imdreaminghere

In, and out.

Repeat.

In, out.

You count them.

One, two, three…

Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further. 

Breathe.

In, out.

It’ll be okay.

It’ll—

You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.

They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.

You’re going to die.

It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet. 

No. No crying, you tell yourself. 

This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.

A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn. 

I won’t let anything happen to you.

You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here. 

It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.

It had been real.

The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…

It wasn’t all a lie.

At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real. 

The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.

There was no running.

In, out.

Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.

You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.

For now, there was still a bit of time. 

—

His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.

You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.

Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade. 

“Are we done here?”

He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.

It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.

A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.

He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.

—

He gets it over a call.

The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.

No body was found within the vehicle.

The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.

You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.

They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.

“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.

Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured. 

“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”

“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”

If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.

You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.

“How’re you doing?”

The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”

“Always.”

It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”

Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”

—

“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”

The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.

This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart. 

She’s important to me.

The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.

He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.

“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”

Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.

“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”

Marcus nods.

He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely. 

—

He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.

The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.

He blinks, and the images are as they were.

Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.

Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him. 

He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.

They’re close.

That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.

You’ll be okay.

He’ll make sure of it.

Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.

He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.

“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”

He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.

“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”

It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.

“Seems like she’s really something.”

He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”

—

It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.

You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.

Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.

Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.

You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.

A welcome relief.

“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”

The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.

You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.

“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.

You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.

“How’d you know it was my work?”

“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”

“We?”

Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”

You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?

“What am I doing here?”

He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.

“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”

A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression.  “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”

“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”

“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”

“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”

“Can’t really blame the girl.”

A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”

If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.

And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.

Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.

“And what are you doing here?”

He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.

“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room. 

“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”

You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.

“You two know each other?”

“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?

It’s all a big fucking game to this man.

“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”

“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.

You had been a pawn.

Just not the FBI’s pawn.

You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.

“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”

He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.

What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.

“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”

“Like I said—inconvenient.”

“Enough.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”

“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”

You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.

Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.

“I said enough.” 

—

“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”

“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”

“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.

“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”

“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”

He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.

“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”

“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.

Anything could happen in four minutes.

Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.

“Uh, where’s Jane?”

Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.

He can’t help it.

Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”

She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”

“If he does anything to—”

A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.

Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—

He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.

“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”

—

Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.

“FBI, put your weapon down.”

You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.

He’s here. 

You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus. 

“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”

“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”

“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”

“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”

You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.

It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.

Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.

The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.

Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.

“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”

His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.

You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.

“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”

“Pike!”

Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.

There's so much blood.

“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.

“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.

“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.

“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”

Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.

Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.

The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head. 

“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”

The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.

“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”

—

The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.

This room isn’t too bad, though.

It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.

Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.

Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.

You think she knows you would prefer it that way.

He’s hurt. Severely so.

He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.

You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.

“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”

Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it? 

His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee. 

“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”

His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”

He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.

“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”

His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.

“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”

He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”

“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”

“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”

Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.

“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”

“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.

He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”

"Something going on?" Robby said, tentatively pushing. 

"What is it, Robby?" Jack turned to him, leaning forward curiously.

The taller man rubbed at the back of his head and sighed.

"You seem.. like you're actually sleeping, or on some new medication?"

Abbot huffed, smirking and lifting a paper coffee cup to his lips.

"I am sleeping better, yes."

Robby's eyes tracked the cup as the man took a sip. A sticker labeled Foxglove Cafe caught his attention. "Did a new spot open?" He nodded towards the cup.

Jack's smirk stretched into a full smile and he stepped backwards to walk to the lockers.

"Something like that."

"Is it a secret coffee shop?"

Dr.Abbot's shoulders jumped in surprise at Shen's question coming so close to his ear while he was charting.

"Hm?" he looked at the man for a moment, then went back to the screen.

"Like a hidden gem kinda thing?" 

"What're you ta- oh that," Jack saw John's eyes on the paper cup by the keyboard, "umm .."

"Because it's not on google maps or Instagram. That's how you find places, you know?" Shen added, stepping back to lean on the doorframe.

"How old do you think I am? yes I know." Jack retorted with a scoff.

"So?"

"So?" Abbot's brows furrowed in slightly bemused confusion. 

"Oh goddammit." John hissed, turning sharply to walk out.

"Move your ass to west 13, Dr Shen." Jack yelled after the resident, chuckling quietly.

Dr. Abbot used to walk into the ED fully prepared to tackle a disaster. He used a backpack to keep his hands free and clean, kept a scalpel in his pant pocket, and never once was seen bringing a drink to work -"I come in pre-caffinated". Langdon had looked up Foxglove Cafe repeatedly every other day in hopes that the cafe decided to exist on the internet. Apparently the question circled through the night shift all the way to the day shift, and curiosity had dug it's claws. 

At first it was as simple as oh i wonder what he's drinking, but when Dr.abbot evaded answering, it became what secret is he keeping  then wtf, that shop name doesn't exist. 

"Maybe it's an old cup?" Mel suggested, settling across from him in the staff lounge.

"I was gonna say that too," Frank countered, "but it's been two weeks, a paper cup would've shriveled up or turned to dust."

"Maybe just ask him?" She looked up at him innocently.

"He won't answer directly and working in the ED always gives him an out-"

"TRAUMA INCOMING ETA-" the overhead speaker blared suddenly, Dana's voice urgent.

"See!" Langdon snapped, rushing out of the lounge chair towards the bay.

Dr. King thought it was funny how hung-up everyone was about Dr.Abbot's new habit. 

The way she saw it, everyone develops and drops habits throughout their lives. As uncommon as it is to see, older men can also pickup habits or find comfort in new things. New routines. But everyone forgot that when the older man in question had such a mysterious, elusive persona. 

When she settled on the bench by the lockers with her backpack open in her lap, it was end of day shift and her sister was already calling. 

"'Evening, Dr King." 

Looking up at Dr.Abbot's arrival, Mel greeted him back as he opened his locker, a large coffee cup in his other hand. 

"It's a fake sticker right?" She chanced a confrontation. 

"Hm?"

"My sister had the same one but with an Arum Lily instead. She's a regular." Mel smiled up at him, a flicker of mischief in her eyes.

Jack Abbot snorted, shaking his head, and closed his locker.

"Don't tell anyone," Squinting his eyes at her with a small smirk, "but you're my favorite."

It had been a series of strange decisions that led to this weird prank that Jack has been pulling on the ED for the past few months. It's one of those too subtle tricks that only cause utter confusion or inconvenience. These are Jack's favorite kind, yours too.

You had been running your bookstore for two years when Mrs Brisby discovered it. She was in her 80s, and a quick-witted conversationalist, so she became a friend in two visits. To accommodate her age, achy knees, and her tendency to stay for hours to chat, you set up a seating area and made it as comfortable as you could, with throw blankets, a footrest, and a spare cane leaning against the wall. 

This opened up the chain of events that led you to offer "exclusive to regulars" drinks. Mrs Brisby was going to have to have her tea, but you didn't want the bookstore to turn into a Cafe- you didn't have the staff for that, and you liked the slow pace you were at. 

So you made her and yourself drinks in white paper cups with a random sticker on them.

This made it seem like you bought your drinks from another spot, and so the bookstore pace of customers remained comfortable. That is until Dex and his brother Eugene, also regulars, asked the right questions. 12 Year old Dex was always smarter than given credit for, and he was the one that told you a consistant sticker design made more sense. So you bought plastic cups for his cold drinks.

By that point, the whole thing was a giggle-inducing, fun secret between your friends. Something to be sneaky about with no consequences. A variety of ingredients accumulated in the backroom, along with an ice machine and a discovery set of coffee flavors. Making a special sticker seemed like a lot of work, but Mrs Brisby's favorite flower was the purple foxglove and it was her birthday around the time you found someone to make the logo for you. Later on, some other regulars got to feature their own favorite flowers. 

This system, or scheme, remained within a tight circle, until the day you had one of your flare-up while simultaneously shattering your wrist against the pavement. The day you had the pleasure of meeting one Dr. Jack Abbot.

"Pedestrian Vs Motorcycle. Female 30s, Isolated wrist fracture splinted in scene. Minor head injury, Abrasions at forearm, right hip and thigh." 

EMT Maria rattled off the the handoff report as she unbuckled the gurney from the floor of the ambulance. 

"GCS 15. Vitals stable, alert and oriented. Pupils equal and reactive."

As Dr Robby helped secure the handrails upward, his gaze swept the form of the woman in question. Your hairline was sweating under bandages on your forehead. Eyes squeezed shut, you squirmed slightly as if the pain wasn't letting you still.

"Baseline?" He asked.

"Chronic neurological pain disorder, migraines, baseline hand tremor. No visible neuro changes from baseline noted."

Dr Whittaker, checking the laceration on your head, addressed you first.

"Ma'am, my name is Dr Whittaker. You're at PTMC." 

"Mhm, that tracks, yeah." You mumbled, eyes still closed against the stabbing lights of the ED hallway, and scoffed, "Figures I'd get hit at 15 km/hr and the handoff is longer than 3 sentences." 

Robby snorted as he picked up his penlight to check your eyes, then changed his mind when he saw the intensity of your light avoidance. "Sarcasm is a good sign." 

Dana looked up from her spot behind the counter as they wheeled you in and gestured her arm to the left. "Central 8 is free, Dr Robby. You're an hour pass handoffs, by the way."

"Am I now?" He mumbled, pushing away the curtain so Perlah can set up the monitors. He leaned down to inspect your right wrist.

"Pain seems out of proportion." 

"History of chronic pain?" A familiar voice came from behind him.

Robby turned to the door to see Jack Abbot walking in, fixing his stethoscope around his neck. 

"Yes. Miss Y/L/N, this is Dr. Abbot. He will be handling your case for this evening." Robby said, turning to you.

Your breath was still shuttering with restraint, the IV they placed in your left hand administered pain relief too slowly. You could feel the pounding behind your eyes. The adrenaline from the accident nearly had you forget the usual terror that precedes an oncoming migraine. 

"… Hi." you said in an exhale. It felt impossible to hold a conversation, but you knew they were there to help you.

Jack's eyes instantly went to the screen to check the IV content, then to your pained shifting on the bed. He reached a hand to the IV valve and increased the flow of morphine. 

"Your drug baseline is higher." His murmur was softer as he neared you, trying not to risk more pain with his volume, "This tremor usual with a flare-up?"

His fingertips touched the skin on your uninjured hand after a soft "may I?", turning it over to check. The tremor running through your skin shook your fingers hard, you knew you wouldn't regain control for hours yet.

"Yeah," you whispered, a self-deprecating grin tugged your lips, "might have been the shock before, but this is all me."

Slowly, your shoulders slacked against the pillow behind you, brows unknotting with relief. Spots of stabbing pain from you wrist and leg came forward, but dulled again. Like you hadn't felt the injuries over the tsunami that is your own personal pain. 

The white blur dulled suddenly from behind your eyelids and the doors slid open and shut in a swooshing sound.

"Lights are dimmed. I will check your eyes now." Dr. Abbot said, voice gentle against your throbbing temples. 

Slowly, timidly, you blinked your eyes open, noticing the dampness of tears on your lashes, and turned to look at him. 

"Wow," you rasped, "remind me where I am again?"

"Pittsburgh Trauma-" he cut himself off with a scoff when he noticed you eyeing his face with a smirk on your lips, "Cute."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

The genuine smile that graced his eyes and dimpled his cheeks has become one of your favorite things to see.

Part 2

an: Thank you so much for reading! please comment what you think! oxoxox

He sits in his car once parked in the office garage, finally letting his lungs attempt to drag in a full breath as he roughly rubs at the tears left staining his cheeks. His chest constricts, eyes threatening to give way again with a vicious sting as his mind torments him with visions of the heartache that played across your face at his admittance.

It was always real to me.

He knew it wouldn’t change anything, he just wanted you to know. He needed you to know you weren’t just a means to an end, that you weren’t simply used and tossed aside as if you didn’t matter.

You’d mattered to him then, you matter to him now. You always will, whether you chose to believe it or not.

But instead of facing you, instead of owning the pain he caused by his own decisions and confronting that soul draining shadow that seemed to plague his footsteps, he turned and ran.

He thought it would be the best course of action at the time, something that came to him as quick and natural as his seasoned agent senses, but now? Now he saw it for what it really was.

Disgust at himself.

Shame for his past and present actions.

Fear of rejection.

He should’ve stayed, should’ve faced up to his confession and braved whatever merciless anger you threw at him because God knows he fucking deserved it. He deserved it all.

One step forward, three steps back. 

A long tired sigh leaves his lips and he goes slack against his seat, raw eyes tracing the stitching along the curve of the steering wheel as his mind relentlessly ticks over and over. He’d have to fix this, or at the very least, smooth it over until he’s able to get a damn hold of this case.

He attempts to pull himself together both mentally and physically in the quiet of his car, mind settling on a course of action as he tugs his tie back into place, smooths the stiff collar of his shirt and straightens his jacket.

He’ll face you once he knows you’re somewhere safe and comfortable. He’ll let you talk, cry, yell, hit him—whatever you want to do, he’ll take it. It’s been a long time coming, years in the making. He’ll answer questions, he’ll be honest. He’ll tell you anything and everything you want to know. He'll lay it all out, and then you'll... well, you'll do whatever you do. He doesn't dwell on how bad it would get.

The constant buzz of work manages to claim his mind once he’s in the office. There’s been another arrest, more paperwork and reports, more leads that have popped up and he's thankful for it. He soaks it all up, relishes in the constant need to move and think and plan ahead.

Wilson handles finding you somewhere to lay low. Somewhere nice, Marcus had made sure to mention. You deserve nice.

It’s an expensive hotel a few hours drive away, high end spa and all. He thinks you’d like it. It’s a weak attempt of earning back a slight bit of your favour and he’s almost positive it won’t work in the slightest, but he does it anyway.

He soon sends one of his own to retrieve you, and start the drive out.

Once he knows you’re out of here, maybe his mind will get a little clearer. The drive up to you will give him a bit of time to figure out what to say, how to carefully broach the subject if you don’t bring it up. He can wallow on how he could possibly fuck this up even more.

He seems to be good at that with you.

The suspect in the interrogation room is an easy talker, he finds. Good. Saves Marcus the effort of making him talk. There’s no loyalty here, just quick work under the promise of easy cash. Rigsby and Cho get names, descriptions, and Marcus gets to watch the man who broke into your apartment squirm from behind the glass.

He’ll give it to Teresa’s team—they work fast. He always did like them, except for one of course.

The suspect, he wasn’t meant to trash your place. He was there to find you, and to take you to a meeting point, but he got messy. You weren’t there, and so there’d be no money waiting for him at the end. He turned to finding a quick bit of cash from pawning your stuff, desperate for a little pay-out.

Unlucky for him, you had nothing left worth stealing.

The buzz of his phone steals his attention from the grilling continuing on on the other side of the glass, and Marcus steps away to take the call. Teresa stays put, watching with a pleased purse of her lips as her men damn near get the suspect to sing. Not bad at all. 

He answers, frank and polite. “Pike.”

And with four words, the world is suddenly off axis. His surroundings tilt. Hot bile builds in his throat, anxiety coils harshly in the pit of his stomach and his vision starts to blur—

“Sir, she’s not here.”

—

The apartment is as he left it, albeit void of you.

There’s no mess signalling a struggle, no sign of forced entry indicating someone had fought their way to you. He could find nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious whatsoever. The glass you had used during the night still sits on his coffee table, the blanket you had snuggled in still strewn across the couch.

He almost wants to find traces of some sort of attack so he has something, someone to pin this on, but as he walks around, it becomes increasingly clearer that you had left on your own accord.

The self hatred returns ten fold and he couldn’t be more disgusted with himself.

He was the reason you’re not here. He’s the reason you’re not safe.

Anger begins to build alongside the bitterness churning in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t know whether it’s directed more at himself or you. You knew it was potentially dangerous out there, and you couldn’t wait a few simple hours for him to arrange some new accommodation and for an agent to pick you up? What the hell were you thinking?

A part of his mind naturally jumps to your defence, spinning excuse upon excuse that you clearly weren’t thinking straight, that you could’ve been incredibly upset or angry, maybe needed a moment of fresh air and just forgot where his apartment was.

Highly probable, your sense of direction had always been self admittedly shocking. 

Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls his phone out of his pocket, dialling your number for the fourth time in ten minutes, only to once again be met with your voicemail. Unsurprising of course, he’s the last person on Earth you’d want to take a call from at the moment.

He dials Wilson next, waiting on the line as he attempts to contact you himself only to also be met with your voice telling him to leave a message.

Wilson says he’s happy to keep trying, adamant that you’d eventually get sick of his spam calls and will eventually pick up. He’s not wrong, it would absolutely work, but he finds he doesn’t have the patience right now.

“Don’t bother—just get someone onto her phone and tell me where she is.”

"Yes, sir."

The exact location is delivered to his waiting hand a mere five minutes later. He’s sure it felt longer. 

He pulls up the map and finds you’re only a few streets away, relief immediately cooling the panic that had flared when his agent had discovered you nowhere to be found. Maybe you were already on your way back.

A quick text to Wilson instructing him to watch your position and he’s on his way, biting back and swallowing the words of disapproval that build on his tongue as he makes his way to the car. With how he left you before, he’s sure that meeting you with some stern words from his FBI agent mouth would not help his case in the slightest. 

She’s not moving.

He eyes the text as he drives, trying to recall the stores and cafes that line that street. There’s a café, but not near your position. He tries to picture you simply standing by the street, lost in thought and unaware of your surroundings.

His stomach twists.

You’re not where he pictured you to be.

You’re nowhere along the street.

He begins to strain his eyes with how hard he focuses, rolling over every person wandering along and minding their own business, but he can’t find you. You’re not—you’re not here. His eyes flick down to his lap where he holds his phone, screen unlocked and zoomed in to where your position is, and yet, you’re not there.

He knows that, because the only thing standing there, where his phone tells him you should be, is a trash can.

The car pulls to a slow stop and he can’t tear his eyes away from it.

He feels his heart beat in his throat with every step he takes towards the innocent stationary object. It’s a mistake—a glitch from the tracking software, or maybe it’s just your last position before you turned your phone off.

It wouldn’t ring if it was turned off.

His phone is in his hand and pressing your contact before he can even draw in his next breath, and his stomach sinks with every drawn out ring that sinks into his ear.

He hears it then, and ever so slowly, his phone falls away from his face.

The phone, your phone, is there, vibrating amongst the random rubbish thrown in by passers by. There’s a slight shake to his hand as he retrieves and holds it, wiping a thumb across the screen and watching it flick to life under his touch. The wildflowers that make up your screensaver and the stream of missed call notifications give way to his thumb and he struggles to steady the ice that floods his veins because why, why would this be here?

Why would you throw your phone away?

Anger makes people do irrational things, sure, but this? This isn’t like you. You wouldn't rid yourself of your only way of contacting anyone, not with how this whole thing had rattled you. You may be upset with him, but he doubts you'd go to such lengths just to stick it to him.

He holds your phone tight in grasp, holding the device close to his chest as he surveys and makes a mental note of every security camera he can see in view, before tucking it into his inner jacket pocket and making his way into the closest store.

A flick of his badge and a firm demand to see the most recent security footage from the front of the building and he’s in the store’s small office, crowding over the older gentleman tapping on an aged keyboard to fulfill the agent’s request.

It’s an old system, the footage is grainy and low quality, but he’s able to track the pixilated version of you walking past the store and just past the camera's view. Only a few moments later, there’s a blur of movement above the trashcan and then nothing further.

“Rewind it, please.”

The words are quiet, choked, stuck to the inside of his throat.

The man complies, and Marcus leans over him to pause the footage just as an arm appears over the bin. The image may be shit quality, but he’d know every single part of you from a mile away—that arm is not yours.

Okay, he thinks.

Okay.

