” Rossi says as he strolls past. “We just made… educated predictions.”

“I made a chart,” Garcia says brightly.

You blink. “A chart?”

“Oh yeah. Variables, timelines, body language analysis, shoulder-touch frequency. Spencer helped.”

Reid, from the coffee machine: “Their eye contact increased by twenty-seven percent after Denver. It was a trend.”

Emily chokes on her sip. “You graphed our eye contact?”

“And your coordinated outfits,” Garcia says. “But that part was less conclusive.”

“Wow,” you say. “I feel so… known.”

“Oh, honey,” JJ says, “we’ve known.”

She gives you a look. One you’ve seen a dozen times, in hotel hallways, beside SUVs, during post-case exhaustion when you’d sit too close and say too little. She saw it before you did. They all did.

And now, it’s just out in the open.

Emily reaches for your hand. It is subtle, brief, but steady. You don’t hide it.

“Hey, just so we’re clear,” Garcia says, spinning dramatically on her heel, “I’m officiating the wedding.”

“There’s no wedding,” Emily calls after her. "yet."

“Yet!” Garcia echoes from the hall with a whoop.

[wlw-imagines]

oh my god, I have been away the last 3/4 days and just let everything queue to publish and have come back v overwhelmed with all the lovely comments!! thank you to everyone who has given time to read these - i so appreciate it. Especially to those who do take the time to message or comment, it means the world!!

I'm taking a break on the may prompt list for today (so only 1 published) but hopefully I'll get writing for tomorrow and will be back on two each day, I'm not entirely puffed out yet!!!!!

lots of love xoxoxo

[wlw-imagines]

I've seen so many of your posts in the more 'niche' character tags I follow, and I just want to express my love for you for keeping those tags alive.

your amelia shepherd? beautiful. your penelope garcia? so perfect it has me in a choke hold.

*mwah*

!!!!! gorgeous anons everywhere today!!

thank you, i'm sososo glad you enjoy them and that these characters are getting the love they wholly deserve!!!

[wlw-imagines]

I don’t know how to express myself so I’ll just say 11/10 for your writing esp the eloise fics I love rereading them

i feel like i am the same here lmao - i'll give writing fictional character scenes a good go but not good at expressing my own words but thank you very much for this message this is also an 11/10 message to receive

i'm so glad the eloise fics get some love!!! she's a bit of a legend (and so are you) xoxo

[wlw-imagines]

if you're accepting reqs at all, are you only taking reqs/ideas for prompts on the lists you reblogged? or are general fic ideas/reqs allowed? your writing is truly phenomenal btw ❤️ love how you word/describe things

I will accept any and all requests!! more than happy to take general fics but i may be slow (i have been known to take a while) although I am in the writing mood at the moment and i am hoping it sticks!!

Thank you so much for sending a lil message, this makes my heart very very happy!!!

[wlw-imagines]

Falling Head Over Heels - Olivia Benson x Reader (Law & Order: SVU)

a/n: i'm pretty sure like 9/10 of the fics so far this month have featured specifically love confessions in a hospital???? clearly working through something over here - plus (spoiler alert) probably much more to come from that genre as long as i still have the steam to continue writing this month

setting: You were only supposed to be backup. Just a routine follow-up, Olivia said. You’d be in and out in twenty minutes.

But nothing about SVU is ever routine. And now you’re trapped, bleeding, barely conscious - somewhere beneath the city in a freezing, broken-down basement.

Part of the Mayloncholy 2025: Day Five, "I can't feel my hands." of @may-lancholy

You join SVU with a lengthy transfer file and a reputation. Sharp. By-the-book. Not afraid to speak your mind, even to someone like Olivia Benson.

She watches you during your first week, sizing you up with the same intensity she gives suspects in the box. You feel it every time you catch her eye across the squadroom. She doesn’t speak much, but she doesn’t have to. She notices everything. That’s her job.

Your first case together involves a missing girl and a manipulative stepfather. The moment Olivia sees your theory board, she pauses. Then she nods, just once. You don’t realize until later what a rare gesture that is.

“Good instincts,” she says. “You look at the whole picture.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. You’re still figuring her out. You watch for her clipped sentences, the way she steps into silence instead of away from it. Still trying to understand why her approval feels like something heavier than just professional validation.

After the girl is found, scared but alive, Olivia brings you coffee the next morning. No smile. No comment. Just a warm cup left on your desk before you arrive.

It happens again after your first case involving a child victim. That night, you had trouble sleeping. You’d buried it behind a mask, filed the report, gone home and sat on your kitchen floor for an hour, empty.

The next morning: coffee left on your desk again. A quiet glance across the bullpen. Like she knew.

From then on, she starts assigning you harder cases. Tougher interviews. Giving you the reins even when others think you’re not ready. She sees something in you. Something familiar. Maybe something she remembers from her own early years here.

You work late. She works later. And more than once, the two of you stay behind, long after the others have gone home, pretending there’s more paperwork to finish, more files to read.

There’s nothing to say, and yet, somehow, it feels like a conversation.

You don’t know what it means. Not yet.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The first time the tension breaks through the surface, it’s raining. A suspect bolts down 9th Avenue. You and Olivia chase them through puddles and traffic, your jacket soaked, hair dripping.

You catch the guy. Handcuff him. Shove him into the cruiser, out of breath. When you turn, Olivia is watching you - soaked to the bone, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re crazy,” she says, stepping toward you, breathing hard. Her hand reaches out. Brushes a strand of wet hair from your cheek, slow. Gentle.

You blink. “What?”

She doesn’t answer. Just gives you a small smile. Steps back.

Later, you replay that moment. The look in her eyes. The way her hand lingered a second too long. You think... if it had been anyone else, they would’ve kissed you.

But Olivia doesn’t cross lines. Not anymore.

