yee? haw.

Melissa King likes to think of herself as an optimist. She wakes up every morning at five thirty to watch the sunrise, she enjoys the peace that the early morning brings her, she especially loves when the sky is colored with orange and purple looking like an artist has taken a paint brush to the clouds. She likes to wake Becca up (when she’s not at her facility, of course) with some sort of fun fact that she knows will interest her sister to get a smile or a laugh out of her. She loves when the hot water in the bathroom doesn’t take long to warm up, and when her scrubs are still warm in the dryer from the load of laundry she put in the night before. She loves when she comes home from work to find out that yes, she did take the chicken out of the freezer, and yes, she does have a bag of broccoli to go alongside it. She loves it when Becca is home, and she loves it when she has the house to herself, even if it gets lonely occasionally.

She’s not really sure if any of that makes her an optimist or just someone who enjoys the simple things, but one thing is for certain: she remains realistic with things like these. She reminds herself that the tea she gets on the way to work will not always be perfect and to her preference, sometimes it isn’t as warm as she’d like it to be. She never requests another drink. She reminds herself that the annoying weather of early springtime will either have her freezing in the morning or able to walk outside of her apartment in shorts and a t-shirt. She knows that not every morning will have a perfect sunrise, sometimes the sky is murky and grey, but sometimes it is beautiful. There is balance. Mel likes balance. And she especially likes to remind herself that the man she is deeply in love with is, in fact, married.

How is that for optimism?

***

Mel wakes up every morning to the beeping sound of her alarm clock, it isn’t loud or jolting, just repetitive enough to fully shake her from her sleep. It’s the call of a barn swallow, a kind of bird that her mother always sketched. The type of bird that symbolized hope and happiness, and though Mel didn’t necessarily consider herself the superstitious type, she did always feel closer to her mom once stirred from her slumber, like she was still there, hand on Mel’s face and whispering for her to get up.

She always struggles not to feel disappointed when she wakes to a dark room, her alarm sounding from her nightstand, and her mother nowhere to be seen. Mel exhales, reaches to switch the alarm off and stares at the ceiling before grabbing her glasses from the nightstand. Her apartment is eerily quiet, it usually is this early, but extra that day since Becca is at her facility for an overnight weekend, something she had requested due to Adam staying.

Mel tries her best not to bristle, it’s only been a week since the worst day of her life. Maybe she’s being dramatic, she’s certainly had worse days. The car wreck that killed their parents, that definitely took the cake. But the day that Becca came into the hospital, revealed her secret relationship and ditched her to watch the fireworks with her boyfriend still managed to come close. And that was excluding the deposition.

Mel’s morning routine is simple. She always brushes her teeth first, she can’t stand the feeling of the taste in her mouth from sleep. She flosses, washes her face, braids her hair, and goes to her balcony to watch the sunrise. It’s hot that morning already, mid-July in Pennsylvania. She isn’t surprised, but she can already feel the humidity applying itself and sticking to her skin.

Her balcony is her favorite part of her apartment, it’s covered, which means she’s strung fairy lights from one side to the next, her furniture is wicker with soft orange cushions, she even has a table dedicated to her outdoor plants. Plants that she’s forgotten to water, she quickly heads inside, leaving the slider door open while she fills the jug up with water.

Once she’s satisfied they aren’t going to dry out and die on her, Mel sits herself on one of the chairs, pulling her legs and crossing them. The sun has already started to change the color of the sky, a light pink that morning. Mel takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and basks in it.

It isn’t long before she’s changing into her scrubs, a purple undershirt that she thinks is actually Becca’s, her usual black scrubs over it. She checks her braid once more and then heads out the door. Her apartment is within the same strip of a coffee shop she loves, and she’s immediately welcomed with a series of hellos.

Mel smiles. The attention is still a little off-putting for her, but she’s learned to deal with it. Her favorite barista is behind the counter, offering her a big smile. “Morning, Mel,” she greets. “Your usual?”

“Yes, please,” Mel answers. They usually get busy right after she gets there, so Mel always makes sure to slip a good tip into the jar once her tea is called out, waving goodbye to anyone who offers her a farewell, and ducks out of the shop.

The walk to the bus stop always takes the longest. It’s ten minutes from her apartment, which in hindsight, isn’t very long, but when it’s snowing or overwhelmingly hot like it is that day, it feels like forever. Lucky for Mel, she’s so insanely punctual and on schedule the bus usually arrives a minute after she gets to the waiting area.

She sips her tea as she pulls out her airpods, the familiar comfort of them in her ear is already enough to ease the chaos around her, tuning out the world and its ability to make her hands clammy, and eliminating the anxiety that usually consumes her. She hates public spaces like this, it’s some sort of wormhole that she thrives so well in the work she does.

Her by Megan Thee Stallion is the first song that plays, Mel doesn’t bump her head or make any physical indications that she enjoys it, but her shoulders relax ever-so-slightly.

As she walks into the Pitt, she’s relieved she isn’t immediately pulled into a case, giving her zero time for preparation. Instead, the ER actually looks quite calm. She can’t say it’s been like this consistently since Al-Hashimi took over for Robby, but there is a noticeable difference in their leadership.

“Good morning, Mel,” Al-Hashimi greets her with a warm smile, she has her curls pulled into a bun on her head that day, Mel thinks it looks very cute.

“Good morning,” Mel answers, politely.

“I’m going to have you start in triage just to relieve Doctor Ellis.”

“Okay,” she nods. Everyone hates triage—Mel actually enjoys it. She thinks it’s a good balance, from emergencies that involve fast thinking and constant vigilance, triage is a nice pace change for when things get too overwhelming. It could get tricky fast, she wasn’t dismissing that, but typically triage was more on the calm side. Which, she believes, is a good way to start her morning.

She spots Trinity entering, who offers her a wave and a tired smile that Mel is sure she returns. Her first round of patients is typical for early morning, returning patients from previous operations coming for a check-up, she has a case of chlamydia and another STD case right after, which she finds kind of strange.

It isn’t until seven-thirty that she firsts sees Doctor Langdon, who approaches her at the nurses station while she briefly updates a chart.