It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in danger. It doesn’t—maybe you just—maybe it’s a friend. Maybe you’ll find another way of contacting him. Maybe it’s not what he thinks. You’re fine. You’re fine. Of course you are. It will be okay. There’s a simple explanation, and he’ll find it.

He rubs at his chest, where he feels a deep constrictive ache begin to form around his lungs. It hurts.

He tries to blink the haze away from his vision.

The mind can be a cruel thing. He hears and sees it all so fucking vividly—you crying out in pain, calling out for help and mercy, getting thrown to the floor, beaten for answers, and the final fire of a gunshot echoes in his ears. He feels it physically jolt his body.

He’s the one that finds you, cold to the touch and already long bled out, eyes empty and unfocused. He feels the pure and utter devastation that would consume him. It threatens to bite at him now, with merely just the mental image. It feels realer than before, like it’s an actual possibility now that you’re not here where he can see and hear you, where he knows you're safe, and it almost sends his body reeling into shock.

A sting bites at his eyes. 

His fingers curl into the knot of the tie at his throat, attempting to loosen it to be able to breathe for just a damn second. His heart thunders heavily against his ribs, increasing with every horrid image conjured and the echo of you crying out for help, for him in your final moments.

The urge to retch tightens his throat and he turns away from the screen, inhaling deeply and forcing the image of you laying across a cold autopsy table from his mind.

No. They didn’t want to hurt you. Not yet, at the very least. The suspect had said he was to take you to a meeting point, a handover of sorts. If they wanted you dead, they would’ve tried so already. You’ve got time. 

He half believes it, and it’s just enough to get him to draw in a shaky, steadying breath. It's enough for clarity to start seeping into his view.

His chest still burns.

He has time.

It won’t end like this, it can’t.

He won’t let it. 

“Thank you for your assistance,” he forces out, throat raw. “We’ll be in touch should we need anything further.”

He’s striding out before the man can even reply, phone already to his ear and snapping Wilson into an immediate response. He wants everything.

Security footage from the entire street. He wants to know what way you came from, where it looked like you were heading. He wants to know who you spoke to along the way. Names, if any. He wants whoever dumped your phone, if you got into a car. He wants the registration, make and model and the direction it went. He wants a BOLO put out on it five minutes ago.

“On it, boss.”

It doesn’t calm him.

It fuels him.

The panic, the adrenaline, the rage.

He’s made an entire mental checklist before he’s even back in his car. He’s calling the other members of his team, he’s firing off instructions to each. He wants updates and he wants answers. He wants this whole thing dissected again, picked apart bit by bit and then some. He even calls Teresa—make Jane useful.

They’re getting close, he knows it. He feels it.

They know he’s close—the few they’ve already nailed and arrested show that. They’re looking for ways to fix the mess left by your replicas, they’re looking to make the money, probably by finding out what ones had been replaced. The organisation and people they’re after are angry. They’re panicking, and when people panic, they make mistakes.

Taking you in broad daylight was just that.

Now he’ll be there waiting to catch each one that comes next: poised, ready and pissed off.

Please hold on, I'm coming.

—

He spares you a long glance as he closes the distance between you while sliding his own phone into his pocket, eyes rolling over your body where it half leans against the wall until he’s satisfied you’re unharmed. His hand raises, a gesture for you to keep where you are, and your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls a gun from out behind him.

“Stay here.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You follow it, swallowing around the lump in your throat as he steps into your apartment and the silence that follows does nothing to quell the anxiety twisting its way around your nerves. What if you were wrong, and someone was still in there? What if he finds something? What if whoever did this is coming back and you’re left out here alone?

He appears only a few moments later, the frown between his brows deep.

“Are you okay?”

Are you? Physically, yes.

You give a little nod, shifting under your jacket and doing an internal check over your frazzled nerves and endlessly whirling mind. “Just… shaken, I guess.”

“That’s understandable. You haven’t touched anything? Moved anything?”

“No,” you murmur, fingers pinching and tugging at your sleeve. “You told me not to.”

“Good, that’s good. You did good.”

The praise does little to settle your nerves, but you appreciate the thought.

The door to the stairwell opens, your heart all but stopping dead in your chest at the thought of the unknown and the fear that freezes the blood in your veins. It’s nothing to worry about, the new faces that come through the door bare you no harm, but you still can’t seem to wind down from the pure and utter panic that seizes you.

Marcus immediately strides forward to greet the couple of police officers that introduce themselves, leaving you behind with your arms wrapped so tightly around your chest in an effort to ground yourself.

A high pitched ringing pierces your ears and your eyes flutter closed, focusing every thought on counting the breaths that leave your lungs. In, out. In, out. It works for the most part, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding until you’re able to hear a familiar voice carefully reach out to you.

“Hey Picasso.”

Jacob’s coming to a stop in front of you when you open your eyes, concern swimming in his eyes as he rakes them over you. He’s dressed much like Marcus, clad in wrinkled track pants and a loose fitting tee that you can plainly see is inside out. Another friendly face is calming, and the little smile that pulls at your lips isn’t easy and probably comes off more like a grimace, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Hey Jacob,” you murmur quietly, hands rubbing along your arms.

“You doin’ okay?”

You give a shrug, eyes darting past him to watch Marcus and the couple of officers talk. “I’m alright. What are you doing here?”

“Pike called in for backup on his way here,” he explains, head turning to eye where your front door had been pried open. “I live the closest so…”

You nod, eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry to get you out of bed for this.”

“Don’t be. You should be more sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Thought we were friends, Pollock.”

He’s frowning playfully at you when you look up at him, and you shift a little from guilt. He means no harm, you know that, but you didn’t even think of him when you decided to back out of the case. Was he a friend? You suppose so. You’d opened up to him, warmed to his easy going presence and the way he stood up for you. He was nice.

“I’m sorry about that. I just couldn’t—”

He holds up a hand with a gentle smile. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, it’s alright. Gotta do what’s best for you.”

Marcus appears beside him not even a moment later, slapping a thankful hand to Jacob’s shoulder before resting his eyes on you.

“They’ve just got a few questions for you. Nothing major, just a little statement and then they’ll call in the crime scene team and we’ll leave.”

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“She’s coming with me. She can stay at my place tonight,” Marcus says, and Jacob merely nods in return, as if he was expecting it. “I need you to stay and consult with the local detectives—”

You stop listening, brows coming together as you process his words. His place? Since when is that an option? And why couldn’t you stay somewhere else? A hotel? The little warehouse space they had reserved for you to paint? Hell, you’d settle for the couch at Jake’s at this point.

“What?”

Marcus sighs sharply, brown eyes fixing on you.

“Don’t fight me on this. We can find you somewhere else in the morning, I just—please.”

You find yourself nodding in response to his plea.

The officers behind them make themselves known, reaching out to you by name and beginning a small line of questioning. You answer their questions to the best of your ability, doing your best to focus on them as Marcus and Jacob discuss your apartment quietly behind you. 

What time did you get home? What did you do when you found your apartment broken into? Do you know anyone who would do this? Is there anyone who would wish to harm you? 

All of the questions begin to make you sick after a while, and Marcus must see it.

He steps in easily, directing their attention to him and cutting any further questioning off with the kind of finality only an agent of his standing could. They back off under his reassurance that he’ll answer any further questions regarding your situation and the investigation you were involved in himself at a later time, once you were settled somewhere safe.

With a nod of goodbye from Jacob, you follow Marcus down the corridor and down the stairs of your building. You try to relax, try to reassure yourself that you’re okay now, but with the gun in plain sight in front of you tucked into the waistband of Marcus’s pants and the tense way he seems to hold himself, eyes checking and rechecking every corner and space on your way out of the building, it does little to settle your nerves.

He opens and holds the passenger door of his car for you, and it’s impossible to miss the way he studies the street with eagle eyes over your head as you slip into the seat and settle yourself against the leather. You watch him walk around the front of your car, wondering what he sees, what he's thinking.

He’s on high alert, even when he slides in beside you and starts the car. It’s silent as he drives. He doesn’t move to flick the radio on to fill the silence, too lost in his own theories to even spare it a thought. Minutes tick by, the flash of streetlights passing by your window and washing over your features as your face twists with your thoughts, running over theories again and again until you feel almost dizzy.

You need to know what he thinks before you drive yourself mad.

Your voice catches in your throat. “Is this related to the investigation?”

“I don’t know yet, but given the timing it’s probable.”

“Am I in danger?”

His fingers rub over his mouth, his gaze focused solely on the red light in front of him as he internally debates on how to answer. You study his side profile, wondering if he’s intentionally avoiding your eyes to dodge answering truthfully or simply just trying to find a way to process his own thoughts.

A soft sigh eventually leaves his lips.

“Maybe.”

The stirrings of a chill begins to creep along your shoulders, a sick feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach from having your chaotic string of anxiety ridden theories confirmed. 

“Hey, I meant what I said. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You don’t have the strength to say anything, couldn’t even find words if you tried. A thank you attempts to build itself on your tongue, yet it dissolves away the more your mind races and tears start to bite at your eyes. Your hand reaches across the small distance over the centre console to rest on the back of his own, hoping the silent gesture would get your words across well enough. 

Ever so slightly his hand shifts beneath yours, and a part of you wilts at the thought of him pulling away and taking away the comforting reassurance the physical touch provides, your fragile state finding an anchor in the familiar touch of skin.

But he doesn’t take it away.

His hand carefully turns, palm now warm against yours, and his fingers gently tangle with your own.

He says nothing, merely letting the rough pad of his thumb stroke along your skin. The steady back and forth of the touch begins to coax the race of your heart into something calmer, soothes the sting of tears. Neither of you move your hands for the rest of the drive.

—

It’s exactly what you expect.

The apartment is neat and tidy, decorated with simple pieces of furniture and little splashes of character throughout. You’re not surprised to see art, and lots of it. Framed prints hang from walls, ranging in size and emotion. A floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelf stretches along a wall behind a small dining table and you itch to tread closer to the collection of books lining it, to see who sits in the few frames that sit peacefully on the shelves.

“It’s very… you,” you comment quietly after studying your new surroundings, readjusting the strap of your weekend bag on your shoulder.

Marcus shifts where he stands, fingers toying with his keys and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile widens and he walks deeper into the apartment, keys rattling softly as he places them on the breakfast counter. “The spare bedroom is just in the hall to the left, the bathroom is opposite.”

“Spare room?”

“You didn’t think I was going to make you sleep on the couch, did you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply.

You honestly didn’t know what to think when he bought up the topic of staying at his place. You weren’t opposed to sleeping on a couch when the occasion called for it, and God knows you’d rather take the floor than his bed. That felt entirely too personal given your history.

A spare room was a welcome development. You’d be out of his way and in your own space until he’s able to organise something else.

“Okay, well…” you falter, somewhat awkward just standing there in the middle of his apartment. “If it’s alright, I’m—I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He nods, eyes falling briefly away from you.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Uh, help yourself to the kitchen if you need anything during the night. If you need something else and can’t find it, my room’s at the end.”

You linger for just a moment more, a small piece of you clinging to the reassuring safety his presence seems to provide after the previous events of the night. His gaze moves back to you, so open and steady and soft, it finally pushes you to speak the words you’ve been struggling to get out since he all but flung himself out of bed to get to you.

“Thank you, Marcus, for… everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, gentle but with the firm seal of a promise.

His eyes follow you as you begin to make your way to the spare room, the weight of them familiar and surprisingly not unwelcome. No, you feel comforted, secure under his watchful gaze, able to breathe and release the tension embedded into your shoulders.

He doesn’t shy away when you spare him a final glance over your shoulder, and when he returns your small smile with one of his own, something in your chest seems to warm at the tender curl of it. The feeling follows you even when you close the door and slip into something more comfortable, stirs along your nerves when you slide into the crisp clean sheets of the bed and settle against the fluffy pillow.

And it’s still there, even when you succumb to the weight pulling at your eyes and slip into a heavy sleep. It’s not enough to keep the nightmares away though, shadows creeping along the familiar walls of your apartment in your mind and ghostly hands reaching out to tighten around your throat. You awake with a start sometime later, hands tight as they twist in the sheets and heart drumming against your ribs.

You attempt to settle back against the mattress with a few deep breaths, but the shadows dance along the ceiling of the room, taunting you with your recent fear.

Maybe they’d have faces if you knew who was behind this. Maybe they’d be the faces of old acquaintances, pinched with hatred and disgust that you’d given them so easily to the FBI and out for revenge. Maybe they’d be strangers, twisted by fury and fuelled by the significant loss of money from your replicas replacing their targets.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe this was just karma, the fall out of your choices and the consequences of each finally catching up to you. Maybe Marcus was wasting his time trying to step in, to save you from a fate you had probably sealed yourself in for when you first agreed to step into that forbidden world all that time ago.

These people, the widespread global business that runs behind closed doors, it was all so much bigger than you ever could’ve imagined when you started out.

What hope do you have of outrunning it? Of surviving the escape of it? There’s no leaving it behind.

Your body feels heavy as you pry yourself from the sheets and sit along the edge of the bed, neck stretching to either side in an effort to rid the ache slowly building behind your temples. Your mind continues to race, barraging you with questions of the unknown, the logical part of your mind struggling to comprehend, to put together how this came to be and how it could possibly play out.

None of it seems to lean in your favour.

The mere notion of it is dark, the apparent threat of death stretching and twisting through your mind until it’s seemingly all you can think about.

Marcus can try, but in reality, how much difference could he possibly make in the end? Whether it was now, or months, maybe even years, down the line… he won’t always be a phone call away. He won’t always be there with a promise that nothing will ever happen to you because of all of this, because of the life you chose to live.

You’re quiet as you slip out of the room and into the living area of his apartment, ensuring to keep your feet light over the floorboards to not disturb him. He had left a light on for you, a lamp perched on the side table beside the couch. That little trace of warmth returns with the thoughtful notion, attempts to coax the darkness plaguing your mind away, but it does very little in the end. The thoughts still run rampant.

The blanket you reach for on the couch is soft and smells comfortingly familiar as you tuck it around your shoulders. In the subdued light of the apartment, you nuzzle into it as you pad to the kitchen, taking in one final steadying breath before setting about finding a glass and filling it from the tap.

Sinking into the couch, you tuck your feet beneath you and huddle deeper into the blanket, thankful the warm light keeps your mind from finding shapes within the shadows stretching along the walls.

You don’t know how long you sit there, mind racing and anxiety spiralling out of control, but the telltale sound of a door opening down the hall has your eyes immediately fixing on the hallway, waiting for him to appear. He does only a moment later, hair askew and shadows under his eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” you offer quietly as an explanation, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he replies, footsteps almost inaudible as he tracks his way to the couch and sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh. “I can’t sleep either.”

Every time he closed his eyes he saw your body spread out on an autopsy table, the soft skin of your forehead swollen and pierced by a single bullet wound. He hears vivid descriptions of your death, the degree of decomposition. His mind plagued him, tortured him, with it all over and over. 

He swallows the bile building in his throat, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and taking comfort in the fact that you’re beside him. Breathing, alive.

Is that how this could’ve turned out? What if you had gotten home and they were still there? What if you didn’t have the chance to call him? Who would’ve eventually found you? What if they had come back and he was too late? He shakes the thoughts away, refusing to entertain them for another single second.

It won’t happen. He simply wouldn’t let it.

“How are you doing?”

“Not good.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Do you? You wouldn’t even know how to form your thoughts into words. Where would you even begin? What would talking about it achieve? Nothing. There was no point. Besides, it wasn’t his burden to bear. This struggle was all yours and yours alone.

“No,” you mutter finally, sighing quietly. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It is something, and it does matter,” he pushes softly, head resting gently against the back of the couch and head rolling to the side to watch you pick at his blanket. “I know it won’t mean much coming from me, but you’re not alone. You can talk to me.”

“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start. My mind’s all over the place. I had a nightmare and it—I don’t know. I just… I’m scared. That’s all.”

Your tone is dismissive, and he seems to take the hint that that’s all he’ll be getting out of you while you’re in this state. He doesn’t push any further, and simply lets the silence fall over you both as his eyes trace the outline of his coffee table. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks after a little while. “I can cook you something.”

Your face twists, eyes bouncing to the window where the night still stretches out beyond it. “Marcus, it’s like 3am.”

He hums lowly, and in the corner of your eyes you see a small boyish smile forming on his lips.

“Perfect time for pancakes.”

Pancakes? At this hour? But your stomach rumbles at the thought, reminding you that you didn’t get to enjoy the leftovers sitting in your fridge that you were saving for after your shift. You can’t remember when you ate last, wondering if it was something small before leaving for work or even something earlier than that.

He must see the indecision play across your face.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, standing from the couch and holding a hand out to you. “We’ll make some pancakes and then we’ll watch a movie or something. It’ll take your mind off of everything. I’ll even let you pick what we watch.”

The offer of a distraction is welcome and highly appreciated, but guilt still bubbles in your system from keeping him from rest yet again. He has a rough job, with sleep surely being scarce already. You couldn’t ruin his attempt of getting what little sleep he could after you practically pulled him out of bed earlier.

“Shouldn’t you go and try to get some sleep, agent?”

He gives a small shrug, that smile curling along the edges of his lips. “It’s not my first all-nighter. Come on, you know you want to.”

You fight a smile of your own and relent, reaching for his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

It works.

Through the making of the batter, the playful tossing of the pancakes, and the soft drone of American Pickers playing out across the screen when you both finally sink back into the couch with your plates, you find that your mind had been peacefully quiet, your anxiety calmed to a minimum.

Another thing to thank him for.

That warmth, soft and sweet, stirs back to life, and when you glance over at him you have a fleeting thought that you might be in more danger than you’re ready to admit. You immediately stamp it out and refuse to let it grow into something more, swallowing down your appreciative thank you and instead moving to cuddle into the plush arm of the couch, ensuring to keep a distance stretched out between you.

—

Your tea’s cold, the steady rolls of steam wafting up from its pale brown surface long gone. You don’t have the appetite for it right now, the craving all but snatched away with the one simple phone call Marcus had stepped into his bedroom to take. He said he’d be back, that he’d tell you everything.

Time rolls on, and your impatience merely grows along with it.

Do they have any answers? Do they know who was in your apartment and why?

You hope for something random, a break in from someone’s need for quick cash and that can be in, but deep in your gut you know it’s not the case. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t that easy, that simple. 

He immediately has your full attention when he eventually reappears, frowning down at his phone before sliding it into the pocket of his slacks. He’s dressed and ready for work, the soft comfortable side of him hidden behind his neatly pressed suit. He senses your questions before you have time to even form them on your tongue, and he gets straight into it, confirming your theories and curdling that bitter anxiety back to life.

“There were fingerprints at your apartment,” he starts, and you shift on the couch as something flashes across his face. “They were a match to the prints we previously pulled—”

—from a gun.

He feels physically sick.

They matched the prints from the ones found on a gun, linked to the murder of one of your old crew. These people, this person, had been in your home, touching your things, been so damn close to you…

Marcus stiffens his shoulders, heart beating at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know their motives, but judging by the state they left your apartment in, he gathered they weren’t there to recruit you. Someone somewhere knew you, knew what you had done, and they weren’t fucking happy. 

“I’m putting you into protective custody.”

It’s final, leaving no room for argument.

You’re left to nod, accepting his decision readily despite the dark thoughts that return with it all. What’s the point? His face twists, eyes suddenly narrowed and on you and it’s only then that you realise you’d unintentionally said it out loud. You sigh tiredly, eyes falling away from the questions flashing across his face.

“Marcus, they—” you falter, hands clenching to hide their tremble, “—they’ll find me eventually, whether it’s now or in the future. What more can you do?”

“Anything. Everything. I’ll bounce you around this country until I find all of them if I have to.”

It’s spoken with such a determined vigor you’re left with nothing to say in return. You can’t argue with his resolve. You can’t tell him that it’s ridiculous, that you’re not worth that trouble and that you doubt the FBI would waste such resources on keeping someone like you safe. You’re hardly on the top of their priority list.

“But what kind of life is that? I’m practically on the run until you think it’s safe?”