And then, the second time. A takedown goes south. You get grazed by a bullet in the shoulder. Nothing fatal, but enough to send a bolt of fear through her. She’s the one who stops the bleeding, hands shaking, voice sharp.

“You should’ve waited for backup.”

You wince. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she snaps. “You’re my responsibility, but damn it-”

“You’re not my mother.”

She goes still. Then, softer, quieter, “You know you're not just my detective.”

She doesn’t finish the thought. She never does. Instead, she walks away, leaving you with an apologetic-looking EMT.

But you feel it. Between the silences. In the way she looks at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The building is decrepit. Mold on the walls. Cracked tile. A chill that seeps into your bones the second you cross the threshold. You and Olivia move through the dark hallway with measured steps, the suspect somewhere inside.

You shouldn’t split up. She tells you that. But the adrenaline is high, the lead is too important. You see a flash of movement and take it. She calls your name. You don’t stop.

Then the floor gives way.

There’s no scream. Just a sound like the world tearing in half and then the rush of cold air and concrete as you fall. A sharp crack in your ribs. The air gone from your lungs. Darkness all around.

You’re in a sub-basement. Hidden. Sealed off and forgotten. You try to move and can’t. Pain burns hot along your side. Your breath comes shallow. Fast. Too fast.

Then, her voice.

"Where are you? Talk to me!"

You manage a weak shout, more of a grunt, "Basement. Floor gave in. I... I think I hit rebar."

She curses. It’s the rawest you’ve ever heard her.

"Stay awake. I'm getting help." Her voice calls from a far-away sounding place.

You want to tell her something clever. Something to make her laugh. But all you can manage is: "Not sure I can."

She doesn’t wait for backup.

You hear her boots pounding above you, then nothing. Then again, closer. A metal grate squeals open. Footsteps on rusted stairs. And suddenly, she’s there. Olivia. Dropping to her knees beside you.

Her coat is off in seconds, folded and slipped beneath your head. Her hands move quickly, pressing into your side, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is too steady. Too calm. Which means she’s terrified. "You with me?"

You nod. Barely.

"I can’t feel my hands," you whisper.

Something flashes across her face. You think it might be devastation.

"You’re not dying here. I won’t let you."

You try to grin. "You always notice the details."

"Don’t joke. Stay with me. Please."

You feel your body trying to shut down, inch by inch. The pain is distant now. Just pressure and cold.

"Liv. I need to say something."

She shakes her head. "No. Not like this. You don’t get to say anything like it’s the end. You say it after. When we’re out. When I can yell at you and take you to dinner and..."

You touch her wrist. Weak. Trembling.

"You love me."

There is a short beat. A breath. And then, "I do."

It’s a whisper. A vow. A crack in something long-sealed.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment.

But her voice anchors you.

"Stay with me. Stay."

The sound of sirens, distantly. Finally.

And her hand, gripping yours, like she’ll never let go.

The sirens are louder now. Close. But Olivia doesn't move. She stays right there with you, kneeling in the dirt and dust, hands slick with your blood. The narrow beam of her flashlight catches in the tears she's trying not to shed.

She shifts closer, pressing firmer against the wound. You groan but she mumbles, “Pressure’s helping,” she lies. You both know it might not be enough.

You shiver. Not from pain. From the cold. From the fear you’ve been swallowing for the last ten minutes. “Tell me something,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Anything. Talk to me.”

She swallows. Hard. Looks down at you like you might slip away if she blinks.

“I hated you when you first got here,” she says, voice shaking. “You were too confident. Too sharp. Too damn sure of yourself.”

You manage a weak laugh. “You’re not great at comforting people.”

“I’m getting to the good part,” she snaps gently, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “And then you proved me wrong. Every case. Every choice. You made this place better. You made me better.”

Your throat tightens. “Liv…”

“I told myself it was admiration. Respect. And then I started looking for excuses to stay late when you did. Started bringing coffee I knew you liked. Started memorising how you take it, for no reason.”

You try to speak. She hushes you with a shake of her head.

“And I still tried to keep my distance. Because I don’t cross lines. Not anymore.”

You squeeze her fingers, or maybe you imagine you do.

“You didn’t cross it,” you whisper. “I did. I fell through the floor, remember?”

A breath escapes her. Half a sob. Half a laugh.

“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“You’re the hottest doctor I’ve ever hallucinated.”

Olivia lets her head drop for a moment, forehead almost touching yours. You feel her breath, warm despite the cold. Her hands haven’t left you. One pressing in at your side, the other cupping your cheek.

“I need you to hold on,” she says. “Just a little longer.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” Her voice breaks again. “I know.”

You hear boots above. Shouting. The sharp bark of radios.

Then, light floods the basement from above. A ladder. Gloves reaching down.

“In here!” Olivia calls, louder than you’ve ever heard her.

Hands come for you. She doesn’t let go. Not when they slide a brace under your neck. Not when they lift you onto the stretcher. Not when they carry you up and she has to climb behind them.

She’s beside you in the ambulance, knuckles white around your hand.

“You’re going to make it,” she keeps saying. “You’re going to be okay.”

You believe her. Not because the medics nod. Not because they start shouting vitals and stats you don’t understand.

You believe her because she’s never looked this afraid. Or this certain.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

Her hand squeezes yours.

“Hey. Eyes open. You stay with me, you hear me?”

And somehow, you do.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The world returns slowly.

It starts with warmth. The opposite of the basement. Thick blankets cocoon you, tucked snug beneath your chin. Soft cotton against your skin. A steady, rhythmic beep pulses beside your ear. Your side aches, deep and dull. Your throat is raw. Your mouth is dry.

But the pain isn’t the first thing you notice.

It’s her.

Olivia.

Curled in the armchair beside your hospital bed, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Her boots lie abandoned on the floor. One leg tucked beneath her, arms folded tight like she’s holding herself together. Her head bowed, chin nearly resting on her chest. Her face is softened in sleep, but there’s tension there too, in the furrow of her brow, the tight line of her jaw. Even in rest, she hasn’t let go.