“Hey, Mel,” he says, casually.

Mel feels herself brighten almost immediately. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

“Al-Hashimi has you on triage?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I don’t mind it, really. It’s steady enough.”

“Can’t stand triage,” Langdon muses, stretching his back a little. Mel catches a glimpse of his skin, the brief lift of his shirt that reveals his lower stomach and immediately makes her turn her head away, like she’s just broken some kind of law.

“I know,” Mel says with a small nod. “You thrive in fast-paced environments.” She squints at him. “You probably do actually have ADHD.”

It’s a call-back from one of their recent conversations, another one that had taken place in the ambulance bay post-shift, how he couldn’t stand still, always needed to be busy. He’d cracked a joke about having it, but Mel had seriously considered it.

“Yeah,” Langdon agrees. “Actually, I got tested for it when I was seven. Didn’t really see it until I saw the same behaviors in Tanner.”

Mel purses her lips. “It is genetic,” she offers. “That would make sense.”

Langdon laughs like she’s said something funny, Mel doesn’t recall making a joke. Still, the sound makes her heart flutter and she feels like she’s just succeeded in performing brain-surgery, the way she soars after she makes him laugh.

“In any case,” he clicks the pen he’s holding, Mel’s gaze flickers to his hand. “I hope Al-Hashimi moves you back here, the ED isn’t as fun if you’re not in the chaos with me.”

She feels like she’s been knocked breathless. Thankfully, she manages to keep it together. “I could say the same for you.”

Langdon’s smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, Mel remains standing there like an idiot as he turns to go, called into trauma one and she has to physically shake herself before she heads back out to triage. Behind her, Ahmed stands at the door of his security office, that smirk on his face whenever he is clearly plotting something, and he moves to update the whiteboard.

Mel doesn’t see this, of course, and it probably wouldn’t matter even if she did—because if she can’t notice the lack of a gold ring on Langdon’s hand while it’s right in front of her, how could she see that the next betting board is about just that very thing?

***

Mel switches with Javadi halfway through the shift, something about her mother driving her insane with frequent visits and wanting to hide away in triage. Mel doesn’t argue, especially if it means she can finally get some action. And working alongside Doctor Langdon is a plus. Not that he had anything to do with her answer, definitely not.

She’s in south 11, talking to a young girl and just about ready to discharge her when someone from trauma yells.

“I need hands!”

“Excuse me,” Mel says quickly, rushing out and jogging across the department to stand alongside Santos. “What do we have?”

“He’s crashing. BP was fine, I ordered an EPI. He was fine.”

As Perlah holds the patient as he seizes, Mel feels his lower abdomen while Santos bolts around Jesse, moving to grab the AED. As Mel’s hands work, the tightness of the patient’s stomach makes her brows furrow. “Cancel AED,” Mel orders.

Santos freezes. “What? He’s-”

“He needs more fluids,” Mel says, not meaning to cut her off but needing her to hear. “There’s a patch in his intestines. Test him for cryptosporidiosis, there’s a bacteria wall in his abdomen. Flush it out, his heart rate is stable.”

“Got it,” Perlah says, attaching another IV while Santos stares at her, dumbfounded. Immediately, the seizing slows, he lies back normally and Mel watches the screen cautiously.

“Order an x-ray and an ultrasound,” Mel instructs. “If we can locate where it’s built up exactly we can stop him from crashing again.”

Santos swallows, thickly. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Nice catch.”

Mel is out of the door, changing her gloves when Al-Hashimi signals for her to join them in trauma 2, a thrashing boy who is yelling a confounding amount of swears.

“Alright, somebody sedate this kid,” Langdon announces as he steps into the room, brushing against Mel and she has to physically stop herself from jerking. “Christ.”

“Mr Jones, if you keep smacking away our workers we will not be able to help you,” Al-Hashimi says, calmly. It goes unnoticed. She exhales, glancing to Mel. “Dr. King, two milligrams of ketamine, please.”

Mel does as she’s asked, pushing it through the IV and it only takes a minute for Jones to stop kicking and swatting. Langdon is the first one to check him, lifting his shirt. “Stab wound,” he informs immediately.

“Any internal bleeding?” Al-Hashimi asks.

“Not from what I can tell,” Langdon answers. Mel steps beside him, squinting behind her glasses as she pulls on another set of gloves, reaching her fingers into the gash. “Negative. Thanks, Mel.”

“I’ll order antibiotics and a tetanus shot,” she says, and Al-Hashimi nods. “Absorbable stitches will be fine, what do you think, Doctor Langdon?”

“I agree,” he says. “Cut isn’t that big.”

Donnie moves the tray of materials over to them, Mel grabs the forcep from the cart, handing it to Langdon. “PDS?”

She watches the way his eyes narrow, focusing in as he moves the wire between the skin, delicately. “Precisely,” Langdon says. “Need a 4 millimeter.”

“Here,” Mel is quick to hand it to him. She takes his former needle and places it back on the tray. She keeps her hands turned out, but her gaze doesn’t waver from him or the patient, specifically the way Langdon’s jaw clenches in concentration, the slight poke of his tongue between his lips.

“What is the length for cutting a suture, Dr. King?”

“Five to six millimeters,” Mel answers, a creature of habit. Then, she frowns. “Did you just quiz me?”

Langdon’s lip quirks, he snips the wire and turns to face her. “Got to keep you on your toes.”

Mel accepts the forcep, placing it on the tray and Donnie snorts as he wheels it away. Mel switches her gloves out, shooting Langdon a look. “I’m an R3 in a month, Dr. Langdon.” She doesn’t know why she’s offended, it’s good to be reminded of random facts when it comes to the medical field. But having it come from him—someone she regards highly already, stings.

He blinks at her, as if just realizing for the first time what he’d asked, and that he’d upset her. “I know. Yeah, I know,” Langdon shook his head, standing and throwing out his gloves. “Sorry, Mel.”

“It’s fine,” she says, but she can still feel that she’s frowning. Mel raises her chin to him, almost defiantly as he comes to stand in front of her, just as Jones is rolled out of the trauma room. “What is the difference between a poliglecaprone and polydioxanone stitch?”