“If it wasn’t for us—if it wasn’t for me—requesting your assistance with the case, you wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s my responsibility to see to it that you’re safe while we continue the investigation and apprehend those responsible, no matter how long it takes.”

So he thinks it’s his fault you’re in this position. This is him just covering his back, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s so he wouldn’t be held responsible for anything that happens to you. It’s understandable, his job must mean a lot to him considering his position. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place.

“Marcus, you don’t have to feel guilty for any of this. I chose to do it. It wouldn’t be your fault if anything happens to me, that’s just the consequences of getting myself mixed into everything when I did.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know that, you can’t promise that—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he repeats, firmer.

There’s that resolve again. You see it etched into his expression, buried within the tightness between his brows. There’s no moving him from it, no talking sense or pushing your case. He won’t hear it, won’t entertain any other possibility than the one he’s seemingly settled on. How could he be so sure?

It wouldn’t kill him to admit there’s a risk here.

You sigh, hands itching to busy themselves as worry curdles along your veins. It pushes your heart faster, turns your stomach until you feel a sickening ache building in your throat. You could take comfort from how hell bent he is on keeping you safe from harm, but your mind pushes to see reason, to know why he’s being so damn stubborn about this.

Even if Jane was right about his supposed ‘feelings’, going to all this trouble for a silly little crush built from your past is just ridiculous. Unless that’s what he’s trying to make up for. It’s not about feelings that are or aren’t there, it’s about fixing what happened. That’s what he’s doing. He couldn’t stop everything spiralling last time, so maybe that’s what he’s trying to do this time. 

“You don’t have to do all of this, you know.”

Confusion bleeds into his expression, his hands finding his hips as he waits for further elaboration.

“You don’t need to make up for the past or anything. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

And you were, in a way. Oddly enough, this whole experience had given you closure on a chapter you never thought you’d be able to close. Never did you think you’d be able to achieve this kind of… peace with it all, and yet here you are—in his apartment, comfortable in his presence and the bitter hatred that had curdled so viciously in your heart nowhere to be found.

Of course it still hurts, and probably always will, but he wasn’t all bad. His continuous insistence in keeping you safe, his genuine sincerity in comforting you, and respecting the boundaries you had made along the way through coming into the investigation had shown you that. You can believe he had no intentions of letting it spiral as much as it did back then, didn’t mean for it to develop into what you had shared. It must have been confusing for him, the lines blurring between real and fake.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He questions softly, hardened frame weakening under your gaze. “Making up for the past?”

“Why else would you be doing all of this?”

The quiet that falls between you is built with something you can’t seem to place in the moment, his warm brown eyes flicking over your face almost as if he were debating saying something. His mouth opens, and you wait, watching some kind of conflict pass across his face before he exhales gently, his gaze falling to the floor.

He leaves your question unanswered.

“I’m going into the office to organise your accommodations and to follow up on those prints. I’ll have an agent come to collect you sometime later this morning—you can grab some things from your apartment before we move you.”

You should leave it, but you can’t. You want to know why. If it’s not because he’s trying to compensate for the past, then why is he going to all these extremes? Protective custody is a logical step in this kind of circumstance, but you highly doubt there are agents just opening their homes to victims needing somewhere safe to stay.

He had wanted you here, in his apartment where he could watch over you himself. He had made you pancakes, made such an idiot of himself making a mess with batter and tossing the pancakes until a chuckle finally broke its way past your lips, and carefully tucked the blanket around your shoulders when you had fallen into a light sleep on the couch.

Though you weren’t fully conscious enough to recall all of it, a part of you had felt the shift of the couch, sensed his hands near and the sudden reassuring warmth of the blanket before slipping into a dreamless slumber. He was asleep and spread out beside you when you awoke a few hours later, hand stretched across the couch and resting on the cushion just shy of your covered feet, almost as if he were looking for you while lost in his own dreams.

“Marcus, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my responsibility—”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish his sentence. He lets it hang in the air, body slackening as soon as your eyes meet his. The vulnerability that seems to work its way through his system displays openly on his face.

“Be honest with me. Tell me the truth.”

He huffs in wry amusement, face twisting. His head drops, he shuffles on his feet and then he sighs, resigned. “After your conversation with Jane, I think you know why.”

You can’t help but recoil from his words, a frown quick to pinch your brows in surprise. “You know about that?”

His small smile is sad, uncomfortable.

“Jane may be a dick, but Rigsby’s a good guy. He pulled me aside and told me about it when he heard you had dropped your involvement. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were put in that position—it must’ve been difficult for you. And it’s not something you should’ve heard from him, of all people.”

He’s not denying it. He’s not rejecting Jane’s words. He’s not standing there insisting it’s just another one of his silly little mind games, or that he was making a big deal out of nothing. He has feelings for you. Actual feelings, and not some strange little crush carried from the past, and from seeing you again after so long. You don’t even know how they could be there. He doesn’t know you, not anymore at least.

“You can’t have feelings for me,” you state plainly, heart suddenly beating at the base of your throat.

“Why not?” He fires back immediately, defensively.

“Because you—” you flounder for words, eyes darting around the apartment in an effort to string your thoughts together. “Marcus, before this investigation, we hadn’t seen each other since—”

“Yeah, well… I guess they never went away.”

“They weren’t real!” You cry out, a touch of anger seeping into your tone as you stand from the couch and face him fully. “You were working, I-I was just a lead! You couldn’t possibly have—”

“You were never just a lead!”

You’re taken aback by the sudden force behind his voice, and he must see the way you flinch at it. He calms almost instantly, chest heaving with a sharp exhale as he breaks away from your gaze and curls in on himself. You don’t know what to say. You merely wait for something more, hanging on the way he seems to be thinking so damn hard on his words.

“You—you weren’t just a lead. Not to me.”

“What are you saying? The whole time, you… the whole time?”

“The whole time,” he confirms quietly, and for a split second you just wish he would look at you.

He doesn’t, and your mind spins. The revelation hits you deeply, the stirrings of confusion, heartache, simmering in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t change anything. It couldn’t. The damage had already long been done, but strangely enough there comes a wash of comfort that soothes the bitter sting, and the question slips free of your lips before you even comprehend it.

“It was real,” you choke out, eyes prickling from the build of tears, “wasn’t it?”

Maybe not the whole thing given the circumstances, but what you shared, what he felt for you—

“It was always real to me.”

And with those few little words, he shatters the perception you had built of him and the time you shared together. You feel it hit you—hard, your body taking a step back as your throat tightens until you worry you won’t be able to get a breath in or out. The tears slip free, spilling down your cheeks as your mind hurries to replay every memory of him in a different light, one not tainted with betrayal or hatred.

He follows your step back on instinct, one foot coming to move his body forward towards you before he stops himself short. He swallows, a hand finally leaving his hip to run over his face and collect the stray tear that had slid along his cheek. 

“Have my med students kidnapped you” a part of him relished the way everyone in the group but you jumped a little at his voice, their immediate reaction to try and hide the beer as if they had been caught doing something wrong.

All except you who grinned up at him from the bench, tilting your neck back eagerly to give him a quick kiss in greeting with a hum of approval. “Kidnap? Please, I think I could take them”

Mel’s head tilted slightly to the side as if trying to figure out whether you were joking or not while Javadi’s eyes go wide and bounce rapidly between the two of you still trying to figure out if she was somehow going to get in trouble for this.

It was Whitaker who pipped up to fill the silence “Well Santos knows Krav Maga”

You looked at the intern with a raised brow, watching as she tried to bite down and hide her proud smirk behind her can. “That’s okay she’d be on my side”

“Damn right I would” she responded immediately, clinking her can against yours in a toast as you chuckled.

“Well now that your white knight is here what do you say we head home” he cut in putting a hand on your shoulder and giving it a soft squeeze.

“And that kiddies is my cue” You gave a dramatic groan as you stood up, raising your can in front of you to address them “to my favorite doctors in all of PTMC who work under Dr. Abbot” you gave a pause for dramatic effect “who I am incredibly proud of and did amazing work today”

Javadi gave a snort at that “you weren’t even here to verify that”

“Oh those weren’t my words” you assured her quickly “those came directly from Jack”

“Now hold on” he tired to interject but you steamrolled ahead.

“Goes on constantly about how proud he is of you guys”

“Wait a second”

“How you are the best residents he’s ever had”

“I certainly didn-“

“And that you’re all getting raises”

Jack tried to swallow back the chuckle that ruminated in his chest “And with that we are leaving”

You chuckled fondly at him, Jack beyond powerless to do anything but smile softly back at you.

“Alright I will see you all…probably fairly soon you’re kinda stuck with me now”

Mel pipped up just as you started to retreat “we’re still on for Friday right?”

“Yes” You responded eagerly, making your way over to Jack and not hesitating to take his hand in yours, giving the fingers a reassuring squeeze “your sister’s okay with it right?”

“Of course she is she likes you” Mel rolled her eyes like it was obvious only making your grin widen.

“Good I like her too. But I wanted to check. You can’t just crash a King sister tradition without checking” Pulling softly on his arm you started to lead Jack away from the benches, still calling out back behind you “text me if she doesn’t want me to come, no hurt feelings got it?”

Mel gave you a thumbs up in response, you just about to finally turn around and leave with Jack before Whitaker called out again.

“Goodbye Mrs.A-“

“Whittaker you finish that sentence I’ll sic Santos on you”

And finally, finally Jack had you all to himself. A comfortable silence falling over the two of you as you started to make the familiar trek home.

“You’ve met King’s sister?”

“You haven’t?”

And all Jack could do was laugh because of course you have. Of course you knew all about how she spent her time outside of work. Of course you had gotten yourself invited to their family tradition.

But still his mind was stuck on one particular part of that conversation. Unable to stop himself from asking even as he felt he shouldn’t. “Have you ever thought about it? Being Mrs. Abbot”

“Of course” you answered so quickly, so thoughtlessly, as if those two words hadn’t made his heart stutter in his chest “that’s why its written in pink glitter pen on every page of my diary”

And maybe you noticed the way his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes, or the way his laugh didn’t live in his chest as it normally did, but something made you pause before giving a more honest answer.

“Yeah I’ve thought about it”

He let the answer hang for a bit, let you enjoy yourself watching him squirm before he spoke “and?”

Like he knew you would you grinned back at him. Giving your interlocked hands a little swing “and I think I could go either way”

“Really?” he asked with a raised brow “you have no opinions?”

You shrugged in response “I think I’ve decided my priority is you.”

And truthfully he didn’t know what to say to that. In all the ways he had envisioned this conversation going, all the possible answers you could have given that was not one he had prepared for.

“I like what we have going” you shrugged, giving his hand a soft squeeze “we’re good. I like the idea of making it official, I don’t need it though” And finally you looked up at him, a soft smile on your lips, nothing short of complete devotion in your eyes “at the end of the day I’m going to spend my life with you Jack Abbot and there’s nothing you can do about it”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of him, the kind that rumbled deep in his chest, as he forced the two of you to stop, an action you didn’t seem at all surprised by.

He brought his palm up to cup your cheek, fingers threading lazily though the hair behind your ear as he rubbed softly back and forth on your skin, taking a moment to truly look at you, appreciate the beauty of the person he was so unfathomably lucky to call his. “You promise?”

“For you my dearest Jack Rabbit” you declared with a grin, going up onto your toes until your nose touched his, finishing on a whisper “I vow it”

-

“You know you two aren’t being subtle” Jack hadn’t even bothered to look up as he said it, had in fact spent the better part of the day avoiding their gaze as much as possible.

“Well I wasn’t going for subtle. Dana?” Robby stated matter-of-factly, glancing over at his charge nurse as he said it.

“I was going for overt” she shrugged.

And Jack knew exactly what their expressions would before he looked up, could guess the mixture of barely contained mirth and disappointment that would paint their features without needing to confirm.

“Well if you could keep your overt stares to yourselves that would be great”

“What is it Jackie-boy is it the ring?” Dana ignored him, leaning forward onto her forearms from across from him, bending down and seeking his gaze just as he usually did with people “I told you the ring’s perfect. It matches all of the stuff she already has well”

“No it’s not the ring” Jack cut her off with an annoyed look, keeping his head pointed down at the charting he had abandoned long ago “now if you excuse me some of us have a job to do”

“Well if not the ring then what?” Robby jumped in, mirroring Dana’s stance as he did so, the two doing their best to present a unified front, a fact that almost had Jack chuckling despite himself “You know when I told you she was too good for you I was mostly joking”

With a dramatic sigh Jack finally straightened and looked at the two across the desk from him, resigning himself to the fact that there was no escaping this conversation for much longer “no it’s not-“

“Dr. Abbot” Mel King his saving grace appeared next to him effectively catching the attention of all three of them, Jack more than happy to distract himself with whatever case she needed him on than withstand anymore grilling from his two so-called friends.

“Yes Dr. King”

“I just wanted to ask if-“ and he spoke too soon.

“No” Jack effectively cut off the line of questioning, turning back to his chart physically putting an end to the conversation

“But I just think that-“ Mel tried again

“No”

“Have you considered-“

“Still no”

“Dr. Abbot” Robby finally cut in, raising a brow at his friend as he put on his best teacher voice that only succeeded in pulling an eye roll from Jack “I’m not sure if you’re aware but this is a teaching hospital”

“It sure is” Jack responded in a similar tone “and teaching is exactly the thing I would love to be able to do today but thanks to some of us who have decided to be nosey and ‘overt’” he pointedly glared at the two of them “the rest of the staff have gotten it in their heads that they should get to be there when I propose”

And though he hoped that would be enough to get everyone back to work Jack was never that lucky, Robby immediately jumping in with “so it is for sure a when not an if then”.

Jack only glared at his friend, pointedly ignoring the shit-eating grin he wore as he stared unflinchingly back, Mel deciding this was the perfect opportunity to plead her case again “I just think that when it happens I-“

“Okay everyone listen up” Jack cut her off with a loud clap of his hands, effectively pulling the attention of anyone in the center of the ED.

“Dr. Abbot” Dana tried to call his attention, but he steamrolled ahead.

“I’m only going to say this once”

“Jack” Dana tried again as Jack once again pointedly ignored her.

“It will be done in private, just the two of us, at a time when I feel it is right alright?” He challenged the ED with a raised brow, his audience, despite his words, looking almost giddy before him.

“Sweetheart” Dana again tried to cut him off but Jack was too deep into his speech now.

“I appreciate your help with the ring and everything you all have done for the two of us but you need to stop pushing”

At this Dana had no more to say, little more than a deep sigh coming from the nurse as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter behind her.

“When I propose it will be on my own terms got it?”

The ED went silent around him, his students eyes wide as they did little more than stare up at him with rapt attention confusing Jack slightly.

“When you what”

Jack froze. He knew that voice. He knew that voice all too well. And even if he didn’t one look at the shit-eating grin on Robby’s face was more than enough to confirm it.

Jack spun in place quicker than his feet could really keep up to see you standing just a few feet behind him, frozen in place staring back at him with a wide-eyed gaze making Jack curse under his breath.

For the longest time no one said anything, the two of you frozen before one another as Jack’s head desperately reached for absolutely anything to say, finally settling on a defeated “what are you doing here”

“When you propose?” And God help him the way your lips twitched up at the corners as you said it made him nearly melt on the spot, Jack unable to fight the smile from growing on his lips in response as he took a few steps closer to you until he was almost chest to chest.

“Okay fine yes, when” he conceded with a soft chuckle, stooping his head slightly to fully meet your gaze as he drove his next point home “which is not this moment”

“But it’s going to happen?” Your question came back quick, your smile quickly growing to a full on grin that Jack wanted to be exasperated at. It would’ve been so much easier to shut down this conversation if he could remain stoic but the unbridled glee in your eyes had his resolve crumbling.

“In the future yes but I cannot stress this enough, not right now”

“Yes I say yes, or I will say yes” you eagerly grabbed at his forearms as the words all but spilled out of you. Jack helpless against the warmth that radiated within his chest at the action, his hands reaching forward to grab your face between them as a laugh threatened to bubble out of him.

“I am not proposing right now”

You all but ignored him, pulling his hands off your face but keeping them captured in your own as you continued on “have you already bought a ring? Can I see it?”

You were like a dog after a treat, oh so eager to barrel on ahead despite everything and Jack was finding it much too hard to be mad about it “I don’t have it on me because I refused to get engaged in the Pitt while I’m in scrubs”

And finally you seemed to properly take in the scene around you, the florescent lights ahead, the beep of machines all around you, the much too eager eyes of his coworkers who watched the scene before them unfold with rapt attention. “Alright fine”

Jack nearly sagged in relief at that, glad you were finally seeing things from his point of view before you cut him off again.

“But can I see it when we get home?”

A shocked laugh spilled out of the man as he shook his head, raking an exasperated hand over the lower half of his face “will you let me do it properly? Get on one knee, recite a speech I’ll pretend I didn’t spend hours writing. The whole nine yards” Never in his life did he think he would have to beg his fiancé to let him properly propose.

You pretended to think it over, the grin on your face telling him you were getting entirely too much enjoyment out of torturing him like this “Can we do dinner first? My favorite restaurant?”

He rolled his eyes at your response, unable to fight the fond smile from his lips as he did so “this isn’t a negotiation”

But you only stared up at him through your lashes, bottom lip pinned between your teeth, and Jack was putty in your hands, throwing  out the last resemblance of a plan he had with a sigh “we have reservations this weekend”

He barely got the words out before you were wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your lips up against his, Jack grinning happily into the kiss as he pulled you by the waist deeper into him, finding that he didn’t much mind this part of this catastrophe of a proposal.

But like usual the ED chimed in at the perfect time, an abrupt cheer from his friends around him pulling the two of you apart as you were swarmed by his med students, the kids eagerly pulling you into their own set of congratulatory hugs.

But with a grin like that on your face Jack still found he couldn’t be too mad about it.

A hand clapping his shoulder pulled Jack’s attention away from the excited conversation happening between you and his students, Robby sliding up next to him with a smug smile on his face “You know I’m honored you’d want me here today to witness-“

Dana, however, as she normally does, knew better, a look shared between the two women as she stayed silent and instead focused on Jack, the man himself having not moved his gaze from your form for a second.

Pinching your shirt at the waist softly he gave it a small tug, physically pulling your attention back to him as his eyes scanned your face “is it that headache you had the other night? Is it back? I can bump you up the CT line”

“Honey” you cut him off with that small laugh that always had his chest warming “I promise I’m fine I texted you like an hour ago to meet me in the parking lot, you just forgot your lunch”

He could physically feel the relief hit his system at your words, his shoulders dropping as he finally took a deep breath, his next words tumbling off his tongue before he could put any thought to them “you didn’t have to-“

But just as he knew you would, you cut him off with a shrug and the same words you always used when he tried to dodge being taken care off “I know but I wanted to”

He couldn’t have fought the fond smile off his face if he had tried, something he knew he was going to get shit over from Dana and inevitably Robby later. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here have you been waiting long?”

“No I’ve been talking to Dana” And it was so entirely you the way you stated it like it was obvious. As if this little act of kindness in going out of your way to get him food hadn’t hijacked your entire morning. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to pull you into him, barely registering the way you pivoted back to Dana at the mention of her name.

“A conversation we absolutely will be finishing” spoken like a threat that had the charge nurse chuckling, “drinks later? Location and time TBD?”

“Sounds good kid”

And maybe it was a little selfish of him to want you just to himself in that moment, to pull you out of the Pitt to get even just two minutes of you alone. But Jack had found over the past year that he liked being selfish when it came to you “Oh and Langdon was looking for you earlier if you haven’t seen him yet”

“You spoke to Langdon too” he’ll admit to only faking part of the exasperation in his tone that had you giggling.

“He’s got a new puppy” you protested with a grin “what was I supposed to do? Not ask to see photos”

“You’re right ridiculous question” he conceded easily, “now aren’t you supposed to be at work”

And Jack relished the way he knew what your exact reaction would be seconds before you made it, the way your eyes widened almost comically before you reached for his arm, pulling his watch specifically into your line of sight, Jack using the momentum to press a quick kiss to your temple before he could think any better of it.