You whisper her name, a thread of sound, hoarse and fragile.

“Olivia.”

She stirs instantly. Blinking as if surfacing from deep water, her eyes search your face before she’s even fully awake. Then she’s on her feet, crossing the small space between you like she’s been waiting for a moment to move.

“Hey,” she says, voice thick, and that one word wraps around you like an exhale of pure relief.

“Hey.” Your own voice cracks. Before the word has finished leaving your lips, she’s already reaching for the water on the tray beside your bed. She brings the straw to your mouth with the kind of tenderness that feels instinctual.

You sip. Slowly. Carefully. Her hand steadies the cup, her eyes never leaving your face.

“Can you feel your hands?” she asks, her voice threaded with tension she’s trying hard to conceal.

You lift your fingers, flexing them one by one. They move, clumsy, slow, but alive.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “But they’re cold.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She threads her fingers through yours like she’s done it a thousand times in her mind. Her grip is firm. Grounding.

And just like that, you're warm again.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she says finally, voice low, rough at the edges.

“Pretty sure I scared myself,” you reply, the ghost of a smile touching your lips.

She exhales hard, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment she found you. Then she perches on the edge of your bed, still holding your hand, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles.

“You lost a lot of blood. Surgery went well, but they said… another few minutes…”

“I know.” You squeeze her hand, weakly but with purpose. “I wouldn’t have made it out if you hadn’t come after me.”

Her gaze drops, lashes low. “I wasn’t going to leave you down there.”

“I know that too.”

Quiet again. But this time it’s laced with something softer, the slow, steady current of truth.

You turn to her fully, eyes tracing her features. The hollows beneath her eyes. The way her shoulders slump, like the weight she’s carried has finally caught up with her. “You meant it,” you say, your voice gentle but sure.

Her eyes meet yours. Steady. Open. “I did.” You don’t ask for more. “I did,” she says again, this time barely above a whisper. “And I still do.”

You squeeze her hand again, stronger now. And this time, she feels it. You see the flicker of relief ripple across her face.

“Guess this means we’re past the paperwork stage,” you murmur.

A laugh breaks from her, real and unguarded. It catches in her throat before spilling out, weary and disbelieving, like she didn’t think she’d get to laugh again. She leans in, pressing her forehead gently to yours.

“I want to do this right,” she says, her breath brushing your skin.

You nod. “Then take me to dinner. Yell at me for being reckless. Make me order dessert for healing reasons.”

Her smile is small but certain. “I will.”

“Good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, sleep tugging at you again, heavy and relentless.

She kisses your temple, soft, reverent.

“Rest,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you believe her.

Because for the first time, it doesn’t feel like she’s holding back.

It feels like she’s already yours.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You’re not used to being fussed over. Not like this.

But that doesn’t stop anyone from doing it.

Your first day back at the precinct is a blur of too-tight hugs, sidelong glances, and concern barely disguised as casual conversation. Fin claps your shoulder, carefully, deliberately avoiding the side where you were stitched up, and grumbles, “You gave us a damn heart attack, you know.” There’s a sharpness behind the words, something raw, but his hand lingers just a second longer than usual.

Rollins shows up with a coffee and a blueberry muffin, both still warm. She doesn’t say anything but just slides into the chair beside you and starts scrolling on her phone, like she’s giving you permission to just sit and breathe. Eventually, the silence between you shifts. Becomes soft. Familiar.

Carisi stammers through a “Glad you’re okay,” scratching the back of his neck, before retreating to his desk like he’s worried you’ll shatter if he says anything else.

And Olivia?

She watches from her office, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable through the glass. But when you glance up, even just for a second. she’s already watching. And she doesn’t look away.

She hasn’t, not since that day.

The day she found you. The day you almost didn’t make it out.

The hours drag. Paperwork. Light duty. A few check-ins from IAB that you power through with gritted teeth. The physical act of sitting at your desk feels surreal, like the desk has changed in your absence, or maybe you have.

But Olivia’s presence never feels far. You catch the shadow of her in doorways, the quiet sound of her footsteps nearby. It’s not overbearing, it’s grounding. A reminder.

At one point, she walks by your desk and places something down beside your keyboard without a word.

A paper cup. Tea. The exact kind you like.

There’s a yellow Post-it stuck to the lid, the handwriting unmistakable:

Don’t make me come in there and force you to rest. I’m terrifying. Love, Liv.

You snort under your breath. Shake your head and tuck the note into your pocket like it’s something sacred. A charm. A lifeline.

Later, after the bustle of the day has faded and most of the squad has gone home, the bullpen dims to a quiet hum. The silence feels earned. You find her in her office, bathed in the soft blue glow of her monitor, typing something with steady focus.

You knock on the doorframe gently.

“I survived the day,” you say.

She leans back in her chair, the faintest smile pulling at her lips. “Barely.”

“You were hovering.”

“Discreetly,” she replies, chin lifting in mock pride.

You give her a look.

“Okay,” she sighs, “not discreetly. But I didn’t hover hover.”

You step inside and close the door behind you. The lock clicks with a soft finality.

She stands.

It’s instinct now, the way your bodies move toward each other. The way your hands meet halfway, fingers tangling like they’re tracing a memory. Her palms settle at your waist, warm through your shirt. Your fingers find the edge of her jaw, her cheekbone, the place just beneath her ear where she softens under your touch.

“You look tired,” you murmur, brushing your thumb across her cheek.

She exhales like the tension’s been waiting for permission to leave. “You look alive,” she whispers. “That’s better.”

You lean into her, letting your forehead rest against hers. The low buzz of the building around you becomes background noise, fading into something warm and distant.

“I missed this,” you say quietly. “Being back. Being with you.”