Langdon’s brows raise, hidden by his loose strands of hair that are falling onto his forehead. “Wow. Uh, poliglecaprone is to close a wound invisibly. Polydioxanone is for soft tissue repair.” He makes a face at her. Mel is satisfied by his reaction. “Is this you getting back at me?”

“No,” Mel replies simply. She feels her mouth turn up as she moves to leave. Over her shoulder, she says: “Just keeping you on your toes.”

He remains standing there, grinning at her retreating figure, until finally he shakes his head and rubs the hand sanitizer between his hands, walking to the nurses station to pick up his next patient. Mel is probably too giddy, feeling like she’s just won an award, but really all she did was give him a taste of his own medicine. She can’t understand why her heart is racing.

“Hey, south 11 is looking for you, kid,” Dana tells her.

Mel’s face pales. “Shoot,” she blurts. “Um, okay. Be right there!”

It slows after that, Mel gets the chance to call Becca in the ambulance bay, listening about her time with Adam and how she was going to his parents' house for dinner. Mel tries her very best to keep the smile looking genuine on her face.

“I want you to meet him soon,” Becca says, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

“Okay,” Mel answers. “I’d like that.”

“You should get a boyfriend, too. That way we could have dinner at home. Like a double date.”

“Right,” Mel says. “I’ll get right on that.”

She lets Becca ramble on about her pottery class for another minute before Mel feels a tug on her braid, and she turns to see Langdon standing there, grinning at her handsomely and making her short circuit.

“Hi, Dr. Langdon!” Becca greets excitedly from the FaceTime call. Langdon waves at her, smile turning less boyish and more polite. “I was just telling Mel about my dinner plans with Adam.”

“Oh, nice, Becca,” he nods. “What are you guys having?”

“Not sure,” Becca makes a face. Mel is stuck glancing between her sister and him. She feels cornered, oddly. Like her personal space is being filled, not because he’s physically standing so close, but because the conversation is about boyfriends and she can tell Becca is moments away from blurting out that Mel is still, in fact, single. Her sister isn’t stupid, Mel is sure she’s picked up on the admiration she holds for Langdon.

Clearly.

I see why you like him, Becca had said. Oh, gosh. She could have died from humiliation that day, burning up in the hospital room and feeling Langdon’s gaze boring into her.

“Spaghetti, I think,” Becca says, forcing Mel back into reality. “Hope they have garlic bread.”

“I love garlic bread,” Langdon offers. “The Shoprite on Yellow Grove has the best-”

“That’s where Mel gets ours!”

“Yeah,” Mel says, half-heartedly. She tries shooting Becca a subtle warning look, but it’s incredibly difficult with Langdon right at her shoulder. “Hey, Becca. We have to get back to work. l’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” she replies cheerfully. “Bye Mel. Bye Dr. Langdon.”

“Bye, Becca,” he shoots her another smile, and Mel hangs up quickly. She turns to face him, brows raised. He blinks at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Mel tells him. “You pulled my hair.”

Langdon snorts. “Oh, please. Your braid is still intact. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Hm,” she scrunches her nose at him. She tries not to notice how his entire face softens at that. “I guess we should head back inside.”

“Yeah. Duty calls. After you, Mel.”

She smiles at him, then steps through the sliding doors, feeling him hot on her tail.

***

Mel has the next day off, she spends it doing laundry and stocking up on all of Becca’s favorite baked goods from the bakery down the block. She’s very picky, only likes sweet things that have a cake texture, and the icing can only be buttercream otherwise she will not eat it. She doesn’t like candy bars or cookies, which is good for Mel who loves all of those things and doesn’t have to share.

Not like she’d mind, but still.

She’s busy folding a blanket she threw in with her lights when her phone goes off. It pauses her music, which irritates her and she reminds herself to turn that function off. Still, Mel grabs her phone to see that it’s Trinity who texted her.

hey, you’ll never guess who just came up on my instagram

Who? Mel types back

that guy who asked for your number at karaoke

Oh, wow

should i follow him for u? get some details

If you want. I'm not really interested.

mel, u need to get out more. i’m doing this

Okay. Don’t tell him anything embarrassing.

psh like what

that you carry around a tide-stick and four different kinds of chapsticks and bite off your nails and can’t cook chicken for the life of you?

Yeah. Like all of that. Thanks.

Mel resumes folding her clothes after, neatly putting them away and settles onto the couch once she’s done. Her living room has the soft glow of a lamp from next to her, a vanilla scented candle lit on the coffee table as she turns on the television. She finds it hard to get into movies or shows, new ones at least, so she puts on a rerun of Gossip Girl and resigns to her phone for the rest of the evening.

She walks to Becca’s facility the next morning, she always likes picking her up early. There was a great bagel shop the both of them loved, and Mel’s favorite part of her weekend was getting breakfast with her sister. Becca is chatty as they make their way through the busy streets of Pittsburgh, even as they eat their bagel sandwiches.

Once they’re back in the apartment, Becca resides to her bedroom and Mel tries out a new recipe in the crockpot for dinner. She can’t deny that she’s bored, without work to keep her busy she often falls flat on things to do. She tries not to dwell on it, but having a boyfriend might cure her of the boredom. But she shouldn’t date someone just because she’s bored. Or was that how all relationships started? She doesn’t know, really. All she knows is that when the day comes, she wants that person to get her. To truly understand her, how she likes her tea, how the texture of bananas drove her insane even though she loved how they tasted, she wants them to accept that she and Becca are a packaged deal, she needs them to understand that she’s unavailable basically sixty hours out of the week due to her profession. There is a lot this future partner of hers will have to endure. They can’t just be anyone.

When Mel goes to sleep that night, her last want is that they’ll take care of her. It’s a feeling she pushes to the side quite frequently, because Mel has been needed her entire life, she’s never had the chance to shut her brain off and she’s never been put in a position where someone would want to do that. To care for her. Mel doesn’t regret any of it, she loves Becca, but sometimes she needs someone, too. Even if that admission was buried deep, deep down in her and only rose to the surface when she was falling asleep.