“Shit I’m gonna be late” You groaned softly, Jack chuckling at the action.

“I mean it, you didn’t have to bring my lunch in today”

“Please we both know you wouldn’t eat anything if I hadn’t” you brushed him off thoughtlessly before brightening and exclaiming “oh before I forget”. Suddenly you were pulling back from him, reaching deeply into your bag and rummaging slightly before pulling out a fistful of protein bars “give these to Dennis”

“To Dennis” he repeated with a raised brow as you pushed them into his chest.

“Yeah Dennis, well except for the chocolate ones”

“You want me to give these to my med student” he repeated with another exasperated sigh.

Again you responded exactly like he hoped you would, a giggle and a teasing push against his chest “yes except for the chocolate ones he doesn’t like those he likes the fruit ones. He won’t tell you that though, he’ll gladly take them all but he’s just being nice about it because he doesn’t want to offend you”

He couldn’t help but appreciate how well you seemed to fit into his life. How you’d forged relationships with each member of the Pitt’s team that existed wholly outside of him. It was tough now to believe there existed a time when he had been hesitant to introduce you to the chaos of the Pitt given how you now had seemed to adopt each member of his chosen family on your own.

His train of thought was effectively cut off as he watched your gaze suddenly deviate from him to something behind him, the corner of your mouth ticking up as you took one of the bars back from his grasp and yelled across the room “Dennis”

The poor kid looked terrified for a brief moment as he spun around before breaking out into a relieved grin once his eyes landed on you.

That was all the acknowledgement you needed before you were throwing the bar at him, Whittaker to his credit only looking panicked for a brief moment before he was effortlessly catching the bar, grinning down at his new snack appreciatively once he had it “Thank you Mrs. Abbot”

“Not my name” you corrected breezily with a wave “but bug Jack if you want more I’m giving him the rest”

“Great now if you’re done upsetting the natural order of my ED don’t you have work to get to” Jack cut in with fake exasperation.

“Natural order of the Pitt” you scoffed “that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one”

Your comment had Dana snorting as she didn’t even bother to try hiding the fact that she had been eavesdropping on your conversation up to this point.

“Yeah yeah now get out of here” he rolled his eyes with a fond smile “one of us has to make sure our bills our paid this month”

“I’m going I’m going” you groaned with a matching eye roll, pushing up slightly onto your toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling away much too quickly for Jack’s liking with a whispered I love you.

Then you were gone, headed back the way you came leaving nothing but the soft scent of your perfume in the air around him as Jack forced his eyes down to the chart in his hands, pointedly ignoring Dana’s gaze.

Just when he thought he was going to be trapped in the inevitable teasing of his charge nurse Dr. King came running up to the station, Jack more than happy to turn his attention to her and ready to distract himself with whatever case had her moving so fast.

Instead, however, Mel’s expression with brimming with barely contained excitement, her gaze searching everywhere around Jack but never properly landing on the man himself “Was that Y/N I heard? Is she here?”

With a disbelieving huff, Jack went back to his chart “you just missed her”

“No she’s by the door with Robby” Dana cut in with a smile, enjoying the way Jacks neck nearly snapped as he whipped his gaze across the ED to where you now stood with Robby, talking animatedly about something while the older man listened with  a smile on his face and hands in his pockets, looking much more relaxed than the two of them usually saw him within the department.

Mel peeled off without a second word to either of them, the pair watching the way your expression lit up once more as you recognized her as she approached.

“You gonna correct that” Dana nodded vaguely in your direction, her and Jack leaning onto the counter of the nurse’s station from opposite sides watching you give Mel an enthusiastic high five over whatever story she had rushed over to tell you.

“Probably talk to everyone at some point” Jack shrugged in response “the Pitt can’t afford to come to a screeching halt every time she so much as walks in the doors”

“No dumbass” Dana admonishes with a dramatic groan “it’s good the way everyone brightens up when she’s here. God knows we could use some positivity around here. I mean Whitaker’s comment about the wrong name”

“I mean she’s already told him to call her by her first name but I could talk to him-“

Dana silenced Jack with a glare, the attending turning his attention back to you from across the room as you eagerly talked to Mel and Robby.

“Was thinking about asking Robby to go ring shopping with me this weekend” he admitted softly “Scale of 1-10 how bad of an idea is that”

“Not where I thought this story was going but love is love so I support-“ now it was Jack’s turn to silence Dana with a glare, the charge nurse enjoying way too much the way the tips of his ears colored at the admission.

“a seven” she mused with a shrug, turning her attention back to you as you finally said goodbye to the two doctors “maybe a six” she let the silence settle around them and watched as Jack eyed her with a skeptical glare from her periphery “invite me along and I can keep it below a three”

Jack studied her for a second, crossing his arms over his chest before nodding softly “done”

Dana fought to keep the grin off her face as Robby finally started to make his way towards the two of them, Jack catching him slipping an awfully familiar looking protein bar into the pocket of his sweatshirt “Jesus how many of those does she have”

Robby shrugged with a chuckle, eyes casting up to the board above the desk as he did so “she mentioned something about having extra chocolate ones”

“I saw her slipping Santos bags of trail mix earlier if you’d prefer that” Dana chimed in with a smirk as Jack huffed dramatically.

“did everyone get to talk to her but me this morning?”

“You get her every day, stop being so selfish” Robby clasped his shoulder with a smug grin, giving it a soft shake.

 “Selfish” Jack repeated under his breath with a shake of his head, eyes going up to the board to pick out his next case as he did so “god forbid I want to spend time with my future wife”

He hadn’t even realized he said it out loud until the Pitt around him seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Casting his gaze back down he caught Robby and Dana sharing pointed, amused looks before turning their teasing grins back on him.

Over the course of the night, they treat all manner of injuries.  Many are small, manageable.  Slips and falls in the rain.  Sprained ankles, broken wrists, abrasions from falling on asphalt.  Mild concussions.  It’s steady but controllable.  They go through ice packs, splints, ibuprofen at a constant rate, and Abbot gets halfway through the night and thinks this isn’t so bad.

It's like he breaks a spell the moment he thinks it.

Dispatch gives the heads up:

Truck jackknifed outside of the Squirrel Hill tunnel.  Multiple vehicle pile-up.  Emergency services on scene.  Expect multiple casualties in all stages of severity.

They handle it because that is what they do.  They triage the casualties as they come in:  from the concussed and bruised to the DOA.  Abbot directs it all like the world’s most brutal orchestra, but he rocks that shit.  It’s what he was trained to do, and ostensibly what he was born to do. 

He falls into the zone.  People, individuals fall away and become simple facts, their entire existence narrowed down to what Abbot needs to fix. 

It’s not a middle-aged man with a family and likes and dislikes on the gurney—it’s an ulna broken in three places that Abbot immobilizes until surgery can get to him.

It’s not a seven-year-old crying in front of him, clutching a stuffed animal, snot bubbling from her nose—it’s a gash in the forehead that Abbot passes off to an intern to clean and stitch up.

It’s not the driver of the truck who police will determine, in the days to come, was both driving too fast and distracted by his phone.  It’s a crushed pelvis and internal bleeding that cannot be staunched, and it’s confirming the death upon arrival.

The next arrival comes through via ECIC, and Abbot scans the details (female, early thirties, head trauma, trauma to extremities, BP low and dropping) to prepare for the next wave.  He notes the source (Medic 10), knows that this nameless female in her early thirties is in the best possible hands before she gets to the Pitt—namely, your hands.

Moments later, you and your partner burst onto the scene for the patient handoff.  Abbot sees you—the dark navy cargo pants, the bright yellow reflective jacket slick with rain—but then his focus is on his patient on the gurney between you.

It’s not a young woman who recently got engaged and had her whole life in front of her—it’s a skull fracture, a pelvis fracture, a million other injuries sustained from being crushed in her car by a jackknifed truck, and Abbot fights for her life for hours. 

He fails.  The best he can do is keep her alive for the short term.  Scans confirm that she is brain dead, that she’ll never draw a breath on her own again.  The ventilator keeps her alive long enough for her family and her fiancé to come to say their goodbyes.

-----

It’s a terrible night at the Pitt.

It started out fine, but it ends with Dr. Jack Abbot on the roof.  His hiding spot and his singing siren both; the place that promises a break from the chaos of the ED, and the place that promises a darkness so pure that he could finally sleep without nightmares, if he only took those few steps to embrace it. 

Right now, he stays on the safe side of the railing.  The storm has passed, but the roof is slick, and he’s not as steady on his legs after such a brutal night.  It’s still dark out anyway.  Dawn hasn’t broken quite yet, but the sky is starting to lighten in the east.

“Knew I’d find you up here.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know your voice.  Medic 10 patrols closest to the Pitt.  Other ambulances might go to the hospitals closest to their base—Shadyside or Presby, maybe—but you and your partner nearly always turn up at the Pitt. 

And since you nearly always take the night shift, Abbot has known you now for a while.

“Tough night,” you continue.  He doesn’t turn when you join him at the railing, but he shifts his arm just a bit when yours brushes his.  You’re still in your ridiculous high-vis jacket, and it’s still wet from the storm. 

“Lost the one you brought me,” he finally says.  His voice is rough, cracked.  He feels every death keenly, but this one leaves him desiccated.  He’s wrung out.

He sees you shake your head out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not lost yet.  Dana brought me up to speed.”

“Not a save,” he snorts bitterly.  “She’s as good as dead.  Her body will follow as soon as her people pull the plug.”

“Her people will have time to say goodbye.”

He snorts again, a humorless sort of laugh and says nothing.  What sort of good does that do, he wants to say.  To have the last memory be of her like that, crushed and full of tubes and wires?

You seem to read his mind.  You always seem to do that.  You always seem to understand his dark thoughts, his cynicism, the hopeless futility he feels on days like this. 

“It means something,” you tell him, and your voice is soft beside him.  “I’ve lost people slow and I’ve lost people fast, and I tell you—getting to say goodbye is always better.  Even if it’s ugly.  Even if it’s hard.  It might not feel like it to them downstairs right now saying their goodbyes…but it will mean something, someday.  That they were able to hold her hand and tell her they love her.  That they can hope that some part of her felt and heard it before she went.”

He says nothing to that either.  He’s afraid that if he does, he might break.  He can hear the way your words wobble a little, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the lightening sky.  For a long moment, you both just stand there, hands on the safety railing but not touching.  Each of you in your own thoughts, meditating on the rough night you each survived.

Abbot clears his throat and finally asks, “you really think that?”  He turns his head and looks at your profile, sees your earnest nod in answer to his question.

“You know what we are?”  You turn your head to face him too, and he’s struck—as he always is—at the sight of you.  At your eyes gazing into his, open and searching.  “You and me?”

“Medical professionals?” he guesses.

“No.”  A beat.  “Well, yes, but beyond that.”

“Penguin fans?”

That draws a ghost of a smile, but you shake your head.  “Beyond that.”

“Masochistic assholes with suicidal tendencies who enjoy being hurt and depressed?”

You wrinkle your nose at that.  “I’m not suicidal, and if you really are—”

“What are we then?” he cuts in gently. 

You turn to face the sky again.  Dawn is just beginning to break, the sun breaking the line of the horizon and painting the lingering ribbons of storm clouds in a glorious wash of pink and orange.

“We’re thieves,” you tell him.  “We aren’t saving lives.  Not really.  Death always wins in the end.  All we’re doing is stealing time like thieves in the night.”

Abbot turns to look at the sky too.  “Cheerful.  Glad I’m not really suicidal.”

That earns him a light elbow to his side that makes him smile. 

“I mean it,” you continue.  “The universe looked at that woman downstairs and said, ‘you’re out of time.’  But I got to her as the rescue team cut her from her car, and I stole time.  Just a little.  Just enough to get her to you.  And you stole a little more time for her.  Not very much, but enough to give her people the gift of goodbye.  Sometimes we steal a lot of time, and sometimes it’s just a little, but it all means something.”

“Does it?”  He doesn’t say it meanly, but if it comes out harsh, you don’t react.  You know him well enough by now to know the difference between his delivery and his intent.

“I have to believe it does.”  Then you take a deep breath, enough to pull his gaze back to you.  He watches as you close your eyes against the sunrise, watches as you breathe deep, like you’re trying to draw the riot of colors into you to overlay the darkness you just lived through during the night.  He watches your exhausted, beautiful face as the rising sun casts its rosy glow over you, and he feels the black hole in him—the endless void that seems to grow after nights like this—shrink just a little.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, but he keeps his voice low, not wanting to spoil the quiet magic of the moment.  “You should have gone home hours ago.”

You reach your right hand into your pocket and pull out a specimen cup.  You hold it up and show him the diamond ring inside before you slip it back in your pocket.

“It’s hers.”  Your voice is just as low, just above a whisper.  “I think it fell off in the ambulance.  I cleaned it up and brought it back.  For her family.”

Any other medic, any other case, he might joke about it.  Make a bad joke about medics’ low pay and what a pilfered diamond might bring at a pawn shop.  But he’d never voice it with you even if he had that sort of dark humor:  most of the medics in the city care, but you care more than most.  You care enough to clean up a ring and bring it back the same day rather than sending it through slower channels. 

You care enough to guess how he was feeling, and you care enough to seek him out on the roof.

You care so much, sometimes he wonders how you can even breathe with how much space your heart must take up in your chest. 

He shifts his eyes from your face—your eyes still closed against the sun—and the smear of red on the bright yellow of your jacket’s left arm pulls his gaze.  He looks closer, sees the gash in the fabric….

“You’re hurt,” he says, and he switches from maudlin to action in a split second.  He takes your wrist in his and pushes up your sleeve, takes in the rigged bandage that you probably did on yourself in the middle of your shift.

“Cut it on the frame of her car.”  You try to pull away from him, but he holds you fast.  He picks at the edge of tape—you hiss as it pulls at the hair on your arm—and pulls away the swatch of gauze to reveal the jagged cut still seeping blood.

“It’s fine.”  You tug against him, but he doesn’t let you go.  “C’mon, it’s not a big deal—”

“Bullshit.”  He moves his grip from your wrist to your bicep and turns you towards the roof access door.  “Downstairs, now.”

“Jack—”

“It needs cleaned, stitched.  When was your last tetanus booster?”

“I can clean it myself, and it doesn’t need stitches.  A Band-Aid—”

“Last tetanus shot was when?”  He hustles you through the door and down the stairs.

“Before Y2K, probably.”  You try one last time to extricate yourself from his grip, and when you fail, you sigh.  “It’s day shift.  You really gonna leave my fate in the hands of one of Robby’s little goslings?”

“Never.”  He gets you downstairs, steers you into an open bay, and makes you plop down in a chair while he pulls up a kit.  “I need a win to finish out the shift.”

“A baby cut and a booster shot is hardly a win,” you point out.

“Maybe.”  He helps you shrug out of your jacket, and he sits down in a stool that he rolls up to you.  “But I think helping you avoid tetanus is stealing, what?  Years of time on your behalf?  Feels like a helluva win to me.”

Then he bends his head to the task at hand, and you say little as he works.  He cleans out the cut on your left arm, stitches it shut with neat precision.  Covers it with a fresh bit of gauze that he tapes down.  He even administers the shot (“might as well give it in the left arm too,” you tell him).

He does it all while pointedly ignoring your own engagement ring on your left hand, as he ignores it any time he’s alone with you.  Another man put it there, claimed you as his, but Jack needs these moments of pretend more than he wants to admit. 

He relies on these stolen moments—the paltry seconds and minutes he gets with you—to survive the tough times. 

Hospital wings on a ship are not known for their privacy so Maverick isn't too surprised when the curtain surrounding their cot is ripped open rather quickly after Bradley is settled on the bed and a nurse is coming forward. She has a chart in her hands instead of a tablet; Wifi being less than stellar so close off enemy lines and on a aircraft carrier no less, and she immediately begins jotting things down before she even introduces herself. There's a youthfulness about her, a brightness that seems foreign after the events of the day, and her sunny disposition makes Pete turn away as though he needs to shield his eyes.

Affording him a chance to notice that the bedlam from before has grown completely silent. 

The area that Hangman was being treated in is now empty of all staff, the only indication that the young pilot was even there being a sickening amount of blood stained gauze and fragmented remnants of Seresin's flight suit left littered around and discarded on the floor. The almost apocalyptic scene makes Pete's stomach roll but he staunches the nausea by taking a few deep breaths and pointedly turning away from the disarray.

A pessimist by experience, Maverick can acknowledge that Hangman being moved in a hurry cannot mean good things for anyone. His mind replays the ghastly chime of the heart rate monitors going out right before the captain had herded Rooster beyond the curtain and tried in vain to block out the noise. The sickening thud that had sounded moments later, (the same one now repeating mercilessly in Pete's mind), could have only been Hangman’s body being jolted with an electric charge to try to coax his heart back into rhythm. It’s the second time life saving measures had to be performed on Lieutenant Seresin and now, as Pete gazes back out at the empty wasteland of the lifesaving vestiges, the feeling of sickness returns with a vengeance. The guilt Captain Mitchell carries as a lifelong companion wreaks havoc on his subconscious, convincing the older man that a pilot under Maverick’s command might have spent his last seconds on earth alone, surrounded by unfamiliar faces in perpetual states of chaos because Pete was too focused on his godson’s broken leg and habitually avoiding witnessing another person dying on his watch.

It’s a devastating thought and whether or not it holds water can be figured out rather easily if Maverick can manage to ask the nurse still bustling around in front of him what exactly happened to Hangman. He turns towards her, ready to clear his throat and gain her attention but his own cowardice makes him keep his mouth close. If he asks the question out loud, says the words 'Is Lieutenant Seresin still alive' out to the universe, then she will answer him; the issue being that the older pilot isn’t sure he can handle that truth at this moment.

Pete’s never hated himself more.

The world doesn’t stop for self-pity though so Captain Mitchell is forced to tune back in to the young nurse now chattering at the head of Bradley's cot. “You’re Lieutenant Bradshaw right?” she asks, her voice high and bright, just like the penlight she is directing towards Bradley’s blown pupils. To Maverick, and the dark storm clouds that has taken up residence in his subconscious, she is the complete contrast to everything he is feeling. Sure-footed, calm, and composed, the nurse is writing just as quickly as she flutters about, pulling wires and attaching Bradley to his own set of monitors. “Let’s get you situated before the doctor comes in” she explains before her eyes fall to the man’s twisted appendage and she offers a sympathetic grimace, “I promise that leg is going to be scanned as soon as we can, but can you tell me if anything else is hurting?”

Bradley moans, his cognitive reflexes declining rapidly now that he is lying down and the adrenaline is waning.  Maverick takes the moment to step forward, distracted once again from his thoughts by his profound need to support Bradley in any way he can. His eagerness for atonement of prior faults letting him be his Godson's mouthpiece. "The Lieutenant is definitely concussed" Pete shares, not surprised to see the nurse nod in agreement, "and probably hypothermic from the water. He was in two plane crashes in the past 12 hours and exposed to harsh elements during that time as well."

"His temperature is still low so we will continue to monitor” the nurse confirms, looking at the reading on the tiny screen of her handheld thermometer before getting the machines to keep the information in real time, “but the IV certainly did its job” she references, clearly having gotten the notes on what happened in the helicopter on the way back to the ship. Pete shivers at the memory before glancing up to see the woman handing him a shock blanket, another one in her hand that she begins to lie upon Rooster. "Oh" Mav begins in surprise, "I don't need-"

"Captain," the nurse doesn't look back up while she tucks the corner of the blanket around Bradley's body, "your rank is the only reason I haven't order you to your own bed" she shares, "but I can see you trembling. You'll do him no help, ignoring your own needs."

It's similar enough to the advice Maverick shared to Bradley not minutes before but the Captain has no intention to follow it. He moves to hand the covering back to the nurse but she purposely ignores the gesture and doesn't reach for it. Somehow standing there awkwardly with a scratchy hospital blanket seems more reasonable than actually draping the coverlet over himself, so Pete drops his arm, resolved in his stubbornness to not let the perpetual chill throbbing through his body be as noticeable going forward.