“Me too,” she murmurs.

A beat of silence. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile: “Noah’s been asking when you’re coming over.”

You blink. “He knows about me?”

Olivia nods, her smile growing, eyes shining with something soft. “He’s heard... a lot. I told him you were hurt. That you’re okay now. He wanted to know if you’d still tell him the bad jokes I mentioned.”

You huff a laugh. “The classics. Knock-knock. Chicken crossing the road, etc.”

“He loves those,” she says, “And for the record, he claims you’d make a better grilled cheese than me.”

You grin, “I haven’t even made him grilled cheese yet.”

“He’s precocious. And clearly a traitor.”

You grin, tilting your head. “Tomorrow night?”

She nods without hesitation. “Tomorrow night.”

Then she leans in, presses her lips to yours, gentle, sure, not rushed. Not hungry. Just home.

When she pulls back, her fingers trail down to find yours again.

“Come on,” she says softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

You follow her through the sleeping bullpen, past desks and memories and the ghosts of a hundred cases. The elevator dings as it arrives, and she doesn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

As the doors begin to slide closed, Fin walks past, a cup of something in his hand. He sees you, sees both of you, and doesn’t miss a beat. Just lifts a brow and smirks.

You glance up at Olivia, a question in your eyes.

She just squeezes your hand tighter.

And for once, there’s no pretending.

No excuses. No lines to toe.

Just her hand in yours, and the quiet promise of tomorrow.

[wlw-imagines]

Vending Machine Coffee - Addison Montgomery x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

a/n: i promise one day i will manage to publish maybe even a whole week of fics that don't feature a hospital in any way (this is a lie i am sure of it)

summary: At first, it’s just a hallway, a vending machine, and two doctors out of place. But late-night coffees turn into quiet rituals, and shared silences grow into something deeper.

Now, the vending machine coffee is still terrible but it’s yours. What started as a way to feel less alone becomes the beginning of something real.

Part of the May Prompts: Day Four, vending machine coffee

You see her long before you know her. Her long coat fluttering, heels tapping a steady rhythm on the linoleum of Grey Sloan’s west hallway. She’s elegance in motion, head held high, hair pulled back in a style that says she doesn’t need approval. You try not to stare. You fail.

Later that night, you find her again, alone, oddly out of place. Her blazer is draped over one shoulder, hair looser now, strands slipping from their careful arrangement. She stands in front of the vending machine like it’s a philosophical puzzle. A brow furrowed. A hand hovering.

You walk up beside her, cup of cheap coffee already in your hand. “Tough choice?” you ask.

She huffs a quiet laugh, not looking at you. “I don’t drink this stuff. I just stand here and pretend I don’t feel out of place.”

There’s something about her voice, smooth, a little tired. The kind of tired that’s lived a thousand lives and doesn’t quite know where it belongs anymore.

You glance at the machine, then at her. “Well, I do drink this stuff,” you say, nudging a crumpled dollar into the slot. “So let’s be out of place together.”

She turns to look at you properly this time. Eyes sharp, amused, measuring. You wonder how many people she’s intimidated with that look. It only makes you smile more.

“I’m Addison,” she says, accepting the paper cup you hand her like it’s a peace offering.

You nod. “I know.”

And that’s how it starts.

It’s unassuming. It's a shared moment in the dull hum of the hospital night shift. But it becomes a rhythm. Every evening, like clockwork, one or both of you ends up at the vending machine. Sometimes there’s coffee. Sometimes just conversation. Sometimes just silence.

She tells you about New York once, in a passing breath. You tell her about your first solo surgery, how your hands shook so hard you thought you might faint. She laughs, then admits she threw up before hers. You both pretend it’s funny.

The thing is is that she’s brilliant. Everyone says so. But she also looks at people like she’s waiting for them to disappoint her. Except with you, sometimes, her guard falters. You see it in the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when you talk. The way she leans in, just a little too close, when she laughs.

You don’t ask for more than this, more than these stolen moments, this quiet routine. But every time she shows up beside you, pretending to agonise over whether to get black coffee or hot chocolate, you feel something shifting in your chest.

You’ve stopped pretending you don’t look for her in every room.

She hasn’t noticed.

But she will.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Addison’s only supposed to be at Grey Sloan for a few weeks. A consult here, a surgery there. Help out with some OB-GYN cases, offer her expertise, then disappear in a flash of designer heels and enviable confidence.

But she doesn’t leave.

Not after two weeks. Not after three. She extends her stay, citing unfinished cases and 'teaching opportunities', but you’re not entirely sure it’s about the cases anymore.

She starts shadowing your surgeries, curious, insightful, always one step ahead. She asks questions in scrub caps and surgical masks, her voice smooth and controlled through the OR noise. At night, she finds you at the vending machine. Like always.

She doesn’t always drink the coffee. She still pretends to think about it every time.

One night, you're both leaning against the wall beside the machine, steam curling from your cup, silence stretched between you. It’s not awkward. With Addison, it never is. She has a way of filling silences without saying anything at all.

You break it anyway. “So, how long are you staying now?”

She shrugs. “A little longer.”

“Because of the groundbreaking surgical techniques? Or the vending machine company?” You joke, but there is vulnerability in your question. A question where you only really want one answer.

That earns you a rare, soft laugh, one of the good ones, the kind that escapes before she can catch it. “It’s definitely the vending machine,” she says, smiling down into her cup. “You’re part of the charm.”

It’s easier after that. She opens up in bits and pieces. She talks about New York more. About old friends, old mistakes. About how she never meant to end up here but somehow, it doesn’t feel so bad.

Then, one night, the conversation shifts.

It starts with a patient. A complicated labour. A healthy baby in the end, but only after hours of uncertainty. You’re both drained, leaning against the vending machine like it might hold you up if the walls don't.

“I was married once,” she says suddenly.

You glance over. Her expression is unreadable.