Mel’s next shift is chaotic, she’s pulled left and right and sometimes upside down. She gets yanked roughly on the wrist by an agitated patient, Dana is the one who saves her. She thinks it would have been Langdon, if he’d been working that day. She has two patients die on her that day, neither her fault but sticking with her regardless.

When she clocks in the following day, Santos approaches her with a set jaw. “Can you fucking believe it?” She demands. “Garcia is seeing someone else.”

“Oh,” Mel’s mouth parts. “Oh, no. Trinity, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

Santos fumes for the rest of the day. Mel tries not to listen to the different kinds of bets that pass through the nurses, like the chances of her stabbing Garcia in the foot again.

“What’s wrong with her?” Langdon asks her on hour seven.

Mel shrugs. “Woman problems. Not like.. like, I meant love-life women problems. Not..”

“I got it, Mel,” Langdon snorts, bracing his arms on the counter. “I’m quite familiar with the concept.”

She frowns at that. “You.. are?”

He looks at her like she’s grown three heads. Mel stares at him expectedly in return, but Dana shouts for them before he gets the chance to answer.

That evening at her locker, Santos is still ranting about Garcia (how could she do this to me, no wonder she’s been so distant, I should have known better) and Mel listens carefully, not interjecting and letting her ramble.

“Oh, by the way,” Santos adds, closing her locker shut. Mel hears footsteps approaching behind them, but she doesn’t turn. “Ryan followed me back. He said you never texted him.” She gives Mel a pointed look. “Get on that. Night.”

“Um, night,” Mel calls after her, one hand still in her locker and on her house keys.

“Who is Ryan?” Langdon’s voice asks from behind, and Mel jumps, whirling to face him.

“Oh! Hi. Um, Trinity and I went out a few weeks ago. I met him at the karaoke bar. He gave me his number.”

Langdon opens his locker, his knuckles white as he pulls open the door. “Yeah?” He asks, nonchalantly. “What, not interested?”

“No, no. It’s not that. He’s nice.”

Langdon regards her warily. “Santos said you haven’t texted him. Not that I was eavesdropping,” he adds. “I was waiting to get into my locker.”

“Yes, well, um.. I just can’t really read his handwriting, is all. The numbers kind of blurred together on the napkin.”

“Ah,” he hums. “Shame.”

He doesn’t sound upset for her at all though, really.

“I guess,” she shrugs. “Anyway, I have to get going before I miss the bus. I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor Langdon.”

“Woah, wait a sec,” he holds out a hand, brows furrowing. “You take the bus?”

“Yes.”

“No way, the bus stop is like a ten minute walk and it’s storming, Mel.”

“I know that. But the bus stop is covered, so it’s really-”

“I’ll drive you,” he interrupts her.

Mel falls quiet, her eyes wide. “You- that’s- You don’t have to. That is unnecessary. I’ve walked to the bus stop in worse conditions.”

“Mel, seriously.”

“Doctor Langdon, seriously.”

His eyes brighten a little at her tone. “I don’t mind. And you’d be doing me a favor, really. I want to delay going home as much as I possibly can.”

“What?” her brows scrunch. “Why?”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Langdon waves her off. “Cmon, Mel. You’ve been there for me recently. You’ve talked me down so many times I’m starting to lose count. Let me help you.”

Mel contemplates it, then pushes her bottom lip out. “Fine,” she accepts defeat. “But just this once. And I’ll give you gas money.”

“Fat chance,” he says, immediately, closing his locker and swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Cmon. Just don’t judge the dad van.”

Mel actually laughs at that. “I think that is the most surprising thing about you.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “I had this sexy little BMW, but wasn’t really good to drive the kids around in. Especially since Penny cries so easily. Anyway,” Langdon points a single finger at her, holding the door open as she steps into the rainy night. “No judgement, Mel.”

Mel smiles. “Don’t worry,” she assures him. “I would never.”

At their backs, several heads are peeking down the hallway.

“Anyone bet on July twentieth?” Ahmed asks no one in particular—nurse Chloe raises her hand. He gives her a wink. “I think you’re about to win.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Abbot asks, squinting at the security guard.

“Oh, nothing,” Ahmed replies, casually. Abbot is, unsurprisingly, not convinced, but shrugs and moves along anyway.

“His stroganoff is still in the fridge,” Mateo muses, arms crossed over his chest. Ahmed only snorts.

***

Unsurprisingly, Langdon starts to drive Mel home after every shift they work together. She’s against it at first, denies it when he offers and tells him it’s really not necessary, but he always insists. And it was getting increasingly difficult to tell him no.

Carpooling becomes their new regular, it’s never awkward, and he always lets her pick the music. Most of the time, they talk about work and the cases they dealt with, sometimes he brings up Becca, and even rarer, he brings up his family. Work was safe, talking about it. That crossed no lines, despite how every time she climbed into his passenger seat it felt like she was breaking several kinds of rules. Rules she made up in her head, but clearly he follows them, too, because the conversation always stays light.

Except for tonight. August ninth is the day Mel thinks the lines start to really blur. He is quiet as they walk out into the parking lot, he offers her no kinds of jokes and Mel doesn’t quite know what to say or do as she opens the passenger side door and buckles up.

He sits behind the wheel, bracing his arms on it and rubbing at his eyes. Finally, she asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he exhales, slowly. His voice sounds rough, like he’s been chewing glass. “Not looking forward to going home.”

Mel thinks it’s the wrong thing to say. She says it, anyway. “Are you ever?”

Somehow, much to her disbelief, he laughs. “True.”

“Did..” Mel hesitates. “Did something happen?”

He pushes his palms deeper into his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, Mel. I’ve burdened you enough already.”

“You aren’t a burden, Dr. Langdon,” she says, immediately. “Really. I mean, that’s what friends do, right? Talk about what’s bothering them?”

He peeks at her through his fingers. “Yeah,” he says, straightening. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you drive me home almost every night, so really, I’m the one burdening you.”

“Hardly, Mel,” he shakes his head. “I like having you around. Your company is nice.”