The sigh from the nurse next to him proves he is not as sly as he hopes.

Maverick turns to offer a look of apology before the door to the medical wing opens once more. Expecting a doctor, Pete is surprised to see the nurse straighten as though to salute, "Admiral Bates" the woman announces, explaining the formality. The elderly man walks swiftly, his expression  severe, as he strides right over to their corner and gives Maverick a narrow-eyed onceover before he takes a place behind him. The blanket Pete still clutches feels even more foolish in this moment as the Captain refuses to turn to meet his CO's gaze.

The silent stare stretches until  finally, sensing the tension no doubt, the nurse addresses their new guest once more. "Admiral, is there something you needed?" she questions, as Bates's attention diverts from Maverick and moves back to the medical professional now sliding a blood pressure cuff around Bradley's arm and squeezing the bulb. “I’m afraid I don’t have Lieutenant Bradshaw's status yet," she explains, "the doctor hasn't been-"

"I'm not here for that" Warlock answers briskly, seemingly spurred back on task by the nurse's words. His eyes catalogue the pilot on the bed before he's shifting back to Maverick, "Captain Mitchell, I need you to come with me, you're wanted in Admiral Simpson’s office."

"Not interested" Pete answers automatically, not even offering a second of consideration. He continues to face forward, eyes on the cot in front of him; showing his back to his CO with not a care for insubordination, "I'm staying here with my Lieutenant."

"Captain Mitchell" Admiral Bates repeats, tone stricter than the man is normally known for. It's enough of a shock to get Maverick to turn around, his look bewildered as he takes in the Admiral next to him. Warlock stands straight and unyielding, composed in every outward expression except in his eyes. It is there that Maverick sees something is wrong, those brown orbs darkened and shifting, clearly on edge. Pete has known Solomon for a few years, has heard of his good cop to Simpson's bad cop routine for almost double that, and yet the elder Admiral watching him seems to be doing a great impression of his superior officer's shtick. "It wasn’t a request” the high ranking man reiterates, confirming the Captain’s observation. “Let’s go.”

Pete would love to argue the order, to plant his feed and throw a toddler level tantrum to stay with his pilot, but Warlock’s impatience is palpable.  The role reversal is throwing Maverick for such a loop that he can’t help but nod and agree to the Admiral’s terms. “Bradley I’ll be right back, okay?” he tells Rooster, although the other man is still laying back in that concussion daze. The young Bradshaw nods sloppily though, damp curls flopping forward before falling back in a messy heap so Pete hopes he at least understood him. He grips the man’s arm and gives gentle squeezes before clearing his throat, "just try to relax kid alright? Get some rest."

"His doctor should be here shortly" the nurse offers for comfort. "I'll have his file brought over to you all once we get everything sorted. You're his CO right? And his emergency contact?" the woman asks, clearly taking Maverick’s protectiveness to mean he has a say for Bradley’s medical decisions.

“Well no,” Pete falters, the age old question of what Bradley means to him coming back to his mind with a vengeance. 'He's the son I always wanted, the son I thought I had but I ruined it' is the first thought in his mind, chased with the taunt Rooster threw at him just a few short days ago, 'No wife, no kids, no one to mourn you'. Maverick swallows down the memory, "I’m- I’m just his CO-“

“You can bring the file to Admiral Simpson’s office as ordered” Warlock interrupts, more gentle than how he addressed Maverick, but still with a commanding tone, “Let’s go Mitchell.”

Maverick follows dutifully, one step behind Admiral Bates as they head out of medical. Before leaving, Pete catches Warlock taking a glance at Hangman’s corner of triage, the older man’s eyes closing for a moment and his head bowing. The pit of anguish churning in Maverick’s stomach seems ready to revolt as he witnesses the scene but once again his fear prevents him from questioning Bates about what is going on. Instead he follows the man in silence as they traverse the labyrinth of hallways on the carrier, heading up a deck to get to the makeshift Admiral Offices set up for their operation.

Aircraft carriers are usually run by Captains, so having Admirals such of Simpson and Bates’ stature means that most officers on the ship graciously gave up their own quarters. Pete clocks the sigil of Captain Bauernschmidt on the door and knows that the commander of the carrier herself gave up her office. When they are outside the door, Warlock finally turns to look at him, “remember your place in there Mitchell” the seasoned Admiral reminds him tersely, "and remember who your allies are."

To say the warning is disconcerting would be an understatement; Pete expects to walk into a firing squad as Bates holds the door for him to enter. Instead Maverick finds only Admiral Simpson in the office, seated behind the borrowed desk with his fingers steeple under his lips. Pete stares at his Commanding Officer and notices the dark bags under his eyes, the fatigue radiating off him like the waves cresting off the ship. Cyclone’s brow is furrowed as he contemplates in what looks to be unpleasant thoughts; a common occurrence whenever Maverick’s had the pleasure of an audience with the hardnosed Admiral.

Pete moves to the front of the desk and stands at attention. The movement causes a twinge to his back that he has negated to acknowledge since he was hauling Bradley, his entire body still reeling from his escapades during this long day- and from what Maverick can garner from the portside window behind Cyclone's head, -now almost the start of the next one. There is a chair available off to the side that Maverick would love to collapse in, but the older man knows better than to move to an at-ease state before being prompted, let alone taking a seat in an Admiral’s office without getting permission. Instead, he grits his teeth and stands a bit taller, his eyes watching his superior officers. Solomon moves to stand just beyond Cyclone’s shoulder, clearly waiting for Beau’s lead.

Yet the Rear Admiral stays quiet.

It's not entirely odd for Admiral Simpson to be stewing in silence at his desk, but after all the orders Maverick has broken today, it is odd that the higher ranking man hasn't started ripping into him about punishments and court-marshals. Pete assumes this is some kind of scare tactic, stay quiet to get Maverick to talk first, throw an insubordination charge to a growing list of offenses, but even Admiral Bates seems concerned by Cyclone’s lack of ceremony.

And still Simpson stays quiet.

The threat of them all waiting in silence for eternity eventually goads Warlock to start the meeting. Clearing his throat and giving Beau one more chance to take charge, Admiral Bates stands up straighter against the back wall of the office. “Captain Mitchell, I’m sure you can infer why you were brought here.“

Maverick's plan is to try to stay respectful but before his brain can even process his reply, his gigantic mouth is opening and he's stepping in it. "I have an idea Sir" he all but sneers, "but if you called me here to apologize for bringing my pilots home, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed." If there's an afterlife, and one that affords ghosts the chance to watch their loved ones down on earth, Pete assumes he just gave Ice a coronary with his insubordination; part of him hopes Goose is at least laughing though.

The two Admirals in front of him, clearly are not.

"Respect Mitchell" Bates warns, the exasperation in his tone obvious to everyone, “you were brought here because you didn’t report here yourself, as you know you should have as a Captain.”

Pete shakes his head, toeing the line, “with all due respect Sir, I felt my place as a Captain was with my pilots while they were being checked over. I assumed debrief could wait for them to be stable so I went right to medical. I even helped Lieutenant Bradshaw down there to make sure he was properly looked over. However if you're saying that the health and safety of our men and women should take a backseat to regulations-"

"Don't" Bates' body tenses as though ready for a fight, a finger raised to mimic the warning in his tone. "I suggest you choose your next words carefully Captain," the elder man cautions, "before you say something you'll come to regret."

The Captain nods in concession, though he doesn't quite back down, "I'm sorry for assuming Sir, that I could go to medical before debriefing." Pete motions around himself, emphasizing the room, "but you pulled me here now so if you would like me to start to explain what happened today from my perspective, I'd be happy to" he directs the words to Admiral Simpson now, who still sits at the desk as though lost in thought. Everything has seemed strange on this Day of Days but this is the moment that is really freaking Maverick out the most. Cyclone would never give up an opportunity to knock Pete down a peg and yet still he stays soundless. Warlock too, spares another glance at his superior but when Beau still sits, he shoulders on. "What happened today Captain Mitchell," the older man lectures, "were numerous examples of disobedience, reckless endangerment, and complete disregard for any sort of rules and regulations- and most of it started and ended with you."

"Yes Sir, but if I may have a moment to explain my actions like a normal debrief-"

"You launched a F-16 off a carrier deck without permission Captain," Warlock counters, undaunted by the attitude being shown back to him and unrelenting in his own, "This is not going to be a normal debrief."

"I did Sir but it was to-"

Solomon raises his hand, cutting off his subordinate, "You launched without permission and got other people to go along with your renegade actions.  We had flight crews setting up for launch without any notice to the bridge, all of our normal protocols shot to hell. Protocols instituted to keep everyone safe, ignored on your whim-"

Decorum be damned, Maverick finds his voice rising, his emotions mixing with the remnants of grief from those hours he thought Bradley was dead, when he thought he had failed the only family he ever had, "On my whim? Sir, I didn't go for a joy ride, I launched to try to save my pilots' lives! Lieutenants Bradshaw and Seresin were being pursued by fifth Gen fighters. They needed back up and if I hadn't gone when I did-" Pete shakes himself, the memories of what he witnessed up in the air coming back as vividly as when he first saw them- the F-14 burning, the nose of the plane descending as Hangman tried to bear the brunt of the crash into the ocean, Rooster's helmet falling under the depths of the water as he pulled his wingman out of the wreckage, the twenty two seconds of Pete thinking they both had drowned...

Maverick blinks and he is back in the office, staring down two Admirals and fighting to defend his actions. He knows there is a high probability he will never see the inside of a cockpit again, and though he has spent his entire career trying to avoid that scenario, he now finds he doesn't care. "Sir, I did what I had to do today to try to save my men," he explains, "and if I hadn't launched, both Lieutenant Bradshaw and Lieutenant Seresin would be dead, that I know for certain. That fifth Gen was watching them fall, was waiting to shoot them dead in the w-water" he coughs to hide the stutter of emotions, "I will not apologize for a successful mission-"

"Outcome does not negate disobeying orders and you know that Captain" Bates points out. “It does not negate the chain of command.”

"It does when the chain of command is wrong!”

"Did you know I was an Army brat" Simpson suddenly speaks up, startling both of the other men in the room and quenching the argument on their lips. Beau looks up thoughtfully, ignoring the bewildered looks from his two companions and sighs, almost as though chasing the memory, "my father was a Colonel, as was his father before him, and his father before that. A long line of family history in the Army that dictated my whole childhood. I would go to bed listening to tales of their valor, of their sacrifices. I grew up on bases all over the world. Every time we would start to get comfortable on one of my father's posts, he’d be reassigned again, hundreds if not thousands of miles away, my mother, my sister and I following.” Cyclone scoffs down at the desk, the tiniest bit of fondness in his tone, “must have lived in seven different houses in a ten year span.”

"Sir-" Pete begins, unsure what exactly to say, "this is all fascinating but I need to get back to my pilots so if we could continue with the debrief-"

"I was going to follow him" the Admiral continues, like he hasn't heard Maverick's interjection, or perhaps doesn't care. "Planned to head to West Point after high school, an officer's track of course, continue the legacy and all that" he waves a hand weakly, dismissively, as though sending young Beau's plans away with the wind, "I was so eager to prove myself to them all, show them that I could be just as great, just as important."

"Sir-"

"Admiral Simpson-" Warlock tries instead, sending a glare Pete's way as though this nostalgic Cyclone is his fault, "I thought you would want to talk to Mitchell about his actions today," he prompts gently, almost like he is talking to a child and not his superior officer, "Admiral Cain needs that debrief-"

The second he hears the name Pete's interests shift, the scowl permanently associated with that ass of a man coming onto his face, "Admiral Cain?" he questions.

"He's the new Deputy Commander of the Pacific Fleet" Bates explains, still colder than normal to the aged Captain but thawing with his own dislike for the other Admiral, "and he was given the file for the operation shortly before we shipped out. He ordered Admiral Simpson to keep him informed of the status throughout the day, and was updated accordingly as the events went on. When he heard about your role in everything, and the liberties and freedoms you took upon yourself, he was less than thrilled."

Memories of his visit to Cain's office after the Darkstar incident flash in Maverick's head. He cringes just thinking of the Admiral's words, how the only thing holding him in the Navy was Ice's intervention. That guardian angel is gone now though for Pete and he wonders how quickly it will take Cain to finally be rid of him. He sighs in resignation, "So what does that mean Sir?" he asks rather frankly, "my wings are gone?"

The older man scowls, "You'd think that wouldn't you Captain, and you probably should lose them after your stunts today. But no," Bates nods to his superior, "Admiral Simpson stopped that from happening, and  he will probably lose his commission because of it."

After a day like today, Pete would have told anyone that would listen that there were no more possible surprises. He had reached his limit hours ago, when the kid he was mourning came back on the radar alive; when he was able to hold Bradley, hug him, and know that he was actually still in the land of the living. And yet it is here, now, in this unorthodox debrief in a borrowed office of an aircraft carrier, that Maverick actually feels speechless for the first time today. "W-What?" he stutters, "But why?"

"I told you to remember your allies Captain" is the only reply Warlock offers, before crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, "they aren't always who you think."

S-Sir" Pete turns to the highest ranking man in the room, so many questions on his lips, but no composure to ask them, "I- I don't-"

"I never made it into the Army" Beau cuts in instead, still looking lost in his memories, "I reached the age where I didn't want to be my father, I didn't want to be in someone else's shadow. I thought, foolishly perhaps, that making a career in a different branch of the armed services would be more impressive, more noteworthy."

The nag to get back to Bradley is still simmering inside him but Maverick swallows it down to finally give his Commanding Officer some attention. "And you threw it all away today for me” he finishes for the Admiral.

Simpson looks up, making eye contact with Pete for the first time since he entered the room. Even more surprising, he gives his Captain a sad smile, catching Pete like a punch in the gut. "I didn't throw it away Mitchell, because I'm not that man. I'm not the hero in the stories that people regale over time. I wanted to be, oh God did I want to. I wanted to be the Mavericks, the Icemans, the Renegades, the men that the rest of the crew crowd around and cheer for when you land back on the carrier, but I'm simply not. We can't all be those men, no matter how much we want to be."

"Sir-"

"I hated that about myself for a long time" Simpson muses, "carried a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas each time I would get praise for organization and paperwork and the other pilots of my generation got accolades for valor and skills" he looks behind him, sharing a glance with Warlock, "but I adapted, I learned. I understood that I was never going to be the hero of the story but that my job was actually just as important, maybe more. I don't slay the dragon, I don't get the girl, but I'm the one that keeps things from descending into the chaos, to keep the heroes from muddling that fine line between saving the day and dooming us all."

At Pete's silence, Beau continues, "When we started this mission, you thought I was against you. You thought I was your adversary-"

"I didn't Sir, I-" But he is stopped when Cyclone's hand raises slowly, "you did" the Admiral argues back but there is no heat behind it, just acceptance. "Your talent in the skies are legendary Maverick, but your ability to not show exactly what you're thinking at all times has never been as noteworthy. I have no doubt that you heard of my reputation as a rule stickler, in a similar fashion of me learning of yours for being rebellious, and it made you think your objectives for this mission would be hindered instead of helped."

With a reluctant nod, Pete concedes the point, knowing he made his distaste for Cyclone's opinions more than know.

"I need you to know Captain," Beau continues earnestly, "that I was never your enemy, despite as much as you wanted me to be. My goal has always been the same as yours, to bring everyone home."

Pete grimaces, knowing he should keep his mouth shut but realizing that he might never have this chance, to have such a malleable Admiral Simpson in front of him to talk through his choices. He steps out of formation but when neither Cyclone or Warlock address it, he steps closer to the desk, "And I was never yours Sir. If we both wanted the same things, why did you push back so much? You knew I wanted these kids to survive, that was my only goal! I even offered you myself to spare one of them, which you still rejected even after I proved the mission doable." 

"Because you were grieving the loss of your wingman, your best friend from the way I was told of it. I assumed your judgment would be affective" the Admiral leans forward in his chair, making sure to catch Maverick's eye, "and I think given your actions throughout this process, this early evening especially, I was correct in that assumption."

He knows his CO is right but Maverick has always been hardheaded, "Sir, I know I launched without permission and I'm sorry for the headache that caused you but-"

"You weren't thinking."

"On the contrary Sir, I was, I knew-"

"You didn't" Beau cuts in again, shaking his head as though talking to a mulish teenager, "You didn't know anything besides your own grief at the loss of Lieutenant Bradshaw and your guilt for your hand in it, which was exactly my fear from the beginning. I asked you that day when you arrived back to Top Gun if you could do this job, if you could be fair and unbiased in your decisions and your actions. You said you could, and that was a lie."

Maverick feels his hunches rise, his natural instinct to fight back rearing up and getting ready to roar, "with all due respect Admiral, I was the best man for the job and you know it, and every decision I made and every action I performed I stand by."

"Oh I don't doubt that" the other man shares confidently, "the mind of a hero doesn't usually stray from that position after all."

Pete flinches, feeling the insult behind the words despite the positive moniker, "Sir-"

"Captain Mitchell, I could keep you here for days going over your miscues and biases during training but frankly I don't think you could stand up long enough for it" he nods to the chair Pete had noticed when he walked in, "take a seat and listen- please" the Admiral adds at the end.

Only for the fact that his back is still pulsing with pain does Maverick give in and take the seat, making sure he doesn't let out an audible sigh of contentment when the pressure is finally off his lower body from his fight to keep standing. Stubborn as a mule though, Pete moves to make sure his body doesn't lean against the backrest, refusing to concede even that little ground.

Cyclone, giving a second to make sure his Captain is listening, begins speaking again, "Maverick, I'm not sure what is going to happen when Admiral Cain reads these final reports. I did what I could already to say that you had my backing out there, but how far that protects you, and how far these do" he lifts up the paperwork on his desk, pages of neat script clearly visible, "I can't tell you that."

"But Sir, why are you protecting me? Like you said, I broke protocol, I launched without permission, you have every right to sell me off to Cain. Why cover for me?"

"Because that's my role in all this" the Admiral explains, "my sacrifice for the success of this mission. I asked your team to risk their lives for their country, for duty, and until we hear how Lieutenant Seresin's first round of surgery has fared, it might have even cost that horrific price. But for those who have come back, I won't let your wings be taken, not even yours Captain, and if that means my position is jeopardized, my career, my future, then so be it. You're right Maverick, you were the man for the job and I won't let you be punished for it."

Pete wants to talk, wants to question about Seresin's surgery (which has helped the gnawing guilt in his heart subside just the tiniest bit), but he is still so in shock, his mouth only gapes. He stares at his Admiral, the man he considered his foe for the whole training session, and finally Maverick understands Warlock's words, Beau Simpson has and always will be, his ally.

Cyclone lets out a deep sigh, exhaustion evident in every part of his body as though he flew today, "I'm holding Cain off from you Mitchell, as much as I can, but for my own conscience, I need you to hear what I am telling you. I need you to listen. I know why you launched today, everyone in the damn Navy knows why you launched today, but you do no one any service, not even Bradley Bradshaw, if you don't understand how dangerous what you did was. You launched when you heard Rooster's eSAT was back on line, information I have to assume came from Hondo as he was the one who left command the fastest."

"I don't know what you're talking about Sir," Pete feigns innocently, "Hondo didn't have anything to do with my launch. I merely overheard-"

As Bates gives a snort from the back of the room, Simpson rolls his eyes, "Mitchell please, I was only being generous with the word assumption, I'm more than aware it was the Chief Warrant Officer that played Paul Revere and announced the news to you." As Maverick opens his mouth to argue, Cyclone shakes his head, "don't say anything further. His name won't be in any of the reports for that, don't worry."

Despite feeling like this is some sort of trick, Pete nods once, afraid to tempt fate. Undeterred, Cyclone moves back to task, "Regardless of where you got the information from, you launched because of Lieutenant Bradshaw's eSat-"

"Which was being pursued by multiple bogeys."