“Twice, actually,” she adds. “And yet I’ve never been in the right place at the right time.”

You say nothing at first. The hallway is quiet. You sip your coffee and try not to sound like you’re about to say something reckless.

“Maybe this is the right time,” you say finally, quietly.

She doesn’t look at you. She stares ahead, at the rows of candy bars and drinks, like they might offer her an answer.

When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.”

She goes silent then. Doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. Just nods once and disappears down the hall.

You’re left standing beside the hum of the machine, your coffee going cold in your hand. Unsure if you have completely wrecked a good thing.

But she comes back the next night.

Of course she does.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You know the moment the case goes sideways. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sick, heavy twist that only comes when everything starts slipping through your fingers.

A young mother. Complications. A baby born too soon. A decision made in seconds, and still not fast enough.

Addison had been running point. Cool, confident, precise.

Until she wasn’t.

Now, the room is quiet. The baby in NICU. The mother stable, but not safe. There’s no celebration. Just the lingering question... could we have done more?

You don’t see her for hours after. Not until you wander the hospital halls in the low glow of night, half-wild with worry, until you find her.

She’s in the on-call room. Curled on the cot like she’s trying to disappear into the wall. Her heels are kicked off. Her coat is crumpled in the corner. Her face is turned away, but you see the outline of her profile, too still, too quiet.

You don’t say her name. Just ease the door shut and sit on the edge of the cot beside her.

A long moment passes. Then, softly, she says, “She was twenty-three.”

You nod. You remember.

“She looked at me like I could save her,” Addison whispers, voice cracking on the edges. “Like I was magic. And I couldn’t do anything.”

You shake your head, gently. “You did everything.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

You reach for her hand, not expecting her to take it. But she does. Clings to it. Her fingers are cold.

For a long while, neither of you says anything. Some colleague's footsteps patter past. The wind rustles. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps.

When she finally moves, it’s only to sit up. To press her palms to her eyes, like she can erase the day by sheer force of will.

You don’t offer empty comfort. Addison Montgomery doesn’t want soft words that lie. She wants truth. So you give her yours.

“You’re allowed to fall apart.”

She exhales, shaky. “I don’t know how to. Not in a way that makes sense.”

Later, much later, you find her standing at the vending machine again. Same old dance, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the rows of junk food she’ll never buy.

You approach quietly, coffee in hand. You don’t say anything. Just stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, like always.

She turns to you. And for the first time, she looks… tired. Real. Not the woman who owns the room, but the one still fighting to believe she deserves to be in it.

She takes the cup from your hand. Doesn’t drink it. Just lets her fingers close around yours where they meet at the paper rim.

“This is starting to mean something,” she says, barely above a whisper.

You don’t flinch. “It already does. To me.”

Her fingers tighten, just a little. Enough to say she hears you.

Enough to say she might believe you, too.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next few nights, she doesn’t come.

You linger by the vending machine anyway, coffee cooling in your hands, hope unraveling thread by thread. The ritual had become your favourite part of day, quiet, simple, grounding. And now there’s nothing but the clunk of the machine dispensing a drink no one wants and the echo of her absence in the hallway.

You try not to take it personally. She’s busy, maybe. Caught in surgery, in meetings. Maybe she’s just tired.

But you know it’s more than that.

Something shifted the night she took your hand. The moment she admitted, softly, almost fearfully, that it was starting to mean something. The warmth of her fingers curled around yours still lingers like an echo, like a ghost.

And now she’s pulling away.

You tell yourself not to chase her.

You fail.

You find her by accident, two days later, in the elevator. She’s already inside, arms crossed, eyes distant. The doors are just starting to close when she sees you and doesn’t bother to press the button to stop them.

You step in anyway.

Silence falls between you as the elevator hums and sinks. You stand close, too close. The way you always do. But this time it feels different. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea if she’ll catch you if you jump.

She doesn’t look at you, not at first. But she speaks.

“You know I’ve been married,” she says, voice low, words careful. “Twice. And still I find myself doing the same thing. Running.”

You glance over. Her eyes are on the buttons. Anywhere but you.

“I scare you that much?” you ask gently.

Her lips quirk, sad and amused all at once. “You scare me because you’re kind. Because you make me feel seen. Because I want to believe there’s still time for this, whatever this is.”

The elevator dings at a floor no one needs, then closes again before either of you moves.

“I’m not asking you for everything,” you say, voice steady. “I’m just asking you not to walk away before we even begin.”

She turns then, finally, finally meeting your eyes.

“You make it sound easy.”

“I know it’s not.”

Her expression crumples just slightly. “I want to want this.”

“You don’t have to want it all at once. Just… maybe want it with me.”

Another pause. Then she nods, slow and trembling. Like maybe, for the first time, she’s letting herself hope.

“I do,” she says quietly. “I do want it. I want it with you, no one else.”

The elevator doors open again. A nurse peers in, then quickly backs out, apologising.

Neither of you moves. The moment is suspended, fragile, precious, real.

You smile. “Then let’s figure it out. One cup of terrible coffee at a time.”

She lets out a laugh, breathless and unsure, but full of something like relief.

“Okay,” she says. “But I’m not drinking that stuff alone.”

You smile, “I’d never let you.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A storm traps everyone in the hospital.

Thunder growls outside like something restless and wild, wind battering the windows hard enough to make the lights flicker. The backup generators kick in with a low, steady hum. It’s late, past midnight, and the usual chaos of Grey Sloan has stilled into a hush of sleeping patients and tired staff riding out the night shift.

You wander, empty coffee cup in hand, until your feet carry you exactly where you always end up.

The vending machine hums softly in the quiet. There’s a light flickering inside the machine. A half-empty snack rack. And her.

Addison’s already there, like she’s been waiting for you.