“Thanks,” she says, because she doesn’t really know how to reply to that. “So is yours. And I told you, no judgment. Remember?”

“I remember,” Langdon confirms. “Just..”

He says nothing for a moment, Mel watches him. “Just?”

“Abby and I got into a big fight before I left for work this morning, is all,” he finally murmurs. Mel frowns. “Not like it’s anything out of the ordinary, but Christ. It gets old, you know? Ever since I got back from rehab it’s like nothing I do is good enough for her. Or it’s done wrong, or I say something wrong.” He exhales. “See? Burden.”

“No,” Mel reaches for his arm, reassuringly. His gaze lingers on her hand before she pulls it away. “I just.. I don’t always say the right things, either. I’m not good at advice.”

“You don’t have to solve this for me, Mel.”

“I know,” she says, timidly. She actually didn’t know, so accustomed to fixing things that she forgot sometimes people only wanted to vent, not a solution. “But I am here to listen.”

“You’re a good listener,” he says. “I feel like we should even out this deal. Tell me something that’s bothering you.”

Mel gnaws at her lip. She doesn’t notice how Langdon shifts in his seat, suddenly. “Um..”

“If you want, I mean,” he says quickly. “Just so it doesn’t feel like I’m unleashing all of this deep shit on you.”

“You could drop a boat-load of problems on me, Dr. Langdon. I still wouldn’t care. Or leave. Or judge.”

Langdon stares at her. “Shit, Mel.”

She only smiles. “Um.. I guess the Adam and Becca thing bugs me still. I met him last week. He’s very nice. It’s just, like.. I don’t know. I’ve had to create my life around Becca and her needs. Especially after our parents died. But.. it’s like, I do all of this for her, and she lied to me. For six months. I don’t have a life, I stay home because I know she doesn’t like to be by herself. And I’m not blaming her, I love her. She’s my best friend. But I could never keep something like that from her. For that long, at least.”

“I get it,” he says, slowly.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Of course. You’ve structured your life around her, you take care of her. And you’ve done it all on your own. It makes sense that you feel betrayed.”

“I never told anyone that,” she admits.

“I’ve never told anyone the Abby stuff, either,” he shrugs. “Well, except for my therapist.” Mel cracks a smile. He smiles back. “It’s been rough. Between us, I mean. For a while, even before.. all this addiction stuff. I think rehab only solidified the problems.”

“I can imagine,” Mel says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies. He looks at her for a moment. “Hey, do you want to grab something to eat? I feel like all of this.. trauma dumping will be better on a full stomach.”

Mel shrugs. “Yeah. Okay.”

And that was that.

Something had changed between them that night, though. When she saw him at work the next day, he always seemed to be closer. Near when she needed him, near when she didn’t. Mel had grown used to having him circle her, ever since she started at PTMC, but this was different. There was more brief grazing, like when he stepped behind her, or when he was handing her gloves his hands always lingered a second too long. Always intentional, but never planned, really. Like it just sort of happened, as if Mel was a piece of metal and Frank Langdon was a magnet. Like he couldn’t help himself.

Mel didn’t mind it. She thinks he’s the only person that could touch her without immediately feeling like she needed to go into defensive mode.

Currently, Mel was standing at the nurses station, reading the board when Santos approaches her, wearing a lopsided grin that Mel recently learned meant trouble.

“Guess what?”

“What?” Mel asks.

“Ryan is in triage.”

“Ryan?” she echoes. “Like, Ryan-Ryan? Karaoke Ryan?”

“Yep,” Santos elbows her. “I told him you’d work on him. Here, I’ll switch you before Al-Hashimi comes.”

“Um.. I’m not sure if-”

“Girl, go!” Santos pushes her away.

Mel awkwardly stumbles her way to triage, flattening her hair and adjusting her scrubs. At his workstation, Langdon’s fingers are frozen over the keyboard, his jaw clenched and breathing shallow. Mel doesn’t see him, too preoccupied with fixing her appearance.

She pulls back the curtain and offers Ryan a smile. “Hi,” she greets, hoping her voice doesn’t actually sound as shaky as it did to her.

“Mel,” he flashes her a smile. “Hi. When Trinity- I mean, Dr. Santos told me you were here I almost couldn’t believe it. It’s like fate brought us together.”

“Right,” Mel laughs, nervously. “Or you just sprained your wrist while skateboarding.”

“Tomato- tomatoe?”

“Sure,” she says, sitting onto the stool and taking his wrist into her hand. He flinches immediately. “Um, okay. I’ll order some x-rays. Good thing is it doesn’t look broken, so definitely just a fracture or a sprain. Let me page radiology, I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Thanks, doc,” he calls after her.

Mel returns to a workstation of her own, puts in the orders and goes to turn, just before bumping into Langdon. He steadies her, smirking. “Careful, Mel.”

“You’re the one who was standing so close,” she counters.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. He reaches past her, and Mel stills as his arm braces behind her, pulling it back and revealing his phone. With his bicep right in her face, it’s impossible not to see how the muscles flex under his scrubs. “Forgot this.”

“Uh, yeah. Right.”

He gives her a look. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just, um.”

Mel knows she can tell him. They’ve had much deeper conversations in his car, but for some reason, sharing this feels.. strange. She doesn’t want him to think she’s interested in anyone else. Not that it matters.

Obviously.

“Yes?”

“That guy. From karaoke. He’s in triage.”

He does not seem surprised. He almost looks prepared. Mel awaits a reaction. “Okay,” he says. “Is he making you uncomfortable? I can take the case over if-”

“No, no. Not like that. It’s just awkward.”

“I doubt that, Mel,” but the way he says it makes her think he feels the opposite, his voice is low and she thinks it must have to do with the way his jaw is locked. “I’ll come and see.”

“Dr. Langdon, that’s not-”

“What room?”