The Admiral's head tilts in consideration, "So we learned eventually but at the moment we did not know that."

Pete's brow rises, "We could infer Sir-"

"We could, but we could also be wrong. Cpatian Mitchell, the part you don't seem to be getting is that at no point until you made visual contact with the plane did we know exactly who was flying it."

"But Sir, who else could it have been? Rooster's eSat-"

"Could have been removed from his dead body" Simpson argues, "or even worse, his dead body could have been stuffed in the back seat with an enemy pilot to try to fool us into showing our position when we provided an escort. Did you ever stop to think it could have been a trap? To draw us out? Or worse, bring a whole squadron of enemy planes to our boat? You were so hyper focused on the life of one man you almost doomed hundreds more” Beau places his hands on the desktop in front of him, “Every day during training you reiterated to those pilots about what they would tell their wingman's families if they went down because of poor decisions or lack of communication. Every day you planted that visual in their heads to confirm the severity of this mission and what was at stake. Well Maverick, what would you have said to my sailors' families if you had brought enemy forces that wiped them out? That their lives meant nothing? That they were expendable because the pilot in the F-14 might have possibly been Lieutenant Bradshaw and that his life meant more?”

“Sir-“

"So I didn't ground you for jealousy, or for a power trip, or because I'm a heartless man. I grounded you because it will always be my job to rein in the hero, to keep you from crossing that line. You crossed it today when you launched, when you risked others lives for your own biases. It ended up working out but if I saved your wings from Admiral Cain, I need you to remember this meeting the next time you're in the air. I need you to think before you pull a Maverick. It might not always end the same way."

It's a wakeup call hearing those words, and one that Pete reluctantly admits he needed. When he launched, he only thought of Rooster and assumed that the eSat could only be his Godson. As Simpson explained, it all worked out in this case but so much could have been wrong or gone wrong for Pete to continue to feel as confident as he did in his actions. He will never regret his actions but Maverick knows he owes Ice and Goose a lot of thank you's for everything happening as it did.

As long as one more pilot manages to pull through.

"Sir, you mentioned Lieutenant Seresin is in surgery. His prognosis?"

"It's not the best Captain" Cyclone shares solemnly, Bates behind him also looking morose. "A runner informed me that they are working to stabilize him enough to get a medivac to Pearl but his injuries are severe."

"When I was in medical, he-" the older pilot shakes his head, afraid once more to say the words out loud, to voice what could have happened into the universe, "it seemed like we lost him for a moment again Sir."

"So I was told" Admiral Simpson shares, "but they got him back. He's a fighter Maverick, just like his Captain, just like his whole team. When we hear any more I'll be sure to let you know, along with the rest of the Daggers."

"Thank you Sir."

"Now, I understand you want to see Lieutenant Bradshaw but I need you to see a situation beyond your own wants and needs Mitchell. Prior to him launching this morning, every interaction you had with the man came close to insubordination on his part and retreat on yours. Now I can-" Beau tilts his head as though searching for the best way to phrase his next thought, "-appreciate that recent circumstances have changed your dynamic but I will assess Lieutenant Bradshaw's feelings before I send you in there to sit at his bedside. He will have a say in this too Captain."

"Understood Sir."

"And I am also ordering you to be checked out by medics as well-“

“I’m fine Sir-“

“It wasn’t a suggestion Captain" Simpson corrects sternly, "You were in that frigid water as well after ejecting from your aircraft. And if the Navy gossip is correct, and we both know it always is with these things, than it’s in fact your second ejection in a month" he points to the rigidity of the way Maverick was sitting with a frown, "I can see you're in pain right now. So you will be checked out and I want the report brought to me once you’re dismissed. Is that understood?”

Pete nods reluctantly, “Yes Sir.”

“Good," Cyclone shuffles the papers on his desk, "now dismissed Mitchell."

Maverick rises from the chair slowly, catching the eye of Warlock as he stands. The animosity from before has clearly lessened, the older man no longer looks like he wants to bite Pete's head off, but there is still something there in the Admiral's eye. Maverick thinks about his relationship with Ice, how much the man did for him but also the loyalty that he himself displayed back to his wingman. Pete used to think he was the luckiest guy in the Navy for having Ice at his side but maybe that type of friendship isn't as rare as he once thought. Warlock and Cyclone have worked together for many years and Pete can appreciate how much it was frustrate and hurt the lower Admiral to see his friend make such a sacrifice to his career, and for Maverick no less, a man who has never quite given him the proper respect.

All Pete can do is hope he earns it.

"One more thing Sir," he speak up before he heads out, "if you don't mind?"

Both Admirals look up but it is Beau who replies, "Yes Captain?"

"Is your father still alive?"

If Cyclone is shocked by the question, he doesn't show it, instead smirking at his desk,  he nods in affirmation, "he is Maverick. Seventy seven years old and still calls every week to let me know that Army will beat Navy in college football and to remind me that the Army also has perfectly good planes I could have been in charge of." He rolls his eyes fondly, "but yes, the retired Army colonel is still being a pain in my side all these years later. Remind me never to introduce you, Cyclone jokes, "you would get along way too well for my liking-"

"I hope he knows how much of a hero his son is Sir, and that because of you Sir, and your leadership, the Daggers are going home."

The hardened Admiral 's face falls for a moment, the surprise evident, "Thank you Captain" he manages softy, purposely looking down for a moment to no doubt blink away any visual reactions to his subordinate's words, "now go get checked out at medical. I will be following up with the doctors to make sure you go."

It was a documentary about how the drug war affected the whole of the United States.

And Javi had loved the way it was put together. He could only hope that this one would be just as good. 

He knew that you already had been in Colombia for the last couple of days to prepare. It was quite the schedule you worked out, but you always left enough time to relax for a day or two before moving on to the next location to shoot. 

Only last week you had gotten the confirmation that you’d be able to shoot in what was left of La Cathedral, which apparently had been bought by a benedictine order to be turned into an actual cathedral with time. And you’d also be going to Hacienda Napoles. Something he found himself excited about, since he didn’t have the chance to go there back then. 

Yet overall what he felt about going back to Colombia was anxiety. 

In the week leading up to his flight even his nightmares returned. He had to schedule an extra appointment with Margery and she taught him some breathing exercises to calm himself down. Sure, he could have taken anxiety meds, but there were better times to start looking into that then when he was about to leave the country for six weeks. 

And so he took those breathing exercises and a big glass of whiskey instead of anxiety meds. A combination that would hopefully get him over the next couple of weeks. 

His CIA contact had informed him that he indeed was still on some kill lists in Colombia. But he was told not to be too concerned, the cartels had other issues to figure out at the moment. That, and he was traveling under a wrong name. 

Also set up by his CIA contact. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been a mess back then (well… he is still kind of a mess) things with Heather, the CIA contact, could have worked out. She was pretty, super intelligent and had a killer smile. They had met shortly after he came back from Colombia and had to get to one last DEA hearing where she was sitting in. 

It was a short but intense fling they had. And thankfully they parted ways as friends which was why he could reach out to her for a favour like this. 

She also took care of the gun permit for the journey for both him and you. 

„Flight 405 to Bogota, Colombia is now ready for boarding. Please proceed to your gate“

He took a deep breath before he emptied his glass of beer. Closing his eyes he counted down from ten as he took some deep breaths, before he grabbed his backpack and walked out of the airport bar and towards his gate. 

He gave the flight attendant a small smile, her cheeks flushing as she handed him back his boarding pass before he proceeded down towards the plane, pleasantly surprised that he would fly first class. 

Not that he had much from it. 

He was asleep before the plane was even up in the air. 

Maybe the next time you were considering a new project it should be somewhere more up north. Like…. Canada or…. The north pole. 

You had been in Colombia for four days and even though people around you were telling you that this weather was completely normal and actually quite cold for the season, you were sweating like crazy from the moment you got out of bed. The humidity was not something you were used to or fond of. 

You were more of a rainy day under a blanket type of girl.

Though you could admit that there were worse ways to spend a sunset than on a hotel balcony facing the ocean with a glass of white wine while only wearing your underwear. 

You had spend the day meeting up with the film crew who would already be busy tomorrow with scenery footage and interviewing some of the locals while you would go to the airport to pick up Javier. He had told you he could rent a car but you had waved him off, telling him that you had to get used to driving in this city anyway. 

If you were honest with yourself, you were excited to meet him. 

You had talked quite a lot in the last weeks and you got to know him a little. He had opened up a little about how Colombia had changed him and that while part of him was looking forward to see how the country changed, there was also the lingering anxiety about what had went down there all those years ago. 

You were pretty sure that only a fraction of the things that happened while they were working in Colombia had been made available to the rest of the world and you hoped that you would learn a little more. Sure, there would be things he could not talk about but the journalist in you wanted to at least try to get something new out of him. 

And, of course, you knew that he was an attractive man. 

Even if he aged very poorly, which you don’t think he did, you did see the ID of his DEA badge and ID that he sent to you via mail, he would still be just your type. 

Something you hoped would not disturb your work. 

Then again, a little flirting never hurt nobody, right?

But you were going to far ahead. You hadn’t even met in person yet and here you were already flirting with him in your mind. 

You sighed, watching the sun disappear into the ocean. 

In four days you would take him to the old search bloc building and after that to one of the drug labs that he had taken down that was now a restaurant. 

You had high hopes for the next weeks and you were excited to start working. 

His plane had touched down almost 45 minutes ago and you were growing a little anxious. You hoped that there were no issues with him traveling under a cover name or with his gun. 

You were pleasantly surprised that the permits had been dealt with so quickly. 

Just as surprised as when you learned that he was still on four kill lists from new cartels that had formed in the wake of Escobars death and the downfall of the Cali cartel. 

You hadn’t told Javier yet that depending on how good this documentary did, you might get the chance to do one on the Cali cartel too. 

But that was not something you were concerning yourself about now. 

There would be a time for that in the future. 

Now, you were excited and a little anxious  as you waited for Javier to walk out of baggage claim. 

And you didn’t have to wait for that much longer, the doors opening and there he was in the flesh. 

Carrying a big brown suitcase in his left hand, his eyes hidden behind some dark sunglasses as he walked out. Since he didn’t know what you looked like, it gave you some time to take him in. He was the definition of tall, dark and handsome and if you thought yesterday that he could become a problem, you were now downright fucked. 

There was the hint of grey in his otherwise dark brown temples, his moustache trimmed to perfection. Dark, full brown hair that looked perfectly messy, as if he walked right out of a photoshoot. His pants were tight, his baby blue dress shirt, the first couple buttons open and revelling his chest, tucked into his jeans, a leather jacket covering his broad shoulders. 

If he was only half as a flirt now as he was back when he was working here, things were going to be interesting in the next couple weeks. He came to a stop, taking his glasses of and let his gaze wander through the crowd, most likely trying to find you. 

You took a deep breath, suddenly not the humidity being at fault for making you sweaty. 

„Javier?“ You asked as you walked towards him, his head turning as he heard you, a small smile sneaking to his lips as he said your name. 

„Yeah, that’s me,“ you couldn’t help but grin, stopping when you were in front of him, holding your hand out for him to shake. 

He took it, his hand enveloping yours completely as he shook it and you gulped. 

„It’s so nice to finally meet you in person,“ you said.

Going through security was surprisingly easy considering he was traveling under a false name. They checked the documents, asked what he was doing here and how long he would be staying and if he had a ticket for his return flight. 

The long part was waiting for his suitcase. It gave him time to get to the restroom to pee and then throw some cold water into his face after he looked at himself in the mirror. 

He really was back in Colombia. 

Giving himself twenty seconds to freak out about it, he threw another hand of cold water into his face before he used a shitty paper towel to dry himself up. Walking out to the baggage carousel the suitcases were finally getting thrown out, yet it took another ten minutes for his to make an appearance. 

With his backpack over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand he finally made his way out onto Colombian ground. The airport looked a little different from how it did the last time he was here. 

Apparently Starbucks had also finally made its way to Colombia. Something he found quite weird with how good the local coffee was. 

He was still wondering about that, when he took his sunglasses off to let his gaze wander over the people who were waiting. He never saw a picture of you so he had no idea what you looked like. 

Yet for some reason pretty came to his mind when he thought of you. Even though he only knew your voice. 

He heard his name being called from his left side and he turned his head just in time to see a woman approach him. 

You. 

He said your name and you smiled and fuck if he thought you were pretty, actually seeing you with his own eyes and seeing how pretty you were? Well, fuck. 

He took your hand, shaking it once, seeing your smile light up your whole face. 

„It’s so nice to finally meet you in person!“ You said and he nodded. 

„Likewise,“ he said, cringing internally. Likewise? Really Javier?

„Was your flight okay? I had the worst turbulences on my way here. Almost kissed the ground when I made it out of the plane,“ you joked and he smiled. 

„I slept all the way through. I think the realisation that this was really happening caught up with me there,“ he said, nervously rubbing his hand over his neck. 

„I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling. Only reading about everything that happened and knowing that you were there for almost everything? Unbelievable,“ you said in awe and he was sure he was blushing. 

„Yeah. The last time I’ve been to this airport I had just been fired,“ he snorted and you huffed a laugh, starring at him. 

„Are you ready to get to the hotel?“ You asked him and he found himself nodding. 

„Follow me,“ you said and turned around and Javier found himself falling into step next to you as you led him out of the airport. 

„The car rental gave me a super tiny car but I am supposed to get a new one tomorrow. So…. I hope you fit into the seat,“ you joked and he found himself grinning. 

„I am sure I’ll make it,“ he said, winking at you as you looked up at him. 

He caught himself looking over his shoulder, seizing up every person around him, looking for a potential threat. He felt his hands getting sweaty and he reached for his sunglasses, putting them back on his nose while he took a calming breath. 

For the first time in a long time he felt the need for a cigarette.

The humidity outside was like running against a wall as they made it out of the airport building. You slowed your steps, noticing Javier was looking around, his sunglasses back on his nose. 

„It looks different,“ he said after a moment, looking back at you. 

„Yeah?“ You asked and he nodded.

„Also feels fucking different,“ he chuckled a little uneasy, trying to work through his anxiety. It had been a long time since he felt like this. You gave him a small smile, fighting down the urge to take his hand or touch him, feeling like you wanted to comfort him. 

„We’re almost there. I hope you like the hotel. It just opened this year,“ you said as you stepped inside the car park, leaving Javier to feel like he could finally take a breather, a lot less people now around him. 

„I’m sure it will be fine. As long as I get a bed and a beer I am happy,“ he said, adding „I think I underestimated how being back here would have me on edge.“

You stopped walking and looked at him.

„If at any point it gets to much, please tell me. I know you said you’d be fine, but being back here must be a lot for you. I’d never judge you if you ask for a break or even stopping this whole thing. I don’t want this documentary and being back here to be a reason that you end up hurt in any way, okay?“ You asked. 

He took a deep breath after he listened to you, exhaling with a sigh. 

„I’ll be fine,“ he said and you narrowed your eyes and he found himself smiling. 

„I’ll tell you if anything gets too much, I promise,“ he added and your eyes softened, before you nodded and turned away from him to continue to lead him to the rental car. 

And if Javier found himself checking out how great your ass looked in the jeans shorts you were wearing? Well he had to get the thoughts in his head to focus on something else than being back in Colombia now, right?

The drive towards the hotel was quiet. 

Javier was busy looking around and noticing all the changes in the city and you were busy, well, driving. 

It’s not like you can’t drive. But with living in New York City you don’t get to do it much and definitely not with being yelled at in a language you understand but never felt really confident to speak. 

Javier on the other hand was surprised how much he recognised as you drove. Then again he did spend many years driving these streets. There was something different though. There were a lot more people out on the street. No buildings were damaged from gun holes or explosions. 

It seemed…. Happier. Brighter. 

„The hotel is actually on the ground where the old embassy building was,“ he heard you say and was reminded that he wasn’t alone. He had completely zoned out. 

He looked at you, seeing how you were gripping the steering wheel tightly, muscle tensed. There was sweat running down your temples even though the A/C of the car was running on full speed. 

He got the impression that driving was not your most favourite and he made a mental note to ask and offer to drive himself later on. 

„They relocated the embassy?“ He asked and you nodded, changing the lane, blinker set to drive to the right. 

„They didn’t need a big building like that anymore and they wanted higher security, so they moved to a new build building around twenty minutes from here,“ you explained, releasing a sigh of relief as you finally saw the hotel right at the end of the street. 

Javi on the other hand was impressed by the big building in front of him that had no resemblance to the office building he had spend countless hours chasing after cartels and making numerous, oftentimes questionable decisions. 

The whole area around where he used to spend his everyday life for years was completely transformed, nothing reminding him of the familiarity he felt walking these streets everyday. The café he used to get his coffee from was gone, replaced by a flower shop. The little empanada shop he used to get 80% of his dinners from gone, the whole building transformed into what looked like apartments. 

There were big trees lining up the street. 

If Javier didn’t know that he had been driving this street daily for two years he would never think this was the same place. 

You drove around the hotel and down the street until the car stopped in front of the entrance. You turned of the engine and let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes as you released a long breath. 

„Not the biggest fan of driving?“ Javier asked softly. You shook your head. 

„Not the biggest fan of driving,“ you said, before you looked at him with an exhausted smile. 

„I’m sure you want to freshen up and relax. I made a reservation at the hotel restaurant for later today so we can talk through some of the things I have planned for this week. But we only start the day after tomorrow, so… there’s no rush, okay?“ You said and he nodded at you. 

„Great,“ you nodded back before you took a deep breath and got out of the car. Javier did the same, walking towards the trunk to retrieve his suitcase and backpack. Before that though, he took his leather jacket off, the heat outside being really unbearable. 

Was this the climate change bullshit he had read about? He didn’t remember it being that fucking hot in this country apart from the time he was forced to spend time with Stechner in the jungle. 

You on the other hand schooled your face into what hoped look like expressionless once he was out of his jacket. It definitely wasn’t the jacket that made him broader, it was just… him. 

You turned towards the hotel and the valet who thankfully would park the car for you before Javier could catch you starring. You were still mezermermised by the foyer of the hotel, a chandelier that was bigger as the car that you had just driven hanging over the desk, hundreds of lightbulbs artfully arranged. 

You smiled at the woman behind the desk, having talked to her for a while the day before to get some recommendations for restaurants and bars in the closer area. You more felt that saw Javier as he followed you, a shiver running up your spine, the hairs on your neck standing up. 

It was like you could feel his eyes on you and you fought the urge to turn around to confirm it for yourself. 

In broken Spanish you asked for the keys to yours and Javier’s room and she gave them to you with a kind smile. Turning around you indeed caught Javier starring at you, sunglasses back in his chest pocket, eyes snapping up from what you were sure was your ass as he looked at you. 

„You got the room next to mine. Both are facing towards the ocean more or less,“ you said, handing him the key to his room and he nodded. 

The elevator ride up to your floor was a quiet one, both of you in your thoughts, the ding of the elevator arriving making you jump. You glanced up at him, finding him already looking at him before he stepped out and walked down the floor, you following him. 

„I made the reservation for 7pm, is that okay?“ You asked. 

„Perfect. I hope they got some good tamales. Otherwise we have to check if the place Steve and I used to get ours is still there in the next days,“ he said and you smiled a little, nodding. 

„I would love that,“ you said, stopping front of your room. 

„I’ll see you later?“ You asked, Javier nodded. 

„If you need anything, just call or knock. I’ll be researching for another project, so I’ll be awake,“ you said, opening your hotel door and looking at him. 

He just nodded again, giving you a small smile as he walked past your room and towards his own. You took a step inside, letting your head rest against the door as you heard a click when his door closed. 

Yeah. 

You were in trouble now. 

Even though he had slept through the flight, the moment he got out of the shower in his hotel room he fell asleep again. And surprisingly he hadn’t dreamed of anything. It was just a blissful two hour long nap he woke up from once he got cold, having fallen asleep with just a towel around his hips. 