She’s in scrubs and a sweatshirt, hair tied up messily, strands falling in front of her face. She looks tired. Human. Beautiful. She doesn’t say anything when you approach. She just offers you one of the two steaming paper cups sitting next to her.

You take it. She doesn’t take hers.

You both stand there for a long moment in the hush, sipping coffee neither of you actually likes, warmed by routine and presence and the thunder rolling overhead.

Then she sets her cup down on the machine behind her. Turns to face you fully.

No smile. No sarcasm. No shield.

Just her.

Her hands come up slowly, gentle, hesitant, as if asking permission even now. One settles at your jaw, the other finds your waist. And then, softly, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she rushes it, she kisses you.

It’s not a dramatic moment. No swelling music, no grand declarations. Just two people in a dim hospital hallway, finding each other after too long of being afraid to.

Her lips are soft. Warm. Tasting faintly of cheap coffee and something unmistakably her.

You melt into it. Into her.

The storm outside rages, but here, in this tiny circle of light and quiet, the world is still.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are shining. Your breath mingles in the narrow space between you.

“I’ve had worse coffee,” she whispers.

You manage a smile, your chest aching in the best possible way. “You’ve never had better company.”

A laugh breaks from her. It is low and breathless, full of something light you haven’t heard from her in weeks. Maybe longer. Her forehead presses gently to yours.

“I’m still scared,” she admits. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” you whisper back. “Not if you don’t want to.”

She shakes her head, nose brushing yours. “I want this.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

Another kiss. This one deeper. Certain.

When the storm finally breaks and morning starts to blush against the windows, you’re still there, two coffee cups abandoned, the vending machine beside you.

And Addison’s hand in yours, like it belongs there.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It starts like always, Addison leaning against the vending machine, two cups of questionable coffee perched on top, her head tilted in mock elegance.

“I saved you the worse one,” she says as you approach.

“You always do,” you reply, taking the less-scorched cup and sipping with exaggerated drama. “Mmm. Burnt plastic with... what is that? Notes of regret and college debt?”

“Ah, vintage vending machine,” she muses. “2007 was a good year.”

You both laugh. It’s effortless now, the way you orbit each other. The way you lean into the space you used to avoid.

She watches you over her cup, eyes warm and glittering. “I still hate this stuff.”

“You drink it every night.”

“I drink it with you.”

Something in your chest goes soft.

You take a step closer, bump her gently with your shoulder. “You don’t have to, you know. We could upgrade.”

She gasps. “Betray the machine?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, there’s better coffee. Like… actual coffee.”

Addison pouts, nudging your foot with hers. “But that coffee doesn’t come with you.”

You smile and set your cup aside. Pull her close by the hips.

“It'll always come with me,” you murmur, before kissing her slow, deep, right there in the middle of the hallway.

Someone whistles in the distance. You both ignore it.

When you break apart, she rests her forehead against yours. “You keep kissing me like that, I might start thinking this is serious.”

“It is.”

“Even with the terrible coffee?”

You grin. “Especially with the terrible coffee.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Well then, you got sugar?”

You hand her a packet of a few you keep in your scrubs pocket. “Always.”

You drink. You kiss. You laugh.

And when she tucks herself under your arm, like it’s second nature, you realize something very simple and very true:

This isn’t just a ritual anymore.

It’s home.

[wlw-imagines]

Bleeding Heart - Penelope Garcia x Reader (Criminal Minds)

a/n: we survive another day of may prompts!!! (touch wood for the rest) - inspired by the shooting episode but not that one !

summary: Penelope Garcia was always sunshine in a dark world, always deflecting with sparkle, always dancing around her own feelings. Especially the ones she had for you.

Until the day she thought she was being a hero. Until the day she was shot.

And you were the one who found her.

Part of Mayloncholy 2025: Day Four, bleeding out of @may-lancholy

Penelope Garcia has always been a kaleidoscope of contradictions, bright colors and rapid-fire jokes, glitter eyeliner and code-cracking brilliance. And somehow, from the moment you stepped into the BAU, she decided you were worthy of being a part of her vibrant world.

Your friendship bloomed fast. She’d call you by ridiculous nicknames over the intercom, sugarplum, hotshot, divine creature of the fiber optic realm. You’d fire back with emails filled with GIFs and sarcasm, until Hotch threatened to monitor your office communications. You shared lunches, sneaking into each other’s offices with takeout and your latest string of inside jokes. No matter how heavy the cases got, Garcia was your safe place.

You fell in love with her somewhere between a poorly made sandwich and a string of midnight tech support sessions. Not all at once. More like a soft, persistent tide wearing away your defenses. But she sparkled too much, she hid too well behind her wit and whimsy, for you to ever really say it. She made you feel special, yes. But you knew that she made everyone feel that way. Every call with the team only proved your point.

Still, lately… something’s changed.

She’s been distant in ways only you would notice. Laughing too loud. Smiling too wide. Her jokes come faster now, like she’s trying to drown something out. Her eyes dart around the bullpen more. She checks her phone too often. Her coffee goes cold beside her without a single sip.

“Hey,” you ask one day, gently, catching her outside the conference room. “You okay?”

She gives you the usual grin, but it falters at the corners. “Of course, sugarplum. I’m unbreakable. Practically glitter-coated Kevlar.”

But you’re not buying it. You tilt your head. “Penelope.”

Her eyes flick away. “Don’t worry. I’ve just been chasing a weird lead. Nothing big. It’ll shake out.”

You want to push. But her walls are wrapped in pink tulle and charm, and she’s built them high. So you just let her brush past you.

That night, you stare at your inbox a little too long, rereading one of her old messages.

From: Garcia, Penelope Subject: World’s Most Beautiful Human (Spoiler: It’s You)

Hey you. Just wanted to remind you that you’re doing an amazing job and I love sharing air with you. Now go crack that case like the radiant badass you are.

You smile, even as your chest aches.