She groans, exasperated, and leads him to the spot in triage Ryan is at. Mel steps into the room first, radiology is already there, scanning him. Behind her, Mel tries not to jump at the sudden contact of Langdon’s arm at her back. It isn’t like his normal quick and “accidental” brush, it stays there. He doesn’t move it when she looks at him, in fact, she feels his fingers tighten at the back of her shirt. If she didn’t know him so well, if she was blind to the fact that he was married, she would have said he was being possessive. Like he was marking her, claiming her so Ryan couldn’t. Mel tries not to shiver at the thought.

Ryan notices immediately, straightening in the chair just as the radiologists scoot out. “Mel,” he says, cheerfully. “Uh, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Mel slips out of Langdon’s embrace. “This is Dr. Langdon. He’s the, um.. expert on reading x-rays. I like having a second set of eyes, just to be sure.”

“Thorough,” Ryan comments. “Hope you go through all this effort for your other patients and not just me. But I’m not opposed to special treatment.” He winks at her, Mel quickly averts her eyes.

“Dr. King doesn’t do special treatment,” Langdon says, sharply. He types at the portable computer by the doorway, where he still hasn’t stepped away from. “Don’t start feeling too significant.”

“Doctor Langdon,” she warns, lowly. She can’t place what is going on here, and even if she feels a flutter in her chest at his voice and the tone he’s using, she can’t believe he’d say something like that. “Can I have a word with you, actually?”

His voice returns to normal, flashing her a smile. “Sure, Mel.”

Mel shoots him a look on her way out, when Ryan can’t see her face. She’s pulling the curtain closed and putting her hands on her hips once they reach the hallway. He actually has the nerve to look amused. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The way you just talked to him!”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Mel,” Langdon shrugs, casually squeezing her shoulder and moving past her. “Let me know when his test results are back. Since I’m your second set of eyes, and all.”

Mel only glares at his back.

Frank Langdon, however, is completely oblivious to this as he slips away into the bathroom, turns the faucet on, and splashes the cold water onto his face. He takes a few minutes to steady himself, stares at his reflection in the mirror, and says: “Fuck.”

***

Mel is officially promoted to R3 on August 30th, it’s something she thinks the rest of her coworkers will forget. The only person, so far, and granted it is early, that congratulates her is Becca. Though that doesn’t really feel fair since they’re in the same apartment.

“Do you get more money?”

“Yep,” Mel answers. She keeps checking her phone like someone is going to text her. They don’t. “I think next paycheck.”

“We should go out to dinner,” Becca muses. “To celebrate.”

Mel gives her a knowing look. “You want to see Adam.”

“What?” Her sister blinks. “No, Mel. I meant just us. And your friends.”

Mel stares at her blank notification wall. She feels a flutter of disappointment that Langdon of all people hasn’t texted her. But it’s still early.

“Okay,” Mel says. “I’ll let you know by the end of my shift, how’s that?”

“Okay,” Becca shrugs. She glances around the kitchen. “Are we out of cereal?”

Mel sighs, quietly, then starts to rummage through the cabinets. Her morning routine is thrown off that day, she doesn’t get to watch the sunrise, she doesn’t even have time to braid her hair. Instead, she pulls it into a ponytail and hopes it won’t give her a headache.

She’s already mastered the act of hiding her disappointment, so when she walks into the Pitt and nobody says anything, she pushes through and enters the lounge to fill her water up.

“Good, you’re here,” Al-Hashimi follows after her. “Hi, sorry. Good morning, Mel. We have a situation in trauma two.”

“Be right there,” Mel tells her. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, though it’s technically a promotion it’s also really not. Yeah, she gets paid more, and yeah, she gets more responsibility, all of the parts of moving up, but it’s pretty typical in their line of work, so really, she shouldn’t be upset.

The work day drags by, especially without Langdon. She resists the urge to text him the entire day. Stupid, petty things like. Hey, did you forget? Did you forget about me? How dare you not remember what today is? You don’t really care, do you?

Mel is almost in a blind fit of rage, stupidly, by the time her shift ends, and it’s then she finally gets that fucking text. Only it’s not what she’s expecting at all.

Hey, I’m in the parking lot

She stares at the message for too long, probably. He’s never picked her up on his day off before. That is what he’s doing, isn’t it? Why else would he text her that?

Okay, she replies. I’m coming.

She spots his car immediately, and once he sees her approaching, in the rearview presumably, he climbs out. Mel barely manages to catch the sound of giggling from inside before Langdon presents her with a card.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“You’re an R3,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I got you a gift.”

Mel thinks she could cry, she has to try embarrassingly hard not to burst into tears and hug him. Carefully, she tears open the envelope to reveal a silly card that makes her lip quirk. When she opens it, a gift card falls out. It’s one to Hot Topic—not the clothing store—the coffee shop she goes to every morning. Mel doesn’t move, mouth parting.

“You- how-”

“Becca told me,” Langdon says, shrugging casually. Like he hasn’t just wrecked her entire world and made her feel like she was actually important, like she was worth remembering. “I wanted to get you something I knew you’d like. I always think gift cards are kind of a thoughtless gift, but at least you can get a good amount of free coffee.”

“This is so nice,” Mel blubbers, her eyes watering against her will. “You didn’t have to do this. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Nobody’s ever-” she stammers. “This is so nice. Oh, gosh.”

“It’s just a gift card, honey-”

Mel lunges for him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him flush against her. She’s hoping it isn’t too forward, but then again he was the one who drove all the way to her favorite coffee shop to get her a gift card, so she doesn’t really care anymore. Also, the hug was a very good way to hide the fact that she was crying. At her waist, his arms clasp behind her, holding her to him and Mel has to inhale sharply before she started to sob fully.

A sound comes from the car, and it makes her crack her eyes open. There, in the backseat, is Becca, grinning at her with her nose pressed to the window. Mel pulls away, frantically. “You-”

“Yeah,” Langdon tucks his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking bashful. “I remember you told me Becca doesn’t go to the facility on Thursdays, so I went to your apartment to ask for her help. I hope you don’t mind. She wanted me to tag along, said something about you two going to dinner. Sorry, is that weird?”

”No.”

”I really-”

“I don’t mind,” Mel blurts. “Um, seriously, thank you, Dr. Langdon.”