With a groan he turned on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

If he felt anxiety about being here when he first got here this morning, his feelings now where…. Different. He just didn’t know how exactly yet. 

Then again he didn’t know how he felt most days. Now only the added confusion about being back in a place that plagued his nightmares came on top of it. 

And then there was you. 

When he talked to you on the phone leading up to this stay in Colombia he felt himself more and more looking forward to talking to you. The phone calls to you being the highlight of his day. He found himself thinking about what you were doing through certain times in the day and he questioned if he could be attracted to someone he had never met before. 

But then today you had met and fuck if Javier thought he was in trouble on the phone with you, right now, knowing you were just on the other side of the wall of his hotel room was a whole different story. 

You were beautiful. 

In every single way possible and he had only spend an hour with you. Part of him was scared to find out what would happened once you spend every single day with each other, but there was also a part of him, a part he forgot existed, that was excited. 

Excited to get to experience this new version of Colombia with you. 

Excited to get to know you.

He took a look at the clock on his bedside table, realising it was later than he thought. And maybe he spent a little more time getting ready, before he made his way towards your room to pick you up for dinner. 

You on the other hand did everything but research the project you had planned. Almost immediately after you took your shower you had called your friend in the states who knew about the documentary and about how much you already had started to like Javier during your phone calls. 

But now?

Holy crap this would either be a very long and exhausting six weeks or this would be the best six weeks of your life. And you needed to let all these thoughts out before you were going out with Javier to dinner. 

No. Not going out. 

This was just a work dinner. 

A meeting. 

Going out sounded too much like a date, which it definitely wasn’t. 

Which is why you did not wear the little black dress that had somehow made its way into your suitcase. You chose the light green summer dress that made your ass look great instead. 

And if you spent more time on your make up and hair?

Well you were going out to a four star restaurant. That’s why you did it.

And you really didn’t do it for the look in Javier’s eyes as you opened the door, ready to join him for dinner. 

You sat outside in the lush parklike garden of the hotel, enjoying the last hues of the sun warming your skin. All the way from your hotel room, throughout the lobby and into the restaurant you could feel Javier’s warmth next to you. 

You didn’t know his hand had been hovering behind you all the way, 

Now you were sitting across from each other, both trying desperately not to ogle each other while waiting for the drinks you had ordered and reading through the menu. 

You had ordered a glass of white wine and Javier a glass of whiskey. 

„The menu sounds good,“ he said finally and you looked up at him, his eyes still reading the menu. 

„Yeah? I don’t think I ever had any of this except the salad,“ you said, pursing your lips. 

„Really?“ He asked and you nodded. 

„Even though I travel a lot for work I keep eating what I know like a true American tourist,“ you cringed and he chuckled. 

„I could order for you? I know my way around the local cuisine. Or at least I did,“ he offered and you set the menu down with a smile. 

„I would love that,“ you said, leaning back in your chair. He gave you a small smile before he continued to read through the menu. 

„Any allergies?“ he asked. 

„None that I know of,“ you said and he nodded. 

You used the time the waiter took to get your drinks to look around the beautiful property, your eyes seemingly always landing back on Javier as he still read through the menu. 

He had changed into a simple white polo shirt and some black jeans. You knew he must have showered, his aftershave filling the whole elevator cabin, making you positively dizzy. He smelled like he looked, sexy and a little dangerous. 

„You sure?“ He asked once the waiter brought your drinks and you just nodded, listening to him as he ordered for the both of you. 

Waiting until the waiter had everything written down and taken the menu’s back with him you reached for your glass of wine, bringing it up to smell it, closing your eyes. 

You may not know your way around food, but wine? Yeah. You knew enough. 

„Can’t believe what this place turned into,“ Javier said after a while and you looked at him as he looked around. 

„In my research I learned that the old building had so much asbestos in the basement, that the renovation would have cost more than just to tore it down. That’s probably why the hotel chain got the property pretty cheap. And the location is really great. I walked toward the presidential palace earlier this week, it was so close,“ you smiled, finally taking the first sip of your wine. 

„I had a lot of meetings in there,“ he sighed and you tilted your head in interest. 

„What if I said we’re going in there next week?“ You pursed your lips and he raised both eyebrows.

„Really?“ He asked and you nodded. 

„I haven’t told you yet but I do have some meet ups arranged throughout our time with people you have worked together. And from what I gathered from talking to them before hand you were all friendly with each other,“ you explained and he narrowed his eyes. 

„I didn’t make any friends here,“ he said slowly. 

„Now I know that that isn’t true. Steve Murphy and you seemed like friends,“ you said and he rolled his eyes, picking up his drink.

„He’s a fucking pain in my ass, that’s what he is,“ he snorted before he drank from his glass. 

You chuckled. 

„I bet the two of you were nothing but trouble working together. From what I gathered from our phone calls….“ 

„Honestly, and don’t tell him that. He was the best partner I could wish for out here. We went through a lot of shit out here. But he always had my back, even when I fucked up. And I really fucked up,“ he sighed.

„What did you do?“ You whispered and he looked at you, setting his glass down. 

„I’m afraid, that’s classified,“ he winked and you laughed. 

„Of course it is. I hope I can get some insider scoop out of your on our little journey through the drug history of this country,“ you said and he hummed, lips twitching into a grin. 

„Guess you have to find a way to get your inside scoop out of me,“ he winked. 

„Oh I have my ways, Agent Peña, don’t you worry,“ you winked back before you both laughed. 

„We’re gonna start with you showing me your favourite places, or what’s left of them,“ you explained after you had the best empanadas you ever tasted as a first course. Javier, or Javi as he told you repeatedly to call him, told you a little about the work he was doing now, working as a consultant for the DEA in San Antonio.

He also told you he kind of hated his job, but had been doing it all his life and didn’t really know what else he could be doing instead. 

„I’ve been working on movies all my life really,“ you said with a shrug after he asked how you got into your job. 

„Really?“ He asked with a grin, you nodded. 

„First movie I made was to blackmail my sister after I found her kissing Jimmy Miller in our garden when our mom was getting groceries,“ you said proudly and Javier laughed with a shake of his head. 

„Remind me to never get on your bad side,“ he chuckled.

„It was her fault really, she broke my favourite toy,“ you chuckled too. 

„God, sometimes I’m really glad I don’t have any terrorising little siblings,“ he sighs, still smiling. 

„None?“ You asked, and he shook his head. 

„I was a miracle baby more or less. Mama tried for a while to get pregnant and once the doctors said it was better to stop, boom, I happened. But she was already in her mid thirties which back then was… ancient to become a mother so both her and papa decided I was enough,“ he explained. 

„Well, you haven’t missed anything without siblings. They’re kind of annoying, honestly,“ you say. 

„You and your sister not on the best terms?“ He asked and you sighed. 

„I wouldn’t say we’re on bad terms but… she’s the poster child. She went to college, married her high school love and had a baby. And because of all of that she sometimes does this thing where she tries to  tell me how my life should be going. Because that’s what’s expected, right? You get married, you have the child, or children, and you life happily ever after while your husband brings home the money so you can have your picture perfect life, right?“

„If that makes someone happy, sure,“ Javi shrugged. 

„Exactly. If that makes someone happy, they should do it. But I am not like that. I love my job. And if I end up falling in love and having kids, that man would have to deal with that. Cause I can’t see myself quitting my job go become a housewife,“ 

„I think I could become a stay at home man,“ Javi mused and you were so stunned after your little rant you could do nothing but laugh, enjoying the way the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled at you. 

„What? Don’t I seem like the type to stay at home, take care of the house, maybe the kids? All of that of course only after I trick someone into marrying me,“ he joked and you smiled softly. 

„I think you’d make a great stay at home husband for a very lucky lady some day. Or man. Whatever you’re into,“ you added quickly and he laughed. 

„Woman. Just women,“ he clarified quickly and you raised one eyebrow. 

„Really?“ You asked and his eyes narrowed. 

„What’s that tone supposed to mean?“ He wanted to know and you just hummed. 

„Nothing… Just…. Surprising. I would have bet you’re into men too,“ you shrugged, and he pursed his lips, bringing one of his hands up, his fingers rubbing over his perfectly groomed moustache. 

„Are you?“ He asked.

„Into men? Oh yeah,“ you winked and he huffed a laugh before he shook his head. 

„Into women,“ he clarified. 

„I think so. Like, I’ve never been with one, but if I end up meeting a woman and fall in love with her? Who am I to run away from that?“ You asked and he hummed. 

The waiter came and took your empty dishes, informing you that the main course would be served in a couple of minutes. 

„Do you…. Do you have someone at home waiting for you?“ Javier asked and you couldn’t help but smile. 

„I do,“ you said seriously and you might have imagined it, but Javier’s face fell for a moment. 

„His name is King George and he’s currently staying with my best friend,“ you said, his face changing into confusion. 

„He’s my cat,“ you clarified and Javier released a breath he was holding in a chuckle. 

„So no. No one waiting for me at home Javi,“ you smiled, „What about you?“

„No,“ he shook his head, „I think I have some issues letting people in,“ he confessed, eyes widening as the words tumbled out of his mouth. 

„But that’s not something I should talk about with anyone else than my therapist or my fictional future wife with,“ he added and you smiled softly. 

„It’s okay. I have the same problem. When you’ve been on your own for so long, it’s hard to do this step of letting someone in. Not just in your head and heart. But in all your routines, your house, your life, your  family. It’s….. The person has to be worth it,“ you said and he nodded. 

„Yeah, It’s…. It’s sometimes easier being alone than opening up to someone only to get hurt in the long run, a sentence no one at home would believe I just said,“ he chuckled to himself, picking up his drink. 

„Well I get what you mean. I rather be happy alone, than miserable in a relationship. Though I have to admit there are some things I miss about it,“ you hummed, resting your arm on the table.

„Like what?“ Javi asks, interested.

You hummed. 

„I miss cooking for someone. Which sounds dumb, but cooking for yourself feels like a chore. If I get to do it for someone else? Well that’s something else entirely,“ you said and Javier smiled a little. 

„Yeah. I hate eating fucking microwave dinners on the couch by myself,“ he said and you chuckled. 

„Exactly. Like…. I am good most times, I am happy with how my life is. I just ask myself sometimes if there’s more? Like am I going to stay alone until the day I die or is someone out there who can handle my crazy ass?“ You asked and he hummed. 

„You don’t seem so crazy to me,“ he said with a small grin and you raised one of your eyebrows, challenging. 

„You’ve meet me what? Six hours ago? Give it time,“ you nodded with confidence. 

„I’ve known you for a couple of weeks and from what I know? I think you’re an intelligent woman that loves her job and is good at it. You’re funny and between us, you’re fucking sexy as hell,“ he said like it was the most obvious think while your eyes widened, warmth spreading over your cheeks. 

You were trying to come up with a response to his words when the waiter approached, serving the main courses. Javier winked at you and you suddenly felt so hot, you were sure he could see it. 

You took a deep breath, reaching for your glass of water to take some sips. 

„This looks good,“ you finally said, picking up your fork. 

„Yeah,“ Javi said, eyes still on you with a look you couldn’t quite place. 

„Shall we eat?“ You asked and he nodded before he picked up his fork too. 

You continued to talk all throughout your dinner, though you made an effort to talk more about the trip and less about your personal lives. You were not sure why, but you felt way to comfortable with Javi and opening up to him about your life. 

Not that this was bad, you just didn’t want to dump everything on him. This was a job and once this was finished you would most likely never see him again. You would move on to other projects while he moved on doing god knows what. 

Sighing you picked up you new drink, looking up into the by now dark night sky, Javier having left to look for the restroom some time ago. 

Why were you freaking out right now?

This was a dinner. Technically a dinner with a client. 

A very attractive client who kept looking at you with his big brown eyes that seemed to hold so much longing and hurt in them that you felt like you wanted to hug him and never let go of him. 

There was so much more to Javier Peña that you thought in the beginning. From interviewing people in preparation for the documentary the people seem to respect him for the work he had done and was still doing, but were judging him harshly for everything else he did. Be it how he got the work done or how he spent his private life. 

More than once you had heard the word manwhore when talking about him and frankly?

If you would look like him, you would be one too. 

„Penny for your thoughts,“ you jumped when you heard his voice behind you, a plate of what looked like cake in his hand that he set down in front of you. 

„What’s that?“ You chose to ignore his questions as he sat down across from you. 

„This is Postre de natas. It’s a kind of milk pudding and it’s maybe my most favourite dessert on this planet,“ he said and you nodded.

„Where is yours then?“ You picked up your spoon.

„It was the last one, you should have it," he said with a warm smile and you found yourself smiling back. 

„That’s… That’s very sweet Javi," you said softly before you brought the spoon to your lips, eyes widened when the sweetness exploded in your mouth. 

„Oh this is fucking delicious,“ you hummed happily, loving the was Javi’s eyes lit up as he smiled at you. You ate almost half of it, before you sat your spoon down and pushed the plate towards him. 

„You take the rest, or I will have a sugar shock that won’t let me sleep,“ you joked and he laughed quietly before he started to eat, a long moan escaping his lips as he tasted the first spoon. 

He closed his eyes in complete bliss while you schooled your whole demeanour to not react to how watching Javier eat his dessert felt like watching porn. 

He licked his lips, humming to himself, sighing at every taste. 

„I feel like I should give you two some privacy,“ you finally found the words to tease him and his eyes dropped open, looking at you before you saw his cheeks flush a little. 

„I would say I’m sorry, but I’m really not. This might be the closest I got to having sex in a long time,“ he said, chuckling and your eyes widened, before you laughed. 

„Guess I gotta find myself a desert that’s that good, huh?“ You joked and he licked his lips, having finished the dessert. 

„Or someone to have sex with,“ he shrugged and you rolled your eyes. 

"Like it’s that easy,“ you said and he pursed his lips, eyes playful.

„The guy at the bar has been eyefucking you all night,“ he said and you were about to turn your head to look when he stopped you. 

„Don’t look. He’s not worth your time,“ he said and you titled your head. 

„And how do you know that?“ You asked and he smirked. 

„Saw his dick in the bathroom, he was next to me. Trust me, he is not worth it,“ he said seriously and your lips parted in shock before you giggled. 

„Oh my god,“ you shook your head and he grinned. 

„This is the weirdest business dinner I’ve ever had in my life,“ you still laughed, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. 

„Well this has been the best dinner I’ve had since I can remember, so thank you for that,“ he said and your smile at him softened. 

The waiter approached, asking if you wanted to order anything else but you shook your head, much like Javi before you asked him to bill the dinner to your room. 

Both Javi and you emptied your drinks before you both decided it was time to head back to your rooms. 

You walked through the restaurant back towards the elevators, walking close by each other. You couldn’t help sucking your lip in to hide your laughter when you past the man Javi had talked about sitting at the bar, nodding at you with a grin. 

Even if he was attractive, all you could think about was what Javier had said about him and you had a hard time not bursting out in giggles all the way to the elevators. When you risked a glance at Javier he was grinning too and you both chuckled as the elevator door opened. He waited for you to step in, following you, standing beside you as you pressed the button to the floor. 

You didn’t know if it was seeing the guy, being so close to Javi or the three drinks you had but you found yourself asking „So if he’s not worth my time, how do you compare to him?“ 

You saw him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, before his tongue dared out to lick over his bottom lip. 

He was about to answer when the elevator doors opened, having reached your floor. This time he put his hand on your lower back as he led you out of the elevator, slowly walking up the hallway towards your room. 

You were already fiddling with your key when he stopped in front of your hotel room door. 

„I’e be definitely worth your time,“ he finally said and you looked up at him. 

„Yeah?“ You asked, voice just above a whisper. He nodded. 

„And not just because my dick is bigger than his,“ he said, before he slowly leaned down to kiss your forehead. Your eyes widened, processing his words as he reached for your room key, unlocking the door for you. 

„I’ll see you at breakfast?“ He asked and you dumbly nodded, before you slowly walked into your room. 

„Sweet dreams," he winked as he pulled your door closed and only then did you realise that you had held your breath. 

„I am in so much fucking trouble,“ you mumbled to yourself with disbelieving laugh, looking forward to what the next few weeks would bring. 

next chapter

Taglist (please send me an ask if you want to be added to the LCC Taglist, I only have a taglist for this series, not for all of my works)

He spares you a long glance as he closes the distance between you while sliding his own phone into his pocket, eyes rolling over your body where it half leans against the wall until he’s satisfied you’re unharmed. His hand raises, a gesture for you to keep where you are, and your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls a gun from out behind him.

“Stay here.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You follow it, swallowing around the lump in your throat as he steps into your apartment and the silence that follows does nothing to quell the anxiety twisting its way around your nerves. What if you were wrong, and someone was still in there? What if he finds something? What if whoever did this is coming back and you’re left out here alone?

He appears only a few moments later, the frown between his brows deep.

“Are you okay?”

Are you? Physically, yes.

You give a little nod, shifting under your jacket and doing an internal check over your frazzled nerves and endlessly whirling mind. “Just… shaken, I guess.”

“That’s understandable. You haven’t touched anything? Moved anything?”

“No,” you murmur, fingers pinching and tugging at your sleeve. “You told me not to.”

“Good, that’s good. You did good.”

The praise does little to settle your nerves, but you appreciate the thought.

The door to the stairwell opens, your heart all but stopping dead in your chest at the thought of the unknown and the fear that freezes the blood in your veins. It’s nothing to worry about, the new faces that come through the door bare you no harm, but you still can’t seem to wind down from the pure and utter panic that seizes you.

Marcus immediately strides forward to greet the couple of police officers that introduce themselves, leaving you behind with your arms wrapped so tightly around your chest in an effort to ground yourself.

A high pitched ringing pierces your ears and your eyes flutter closed, focusing every thought on counting the breaths that leave your lungs. In, out. In, out. It works for the most part, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding until you’re able to hear a familiar voice carefully reach out to you.

“Hey Picasso.”

Jacob’s coming to a stop in front of you when you open your eyes, concern swimming in his eyes as he rakes them over you. He’s dressed much like Marcus, clad in wrinkled track pants and a loose fitting tee that you can plainly see is inside out. Another friendly face is calming, and the little smile that pulls at your lips isn’t easy and probably comes off more like a grimace, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Hey Jacob,” you murmur quietly, hands rubbing along your arms.

“You doin’ okay?”

You give a shrug, eyes darting past him to watch Marcus and the couple of officers talk. “I’m alright. What are you doing here?”

“Pike called in for backup on his way here,” he explains, head turning to eye where your front door had been pried open. “I live the closest so…”

You nod, eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry to get you out of bed for this.”

“Don’t be. You should be more sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Thought we were friends, Pollock.”

He’s frowning playfully at you when you look up at him, and you shift a little from guilt. He means no harm, you know that, but you didn’t even think of him when you decided to back out of the case. Was he a friend? You suppose so. You’d opened up to him, warmed to his easy going presence and the way he stood up for you. He was nice.

“I’m sorry about that. I just couldn’t—”

He holds up a hand with a gentle smile. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, it’s alright. Gotta do what’s best for you.”

Marcus appears beside him not even a moment later, slapping a thankful hand to Jacob’s shoulder before resting his eyes on you.

“They’ve just got a few questions for you. Nothing major, just a little statement and then they’ll call in the crime scene team and we’ll leave.”

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“She’s coming with me. She can stay at my place tonight,” Marcus says, and Jacob merely nods in return, as if he was expecting it. “I need you to stay and consult with the local detectives—”

You stop listening, brows coming together as you process his words. His place? Since when is that an option? And why couldn’t you stay somewhere else? A hotel? The little warehouse space they had reserved for you to paint? Hell, you’d settle for the couch at Jake’s at this point.

“What?”

Marcus sighs sharply, brown eyes fixing on you.

“Don’t fight me on this. We can find you somewhere else in the morning, I just—please.”

You find yourself nodding in response to his plea.

The officers behind them make themselves known, reaching out to you by name and beginning a small line of questioning. You answer their questions to the best of your ability, doing your best to focus on them as Marcus and Jacob discuss your apartment quietly behind you. 