She’s always known how to say the things you need to hear. But lately, she’s forgotten how to let you say them back.

And deep down, you can feel it coming, that moment when her shine won’t be enough to hide whatever’s going on. You just don’t know that it’s racing toward you faster than either of you can see.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The call came just after dusk. You knew something was wrong the moment you saw her name on your phone. Not the usual flurry of emojis. No playful subject line.

Just: Need a favor. Meet me in the back lot behind that old bakery on 7th. Come alone.

You didn’t hesitate.

By the time you pulled into the near-empty lot, the sun was fading behind the rooftops. You spotted her car immediately—parked off to the side, tucked beneath the shadows of a flickering streetlamp. Garcia stood beside it, jacket drawn tight against the wind, her blonde hair glowing faintly in the dim light. She looked smaller than usual. Folded in on herself. Nervous.

You were already halfway to her when it happened.

One crack. Sharp and cruel.

The gunshot tore through the quiet like a scream.

She dropped.

Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You sprinted, slipping on gravel, knees slamming hard against the ground as you slid beside her. Blood bloomed across her blouse, vivid and terrible. Her hands clutched at her stomach, shaking. Her lips parted in pain and then softened when she saw you.

“Oh,” she breathed, voice feather-light. “Hi.”

“Penelope.” You were already tearing off your jacket, pressing it to her wound, your hands slick with her blood. “Hey. Hey. Stay with me. Okay? I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d actually…” Her lashes fluttered. “I thought I was being smart.”

“You are smart. You’re brilliant. And brave. And- Jesus, just... don’t talk, okay? Help’s coming. Just hold on.” Your voice cracked around the edges. You pressed harder against the wound, willing the bleeding to stop, to slow, anything.

She grimaced. “I messed it up, didn’t I?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I meant to do it properly. To do a good job, worthy of the team.” Her fingers curled weakly around your wrist.

You shook your head, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. “You did, you did. But, Pen, none of that matters. Just stay with me.”

Behind you, tires screeched. Doors slammed. Morgan’s voice, sharp, panicked, echoed from somewhere far away. But your world had narrowed to her pale face, her shallow breaths, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing keeping her tethered.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, over and over. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”

Her eyes fluttered. She tried to smile. “I was going to make a joke about dying dramatically in your arms, but it’s less funny now.”

“You’re not dying.”

“You’re very convincing.” Her breath hitched.

“Good. Then believe me.” You leaned closer, voice trembling. “Please. Stay.”

And as the sirens wailed down the street, she blinked up at you, eyes full of fear and something else.

Something she’d been hiding behind all the sparkle.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The sirens are close now. Red and blue lights begin to flash against the buildings. You can hear shouting, voices you know, footsteps pounding on pavement, but all of it is background noise.

You only see her.

Penelope's skin is too pale, her breath too shallow. You keep pressure on the wound with one hand, and with the other, you brush her damp hair back from her face. She's still conscious, but just barely. Her lips tremble when she tries to speak.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Eyes on me, okay? Just keep looking at me.”

"That's easy to do," She nods faintly. Then winces. Her eyes flutter. “I didn’t want this.”

“You didn’t want what?”

Her hand lifts, slow, shaking, and curls loosely in your shirt. It’s barely a grip, more a touch, but it’s enough to make your heart break.

“It to end like this,” she whispers.

“Penelope…” You lean in closer. Her breath brushes your cheek.

“I always thought... if I kept it light, if I was the fun one… the safe one… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“Ruin what?”

She gives a faint, broken laugh. “Us. You. I love you, okay? I love you so much it hurts. And now I’m bleeding all over your shoes and this is- this is the worst first confession in the history of confessions.”

Your chest tightens so hard it steals your breath. For a moment, all you can do is look at her, at the way her mascara has smudged just under one eye, at the desperate hope barely hanging on in her expression.

She loves you.

And she’s saying it now, like it’s her last chance. Like she thinks you might not want it. Like she doesn’t know you’ve been in love with her for years.

You swallow hard. “Penelope-”

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like this.” Her voice cracks. “But I didn’t want to die without telling you. Even if it makes things worse. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just- I needed you to know.”

“Stop,” you say, voice shaking. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay.”

She tries to smile again, but it slips. Her eyes well up, one tear spilling down her temple.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

“I know,” you whisper, forehead pressing gently against hers. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

Her fingers twitch, curling tighter into your shirt.

“I love you,” she murmurs again, barely audible.

And then her eyes slide closed.

“Penelope-!”

But the EMTs are there now, pulling you back, lifting her onto a stretcher with fast, practiced hands. You scramble after them, heart in your throat.

You can still feel her confession echoing through you.

It came like a storm, like a last breath, terrifying and true.

You just hope she’s still awake to hear yours.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The ambulance is a blur of red lights and urgency. The siren wails, but you barely register it over the roar in your own head.

You’re holding her hand.

You won’t let go.

She’s not unconscious, not really, just somewhere between here and there. Her lashes flutter now and then. Her chest rises and falls, shaky but present. The paramedics work around you, calling out numbers, inserting IVs, trying to stabilise the bleeding. One of them tries to move you back.

“She stays calm when I’m here,” you protest, and something in your voice must land, because they let you be. They let you be to murmur your versions of 'I love you' over and over again, just hoping they get through to her. She has to hear your words.

The hospital doors fly open. She disappears behind them, swallowed by white walls and urgency. You stand there, frozen, hands sticky with her blood, your jacket abandoned in the ER bay, soaked through and useless.

And it hits you.

She said she loved you.

She said it like it was goodbye.

You don’t remember sitting down. You don’t remember your knees giving out, but suddenly Morgan’s there, crouched in front of you, and Hotch is saying something low to a nurse, and JJ presses a coffee into your hand even though it’s the last thing you want.

None of it matters.

Not until someone steps out, hours later, in scrubs with tired eyes and says, “She made it through surgery. She’s stable now.”