He holds up a hand. “Mel, please. We’re not at work. You do know my first name, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she says, probably too fast. “It’s Frank.”

He offers her a smile, gestures for her to get in the car, and Mel scrambles to the other side of the van. As she settles in, Becca pokes her head into the front seat.

“I like Dr. Langdon,” Becca tells Mel. “He would make a very good boyfriend for you.”

Mel is immediately horrified. Frank’s eyes go wide, and he pretends to examine something on the dashboard. “He’s married, Becca,” the words come tumbling out. “And we’re just friends.”

“Married?” Becca quips, like she doesn’t understand the concept. Mel is staring at her, pleadingly. But her sister’s brows are furrowed, and she’s looking at Frank. “Why don’t you wear a ring, Dr. Langdon?”

Mel feels the world tilt from under her, she thinks she might faint, watching him awkwardly rake his hand through his hair, side glancing Mel and looking away when he sees that she’s staring. With a start, Mel realizes her sister is right. He’s not wearing it now, Mel can’t remember the last time she saw that glimmer of gold, not since the first day she met him and felt a flicker of disappointment when she caught it glint in the light. That stupid ring had immediately smashed all her dreams, everything but her crush. Unfortunately.

But he wasn’t wearing it.

“Uh-”

“Becca, you can’t ask someone that,” Mel interjects.

“Why not?”

“No, Mel, it’s fine,” Frank assures. “I didn’t want to tell you this today, it’s your day. But.. uh.. Abby and I are getting a divorce. We talked about it a couple weeks ago, and we decided last night. It’s over.”

“Oh,” Mel says, and she can’t take a deep breath, she can’t do anything, really, other than stare at him. She waits to get another reaction from him, maybe guilt, maybe regret. None comes.

“Divorce,” Becca repeats. “Are you upset?”

He waits a moment before replying. “No, not really, Becca. I think this has been a long time coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Mel whispers to him, she’s not sure what exactly she is sorry for. If Becca made him feel forced to tell them, if he was secretly upset about it, if the reason he decided to call off his marriage was because of her.

Frank keeps her gaze this time. “Don’t be, Mel,” he says. “It’s for the best, really.”

“Okay,” she mumbles. They stare at each other, silently. Mel is analyzing his expression, his face, the way he makes a fist with his hand as if he’s physically restraining himself from reaching across the console to touch her. She studies the way his eyes soften when they meet hers, how his tongue runs across his lower lip. Mel thinks he’s trying to kill her.

Becca, oblivious to it all, exhales impatiently. “Where are we going for dinner? I’m starving.”

That breaks the spell immediately, Mel blinks a few times. “Um..”

“You pick,” Frank tells her, turning the key in the ignition and starting it. “You tell me where, I’ll drive us there.”

“Let me, um.. Google some places.”

“Okay,” he responds, backing out of the spot and doing that incredibly sexy thing that men did when they reversed—he put his hand on the back of her headrest, turning to look out of the window. “And don’t worry about the prices. I’m paying.”

“Frank,” Mel protested immediately.

“Mel,” he says in return, giving her a stern look. Becca giggles from the backseat. “No arguments. I decided this morning.”

“Well, you aren’t in charge of me,” she says, just to be a pain and sounding like a kid, which makes her flush. “So you don’t get to decide things.”

Frank looks at Becca in the rearview. “Talk some sense into your sister, please.”

“Let him pay,” Becca says immediately. “That way we can get dessert.”

Mel huffs, shooting Frank a look which only makes him grin in triumph. “Fine,” she folds her arms over her chest. “But just for that, I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“Yeah, Melissa, you could order the entire goddamn menu and I still wouldn’t change my mind.”

Mel is winded at that, so she purses her lips and stares out the window pointedly, which only makes him laugh.

***

Autumn has always been Mel’s favorite season. She loves everything pumpkin flavored, she loves all of the different vibrant oranges and yellows that come from the trees, the smell of the crisp air, and that she finally gets to bundle herself in her most comfortable jacket.

The end of summer sneaks up on her every year, the quick months of warmth always feels like a dream, like she blinks and it’s cold out. She does dislike winter, though. Trekking through the icy sidewalks to get to the bus has always been her least favorite activity. She hopes the weather will be calm when it comes to that.

Santos and Whitaker are at her left, staring up at the board and plucking cases like they’re eyebrow hairs and not actual patients. Mel always found that annoying.

“If we threw a Halloween party, would you come?”

Mel blinks, realizing she’s being addressed. “Hm? Yeah. It’s only September.”

“I know. Just.. planning ahead. You know?”

“Can I bring Becca?” she asks, hopefully.

“Yeah, why not?” Whitaker shrugs. “The more the merrier, right?”

“Right,” Santos agrees.

“Incoming car wreck,” Dana announces, putting the phone down. “Three minutes out. Two motorists and a cyclist.”

Mel is pulled back into the chaos after that, assisting alongside Langdon and Mckay who handle the situation like pros. Mel is happy to follow their leads. Mckay takes the dad, Al-Hashimi jumps in to tend the cyclist that was injured, Mel briefly thinks of Robby.

“Looking at a spinal injury and pinched nerves,” Langdon says. “Not reactive to pain. Order a CT and an MRI.”

“Call respiratory,” Mel says, holding her stethoscope to the woman’s chest. “Breathing is shallow.”

“Think she’s paralyzed?”

“Let’s hope not,” Mel answers, “responding to pain above the lumbar, nerve endings might be clipped. Let’s check for paraplegia.”

Frank works around her, allowing himself to be instructed and Mel tries not to feel dizzy at the realization.

It’s hours until she clocks out, she’s exhausted, taking a sip of her water at the lockers, waiting for him.

“Hey,” he approaches, stifling a yawn.

“Hi,” she answers.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

They duck out of the ED, Mel knows where he’ll be parked already and feels a twinge of pride when she turns out to be right. He parks near the middle, always the third row.

“Long day,” he muses into the silence, Mel exhales in her seat. “Thought we were gonna lose that kid.”