What time did you get home? What did you do when you found your apartment broken into? Do you know anyone who would do this? Is there anyone who would wish to harm you? 

All of the questions begin to make you sick after a while, and Marcus must see it.

He steps in easily, directing their attention to him and cutting any further questioning off with the kind of finality only an agent of his standing could. They back off under his reassurance that he’ll answer any further questions regarding your situation and the investigation you were involved in himself at a later time, once you were settled somewhere safe.

With a nod of goodbye from Jacob, you follow Marcus down the corridor and down the stairs of your building. You try to relax, try to reassure yourself that you’re okay now, but with the gun in plain sight in front of you tucked into the waistband of Marcus’s pants and the tense way he seems to hold himself, eyes checking and rechecking every corner and space on your way out of the building, it does little to settle your nerves.

He opens and holds the passenger door of his car for you, and it’s impossible to miss the way he studies the street with eagle eyes over your head as you slip into the seat and settle yourself against the leather. You watch him walk around the front of your car, wondering what he sees, what he's thinking.

He’s on high alert, even when he slides in beside you and starts the car. It’s silent as he drives. He doesn’t move to flick the radio on to fill the silence, too lost in his own theories to even spare it a thought. Minutes tick by, the flash of streetlights passing by your window and washing over your features as your face twists with your thoughts, running over theories again and again until you feel almost dizzy.

You need to know what he thinks before you drive yourself mad.

Your voice catches in your throat. “Is this related to the investigation?”

“I don’t know yet, but given the timing it’s probable.”

“Am I in danger?”

His fingers rub over his mouth, his gaze focused solely on the red light in front of him as he internally debates on how to answer. You study his side profile, wondering if he’s intentionally avoiding your eyes to dodge answering truthfully or simply just trying to find a way to process his own thoughts.

A soft sigh eventually leaves his lips.

“Maybe.”

The stirrings of a chill begins to creep along your shoulders, a sick feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach from having your chaotic string of anxiety ridden theories confirmed. 

“Hey, I meant what I said. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You don’t have the strength to say anything, couldn’t even find words if you tried. A thank you attempts to build itself on your tongue, yet it dissolves away the more your mind races and tears start to bite at your eyes. Your hand reaches across the small distance over the centre console to rest on the back of his own, hoping the silent gesture would get your words across well enough. 

Ever so slightly his hand shifts beneath yours, and a part of you wilts at the thought of him pulling away and taking away the comforting reassurance the physical touch provides, your fragile state finding an anchor in the familiar touch of skin.

But he doesn’t take it away.

His hand carefully turns, palm now warm against yours, and his fingers gently tangle with your own.

He says nothing, merely letting the rough pad of his thumb stroke along your skin. The steady back and forth of the touch begins to coax the race of your heart into something calmer, soothes the sting of tears. Neither of you move your hands for the rest of the drive.

—

It’s exactly what you expect.

The apartment is neat and tidy, decorated with simple pieces of furniture and little splashes of character throughout. You’re not surprised to see art, and lots of it. Framed prints hang from walls, ranging in size and emotion. A floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelf stretches along a wall behind a small dining table and you itch to tread closer to the collection of books lining it, to see who sits in the few frames that sit peacefully on the shelves.

“It’s very… you,” you comment quietly after studying your new surroundings, readjusting the strap of your weekend bag on your shoulder.

Marcus shifts where he stands, fingers toying with his keys and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile widens and he walks deeper into the apartment, keys rattling softly as he places them on the breakfast counter. “The spare bedroom is just in the hall to the left, the bathroom is opposite.”

“Spare room?”

“You didn’t think I was going to make you sleep on the couch, did you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply.

You honestly didn’t know what to think when he bought up the topic of staying at his place. You weren’t opposed to sleeping on a couch when the occasion called for it, and God knows you’d rather take the floor than his bed. That felt entirely too personal given your history.

A spare room was a welcome development. You’d be out of his way and in your own space until he’s able to organise something else.

“Okay, well…” you falter, somewhat awkward just standing there in the middle of his apartment. “If it’s alright, I’m—I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He nods, eyes falling briefly away from you.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Uh, help yourself to the kitchen if you need anything during the night. If you need something else and can’t find it, my room’s at the end.”

You linger for just a moment more, a small piece of you clinging to the reassuring safety his presence seems to provide after the previous events of the night. His gaze moves back to you, so open and steady and soft, it finally pushes you to speak the words you’ve been struggling to get out since he all but flung himself out of bed to get to you.

“Thank you, Marcus, for… everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, gentle but with the firm seal of a promise.

His eyes follow you as you begin to make your way to the spare room, the weight of them familiar and surprisingly not unwelcome. No, you feel comforted, secure under his watchful gaze, able to breathe and release the tension embedded into your shoulders.

He doesn’t shy away when you spare him a final glance over your shoulder, and when he returns your small smile with one of his own, something in your chest seems to warm at the tender curl of it. The feeling follows you even when you close the door and slip into something more comfortable, stirs along your nerves when you slide into the crisp clean sheets of the bed and settle against the fluffy pillow.

And it’s still there, even when you succumb to the weight pulling at your eyes and slip into a heavy sleep. It’s not enough to keep the nightmares away though, shadows creeping along the familiar walls of your apartment in your mind and ghostly hands reaching out to tighten around your throat. You awake with a start sometime later, hands tight as they twist in the sheets and heart drumming against your ribs.

You attempt to settle back against the mattress with a few deep breaths, but the shadows dance along the ceiling of the room, taunting you with your recent fear.

Maybe they’d have faces if you knew who was behind this. Maybe they’d be the faces of old acquaintances, pinched with hatred and disgust that you’d given them so easily to the FBI and out for revenge. Maybe they’d be strangers, twisted by fury and fuelled by the significant loss of money from your replicas replacing their targets.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe this was just karma, the fall out of your choices and the consequences of each finally catching up to you. Maybe Marcus was wasting his time trying to step in, to save you from a fate you had probably sealed yourself in for when you first agreed to step into that forbidden world all that time ago.

These people, the widespread global business that runs behind closed doors, it was all so much bigger than you ever could’ve imagined when you started out.

What hope do you have of outrunning it? Of surviving the escape of it? There’s no leaving it behind.

Your body feels heavy as you pry yourself from the sheets and sit along the edge of the bed, neck stretching to either side in an effort to rid the ache slowly building behind your temples. Your mind continues to race, barraging you with questions of the unknown, the logical part of your mind struggling to comprehend, to put together how this came to be and how it could possibly play out.

None of it seems to lean in your favour.

The mere notion of it is dark, the apparent threat of death stretching and twisting through your mind until it’s seemingly all you can think about.

Marcus can try, but in reality, how much difference could he possibly make in the end? Whether it was now, or months, maybe even years, down the line… he won’t always be a phone call away. He won’t always be there with a promise that nothing will ever happen to you because of all of this, because of the life you chose to live.

You’re quiet as you slip out of the room and into the living area of his apartment, ensuring to keep your feet light over the floorboards to not disturb him. He had left a light on for you, a lamp perched on the side table beside the couch. That little trace of warmth returns with the thoughtful notion, attempts to coax the darkness plaguing your mind away, but it does very little in the end. The thoughts still run rampant.

The blanket you reach for on the couch is soft and smells comfortingly familiar as you tuck it around your shoulders. In the subdued light of the apartment, you nuzzle into it as you pad to the kitchen, taking in one final steadying breath before setting about finding a glass and filling it from the tap.

Sinking into the couch, you tuck your feet beneath you and huddle deeper into the blanket, thankful the warm light keeps your mind from finding shapes within the shadows stretching along the walls.

You don’t know how long you sit there, mind racing and anxiety spiralling out of control, but the telltale sound of a door opening down the hall has your eyes immediately fixing on the hallway, waiting for him to appear. He does only a moment later, hair askew and shadows under his eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” you offer quietly as an explanation, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he replies, footsteps almost inaudible as he tracks his way to the couch and sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh. “I can’t sleep either.”

Every time he closed his eyes he saw your body spread out on an autopsy table, the soft skin of your forehead swollen and pierced by a single bullet wound. He hears vivid descriptions of your death, the degree of decomposition. His mind plagued him, tortured him, with it all over and over. 

He swallows the bile building in his throat, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and taking comfort in the fact that you’re beside him. Breathing, alive.

Is that how this could’ve turned out? What if you had gotten home and they were still there? What if you didn’t have the chance to call him? Who would’ve eventually found you? What if they had come back and he was too late? He shakes the thoughts away, refusing to entertain them for another single second.

It won’t happen. He simply wouldn’t let it.

“How are you doing?”

“Not good.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Do you? You wouldn’t even know how to form your thoughts into words. Where would you even begin? What would talking about it achieve? Nothing. There was no point. Besides, it wasn’t his burden to bear. This struggle was all yours and yours alone.

“No,” you mutter finally, sighing quietly. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It is something, and it does matter,” he pushes softly, head resting gently against the back of the couch and head rolling to the side to watch you pick at his blanket. “I know it won’t mean much coming from me, but you’re not alone. You can talk to me.”

“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start. My mind’s all over the place. I had a nightmare and it—I don’t know. I just… I’m scared. That’s all.”

Your tone is dismissive, and he seems to take the hint that that’s all he’ll be getting out of you while you’re in this state. He doesn’t push any further, and simply lets the silence fall over you both as his eyes trace the outline of his coffee table. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks after a little while. “I can cook you something.”

Your face twists, eyes bouncing to the window where the night still stretches out beyond it. “Marcus, it’s like 3am.”

He hums lowly, and in the corner of your eyes you see a small boyish smile forming on his lips.

“Perfect time for pancakes.”

Pancakes? At this hour? But your stomach rumbles at the thought, reminding you that you didn’t get to enjoy the leftovers sitting in your fridge that you were saving for after your shift. You can’t remember when you ate last, wondering if it was something small before leaving for work or even something earlier than that.

He must see the indecision play across your face.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, standing from the couch and holding a hand out to you. “We’ll make some pancakes and then we’ll watch a movie or something. It’ll take your mind off of everything. I’ll even let you pick what we watch.”

The offer of a distraction is welcome and highly appreciated, but guilt still bubbles in your system from keeping him from rest yet again. He has a rough job, with sleep surely being scarce already. You couldn’t ruin his attempt of getting what little sleep he could after you practically pulled him out of bed earlier.

“Shouldn’t you go and try to get some sleep, agent?”

He gives a small shrug, that smile curling along the edges of his lips. “It’s not my first all-nighter. Come on, you know you want to.”

You fight a smile of your own and relent, reaching for his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

It works.

Through the making of the batter, the playful tossing of the pancakes, and the soft drone of American Pickers playing out across the screen when you both finally sink back into the couch with your plates, you find that your mind had been peacefully quiet, your anxiety calmed to a minimum.

Another thing to thank him for.

That warmth, soft and sweet, stirs back to life, and when you glance over at him you have a fleeting thought that you might be in more danger than you’re ready to admit. You immediately stamp it out and refuse to let it grow into something more, swallowing down your appreciative thank you and instead moving to cuddle into the plush arm of the couch, ensuring to keep a distance stretched out between you.

—

Your tea’s cold, the steady rolls of steam wafting up from its pale brown surface long gone. You don’t have the appetite for it right now, the craving all but snatched away with the one simple phone call Marcus had stepped into his bedroom to take. He said he’d be back, that he’d tell you everything.

Time rolls on, and your impatience merely grows along with it.

Do they have any answers? Do they know who was in your apartment and why?

You hope for something random, a break in from someone’s need for quick cash and that can be in, but deep in your gut you know it’s not the case. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t that easy, that simple. 

He immediately has your full attention when he eventually reappears, frowning down at his phone before sliding it into the pocket of his slacks. He’s dressed and ready for work, the soft comfortable side of him hidden behind his neatly pressed suit. He senses your questions before you have time to even form them on your tongue, and he gets straight into it, confirming your theories and curdling that bitter anxiety back to life.

“There were fingerprints at your apartment,” he starts, and you shift on the couch as something flashes across his face. “They were a match to the prints we previously pulled—”

—from a gun.

He feels physically sick.

They matched the prints from the ones found on a gun, linked to the murder of one of your old crew. These people, this person, had been in your home, touching your things, been so damn close to you…

Marcus stiffens his shoulders, heart beating at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know their motives, but judging by the state they left your apartment in, he gathered they weren’t there to recruit you. Someone somewhere knew you, knew what you had done, and they weren’t fucking happy. 

“I’m putting you into protective custody.”

It’s final, leaving no room for argument.

You’re left to nod, accepting his decision readily despite the dark thoughts that return with it all. What’s the point? His face twists, eyes suddenly narrowed and on you and it’s only then that you realise you’d unintentionally said it out loud. You sigh tiredly, eyes falling away from the questions flashing across his face.

“Marcus, they—” you falter, hands clenching to hide their tremble, “—they’ll find me eventually, whether it’s now or in the future. What more can you do?”

“Anything. Everything. I’ll bounce you around this country until I find all of them if I have to.”

It’s spoken with such a determined vigor you’re left with nothing to say in return. You can’t argue with his resolve. You can’t tell him that it’s ridiculous, that you’re not worth that trouble and that you doubt the FBI would waste such resources on keeping someone like you safe. You’re hardly on the top of their priority list.

“But what kind of life is that? I’m practically on the run until you think it’s safe?”

“If it wasn’t for us—if it wasn’t for me—requesting your assistance with the case, you wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s my responsibility to see to it that you’re safe while we continue the investigation and apprehend those responsible, no matter how long it takes.”

So he thinks it’s his fault you’re in this position. This is him just covering his back, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s so he wouldn’t be held responsible for anything that happens to you. It’s understandable, his job must mean a lot to him considering his position. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place.

“Marcus, you don’t have to feel guilty for any of this. I chose to do it. It wouldn’t be your fault if anything happens to me, that’s just the consequences of getting myself mixed into everything when I did.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know that, you can’t promise that—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he repeats, firmer.

There’s that resolve again. You see it etched into his expression, buried within the tightness between his brows. There’s no moving him from it, no talking sense or pushing your case. He won’t hear it, won’t entertain any other possibility than the one he’s seemingly settled on. How could he be so sure?

It wouldn’t kill him to admit there’s a risk here.

You sigh, hands itching to busy themselves as worry curdles along your veins. It pushes your heart faster, turns your stomach until you feel a sickening ache building in your throat. You could take comfort from how hell bent he is on keeping you safe from harm, but your mind pushes to see reason, to know why he’s being so damn stubborn about this.

Even if Jane was right about his supposed ‘feelings’, going to all this trouble for a silly little crush built from your past is just ridiculous. Unless that’s what he’s trying to make up for. It’s not about feelings that are or aren’t there, it’s about fixing what happened. That’s what he’s doing. He couldn’t stop everything spiralling last time, so maybe that’s what he’s trying to do this time. 

“You don’t have to do all of this, you know.”

Confusion bleeds into his expression, his hands finding his hips as he waits for further elaboration.

“You don’t need to make up for the past or anything. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

And you were, in a way. Oddly enough, this whole experience had given you closure on a chapter you never thought you’d be able to close. Never did you think you’d be able to achieve this kind of… peace with it all, and yet here you are—in his apartment, comfortable in his presence and the bitter hatred that had curdled so viciously in your heart nowhere to be found.

Of course it still hurts, and probably always will, but he wasn’t all bad. His continuous insistence in keeping you safe, his genuine sincerity in comforting you, and respecting the boundaries you had made along the way through coming into the investigation had shown you that. You can believe he had no intentions of letting it spiral as much as it did back then, didn’t mean for it to develop into what you had shared. It must have been confusing for him, the lines blurring between real and fake.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He questions softly, hardened frame weakening under your gaze. “Making up for the past?”

“Why else would you be doing all of this?”

The quiet that falls between you is built with something you can’t seem to place in the moment, his warm brown eyes flicking over your face almost as if he were debating saying something. His mouth opens, and you wait, watching some kind of conflict pass across his face before he exhales gently, his gaze falling to the floor.

He leaves your question unanswered.

“I’m going into the office to organise your accommodations and to follow up on those prints. I’ll have an agent come to collect you sometime later this morning—you can grab some things from your apartment before we move you.”

You should leave it, but you can’t. You want to know why. If it’s not because he’s trying to compensate for the past, then why is he going to all these extremes? Protective custody is a logical step in this kind of circumstance, but you highly doubt there are agents just opening their homes to victims needing somewhere safe to stay.

He had wanted you here, in his apartment where he could watch over you himself. He had made you pancakes, made such an idiot of himself making a mess with batter and tossing the pancakes until a chuckle finally broke its way past your lips, and carefully tucked the blanket around your shoulders when you had fallen into a light sleep on the couch.

Though you weren’t fully conscious enough to recall all of it, a part of you had felt the shift of the couch, sensed his hands near and the sudden reassuring warmth of the blanket before slipping into a dreamless slumber. He was asleep and spread out beside you when you awoke a few hours later, hand stretched across the couch and resting on the cushion just shy of your covered feet, almost as if he were looking for you while lost in his own dreams.

“Marcus, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my responsibility—”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish his sentence. He lets it hang in the air, body slackening as soon as your eyes meet his. The vulnerability that seems to work its way through his system displays openly on his face.

“Be honest with me. Tell me the truth.”

He huffs in wry amusement, face twisting. His head drops, he shuffles on his feet and then he sighs, resigned. “After your conversation with Jane, I think you know why.”

You can’t help but recoil from his words, a frown quick to pinch your brows in surprise. “You know about that?”

His small smile is sad, uncomfortable.

“Jane may be a dick, but Rigsby’s a good guy. He pulled me aside and told me about it when he heard you had dropped your involvement. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were put in that position—it must’ve been difficult for you. And it’s not something you should’ve heard from him, of all people.”

He’s not denying it. He’s not rejecting Jane’s words. He’s not standing there insisting it’s just another one of his silly little mind games, or that he was making a big deal out of nothing. He has feelings for you. Actual feelings, and not some strange little crush carried from the past, and from seeing you again after so long. You don’t even know how they could be there. He doesn’t know you, not anymore at least.

“You can’t have feelings for me,” you state plainly, heart suddenly beating at the base of your throat.

“Why not?” He fires back immediately, defensively.

“Because you—” you flounder for words, eyes darting around the apartment in an effort to string your thoughts together. “Marcus, before this investigation, we hadn’t seen each other since—”

“Yeah, well… I guess they never went away.”

“They weren’t real!” You cry out, a touch of anger seeping into your tone as you stand from the couch and face him fully. “You were working, I-I was just a lead! You couldn’t possibly have—”

“You were never just a lead!”

You’re taken aback by the sudden force behind his voice, and he must see the way you flinch at it. He calms almost instantly, chest heaving with a sharp exhale as he breaks away from your gaze and curls in on himself. You don’t know what to say. You merely wait for something more, hanging on the way he seems to be thinking so damn hard on his words.

“You—you weren’t just a lead. Not to me.”

“What are you saying? The whole time, you… the whole time?”

“The whole time,” he confirms quietly, and for a split second you just wish he would look at you.

He doesn’t, and your mind spins. The revelation hits you deeply, the stirrings of confusion, heartache, simmering in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t change anything. It couldn’t. The damage had already long been done, but strangely enough there comes a wash of comfort that soothes the bitter sting, and the question slips free of your lips before you even comprehend it.

“It was real,” you choke out, eyes prickling from the build of tears, “wasn’t it?”

Maybe not the whole thing given the circumstances, but what you shared, what he felt for you—

“It was always real to me.”

And with those few little words, he shatters the perception you had built of him and the time you shared together. You feel it hit you—hard, your body taking a step back as your throat tightens until you worry you won’t be able to get a breath in or out. The tears slip free, spilling down your cheeks as your mind hurries to replay every memory of him in a different light, one not tainted with betrayal or hatred.

He follows your step back on instinct, one foot coming to move his body forward towards you before he stops himself short. He swallows, a hand finally leaving his hip to run over his face and collect the stray tear that had slid along his cheek.