You’re up before they finish the sentence.

The room is too white, too quiet. Machines beep softly. There’s a bandage under her gown. A line of monitors tracing her heartbeat. She’s pale, but she’s here. Her eyes open when she hears the door.

And her first words are: “Were those ‘I love you’s real, or just CPR-induced delirium?”

Your laugh catches in your throat. You cross to her in three strides and sit at the edge of the bed, careful of wires and bandages.

“So real,” you say, and your voice breaks. “Inconveniently real.”

She smiles. It’s small, but it’s her.

You reach for her hand again. This time, it’s warm. Weak, but warm.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “All of it. And not just because I thought I might lose you. I’ve loved you for a long time, Penelope. I just didn’t know how to say it. And now I don’t care how late it is. I just care that you’re here to hear it.”

Her eyes shine, and for once, she doesn’t deflect - doesn't crack a joke. She just lets the truth settle between you, soft and certain.

“That’s a good line,” she murmurs. “You should write it down.”

You chuckle, brushing a thumb over the back of her hand. “I will. I’ll write it all down, if you want me to.”

“I do,” she says.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The first night after surgery is the longest of your life.

You refuse to leave the hospital.

The staff gives up trying to shoo you off after the fourth time. You curl up in a plastic chair beside her bed, clutching her hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. Maybe it is.

She drifts in and out of sleep. Each time her eyelids flutter, you sit up straighter. When she winces, you squeeze her hand and murmur, “I’m here.”

You are.

You’re not going anywhere.

The team comes in shifts. Morgan brings takeout you barely touch. JJ kisses Penelope’s forehead while she’s sleeping and whispers, “Don’t you dare pull a stunt like that again.” Hotch doesn’t say much, but he stays longer than anyone, leaves a cup of strong coffee on the windowsill with a nod in your direction. Spencer shows up with a blanket and a book of crossword puzzles. “For when she’s awake enough to cheat,” he says.

But through it all, the quiet, the buzzing machines, the sterile hum of the hospital, it’s you she stirs for.

You, she looks for when she blinks groggily awake.

“You stayed,” she rasps.

“Obviously.”

She gives a weak smile. “Knew I picked the right person to confess to.”

You laugh softly. “You did. And you’re not getting rid of me now. I’m afraid it’s a whole new level of inconvenient love.”

Her chuckle turns into a wince. “Don’t make me laugh, I might rupture something.”

“Okay, okay, no jokes. Just… healing. And me. And rom-coms. And sneaking you things the nurses would kill me for.”

She perks up a little. “Coffee?”

“Eventually,” you grin. “We’ll negotiate.”

The days blur but this time, in the soft way.

You learn her schedule of meds better than the nurses. You fluff her pillows without asking. You argue about which movies to rewatch (she wins, obviously). She grumbles about the flavorless hospital food until you smuggle in soup from her favorite deli. She lets you help her brush her hair when she’s too tired to lift her arm, leans into your touch like she’s surprised it feels so good.

One afternoon, she catches you staring at her.

“What?” she asks, suspicious.

You shrug, eyes warm. “Just… still can’t believe I get to keep you.”

Her expression softens, all defenses forgotten. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know. But I wanted to. I always wanted to.”

She takes your hand, this time without hesitation, and brushes her lips against your knuckles. “No more deflecting?”

“Only into your arms, babycakes,” she murmurs.

And just like that, in a room that once held pain and fear, you feel something new take root.

Something stronger than a bullet.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Recovery doesn’t happen all at once.

Some days are easy. She teases the nurses, flirts shamelessly with you when they’re not looking, and insists her hospital gown is a 'bold fashion statement.' Other days, she’s too tired to joke. Her body aches. Her hands shake. Sometimes she stares off into the distance, somewhere far away from you, her thoughts darker than she wants to admit.

You stay for all of it.

You learn what she needs before she asks. A blanket when the AC kicks on. A new playlist when she’s sick of reruns. The perfect amount of sugar in her coffee (which you continue sneaking in, despite the nurse’s death glare). You bring her things to do: crosswords, books, a glittery notebook labelled 'Revenge Plots & Recovery Plans.'

She loves that notebook more than she admits.

“Did you write this one?” she asks one afternoon, holding up a handmade card tucked into her lunch tray.

“I plead the fifth.”

“It’s got glitter and a pun.”

“I know what you like.”

She beams. “You’re disgustingly adorable.”

“I learned from the best.”

Her smile fades a little then, goes soft around the edges. She reaches for your hand.

“You know… it doesn’t scare me. That you saw me like that. Bleeding. Broken.”

You squeeze her fingers. “I was scared enough for the both of us.”

“I know.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But it means something, doesn’t it? That I didn’t have to be sunshine for you to stay. Right?”

You lean closer. “I stayed because I love you. Even when you’re scared. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re throwing Jell-O at the wall because they forgot the whipped cream.”

“That was one time.”

You smile. “So far.”

She laughs and this time, it doesn’t hurt.

Later, when they finally clear her for a short walk, you help her down the hallway. She leans into your side, grumbling about ugly slippers, IV poles, and the indignity of hospital socks. But when you pause at the window and the light hits her just right, golden and soft and alive, she goes quiet.

“You okay?” you ask.

She nods. Then, “I almost died. I almost didn’t get this part.”

You don’t look away. “But you did.”

She turns to you slowly. “Can I kiss you now? Or do I need a doctor’s note?”

You grin. “I can always forge one.”

And when she leans in, careful, tentative, warm, it’s everything. All the flirting, the jokes, the near-misses, the missed chances… it all melts into this one, quiet kiss.

Soft. Sure. Real.

She sighs against your lips. “Definitely not delirium.”

You laugh. “Welcome back, Penelope.”

She grins. “You’re never getting rid of me now.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Good. Because I wasn’t done loving you yet.”