“Me, too,” she admits, softly. “I’m glad we didn’t.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes. “God, I can’t wait for this apartment hunting bullshit to be over. If I have to sleep in that uncomfortable guest bed again I’m going to lose it.”

“Still no luck?”

“God, no. Every place is so expensive. I don’t want my paycheck to be gone after a single month’s rent.”

“I have a pull out,” she says, and her face heats when he looks at her. “Couch. Oh, gosh. Sorry, this is coming out weird. It’s pretty comfortable, is what I’m trying to say. It might help your back if your guest bed is that bad.”

“Thanks, Mel,” he says.

Mel only smiles.

***

She doesn’t actually expect Frank to take her up on her offer, so when he texts her and asks if he can come over, Mel spends the next thirty minutes scrambling to clean her apartment. It’s not exactly dirty, but Becca left her shoes scattered and there’s a couple of pillows on the floor from the couch. She rushes to take the trash out, lights a candle, and loads the dishwasher before she sees the headlights from his car pull into the parking lot.

Mel exhales, shakily. She paces back and forth, and when he knocks at the door, she waits a moment before opening, as if to make herself look less enthusiastic. He smiles at her as she swings it open, a bag over his shoulder. He’s in jeans and a dark shirt, something she’s seen him in a lot due to their carpooling, but the jacket he’s wearing is new to her. Somehow, the only word she can come up to describe it is boyfriend. It’s a very boyfriend-y jacket.

Mel turns away quickly, letting him step in. “How was traffic?” Mel asks, because what the hell do you say when the man you’ve had a crush on is in your apartment, staying the night?

Frank snorts, dropping his bag by her couch, tucking it under her end table to keep it out of the way. “Really? You’re asking me about traffic? Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Mel.”

“No,” she chirps. Unconvincingly so. “Okay, fine.”

“It’s just me.”

“Yes. In my apartment,” she shakes her head. “This is the first time you’ve been here. I’m allowed to be nervous.”

“Untrue,” he waves a finger at her, casually flips open one of the magazines she has on her coffee table. “I picked Becca up.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she goes on.

“Okay, well,” Frank shrugs. “You’re making it weird. Not me.”

“You’re the first guy who I’ve ever had over,” Mel says, then purses her lips, bashfully. “I can’t speak right. Oh no. Okay, I’m just gonna go into the kitchen and get you some water and then you won’t even know I’m here, I’ll hide in my room.”

“Mel,” he stands to his feet, shaking his head. “This is your space. I will be the one who’s not even here, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees, uncertainly.

“And it’s still early. Aren’t you hungry? I haven’t had dinner yet. We can order something, if you want.”

“I was going to cook chicken. Well, attempt to. I’m not very good at it. It’s always very tough.”

“Well, I’ll be your extra set of eyes, then.”

It reminds her of Ryan, of Frank’s obvious jealousy and Mel flushes at him. “Okay. Come help me.”

So he does, Mel pulls the thawed chicken from the fridge, grabs a cutting board, just as Frank sets his phone down on the counter, an unfamiliar song playing. She turns at the sound.

“What?” he asks. “You don’t listen to music when you cook?”

“Not usually,” she admits. “Becca always says it’s too loud. But.. she’s not here. So it’s okay.”

It feels like some sort of confession, that they’re alone in her apartment for the night. Mel swallows. Frank watches her. Then his eyes dart to the chicken.

“Go on,” he commands, softly. “I’m here if you start a fire.”

“You have a lot of faith in me,” she comments, dryly. Frank laughs. She does what she’s told, anyway, dipping the chicken in breadcrumbs and asking him to turn the stove on.

The smell hits her first, it actually smells good—not like how it usually does when she cooks it alone. Frank pulls the pieces out at the perfect time, it seems. He doesn’t burn it, doesn’t even give the oil the opportunity to pop out of the pan.

The song changes, Frank makes an appreciative hum. “God, I love this song.”

“What song is it?”

He looks at her like she’s said something offensive. “Oh, wow. I didn’t know you were limited to Megan Thee Stallion only. This… is a classic.”

She watches him turn, pressing the volume on his phone and flooding the kitchen with a soft tune. “And what is.. this exactly?”

“Styx. Obviously.”

“Right. I forgot you’re sixty.”

“Ha.”

She starts to giggle, watching him do a funny little sway of his hips, and then, he takes her by the hand, twirls her, and Mel yelps as she is pulled to him.

You know it’s you, babe

Whenever I get weary, and I’ve had enough

“Relax,” he tells her. Mel gives him a look, but he spins her again, and she laughs. When she’s drawn back to him, his grip finds her waist, and Mel tries her very best not to tense. She’s never been big on touching, and she is surprised at how much she likes his hands on her.

She forces the tension to leave her shoulders. Raises her gaze to his, and wraps her arms around his neck.

Feel like giving up

You know it’s you, babe

Giving me the courage and strength I need

They sway, Mel can’t quite believe what’s going on, that she’s dancing with Frank Langdon in her kitchen, to his favorite song, while he just helped her cook chicken. That part hardly feels romantic, but to Mel, it somehow still is.

Please, believe that it’s true

Babe, I love you

“Good song,” she says after a moment. Her heart is pounding, and briefly, she drops her hand to his chest to feel that his is beating faster than normal, too. That makes her feel better, like maybe she isn’t the only one falling this deep.

“Told you,” he smirks, dropping his hand from her. “So, uh, where do you eat? I noticed you don’t have a table.”

Mel shrugs. “It’s time to put you on to folding trays. I can’t eat without watching something. Buying a table was useless.”

Frank squints at her. “I love learning things about you.”

Mel ushers him out of the kitchen. “Cmon, I’ll even give you the privilege of picking out a movie.”

He laughs, Mel thinks it’s her favorite sound in the world.

She’s not sure what she’s expecting to happen, they eat dinner on her couch, finish a movie, stay up talking about anything they could possibly think of, and by her third yawn, Frank insists that they should get to sleep. She helps him with the pull-out, (the COUCH! goodness) and puts the plates in the sink before heading to bed. At her door, she hesitates.

He’s watching her when Mel turns around. “Where does Abby think you are, anyway?”

“She knows,” he says, like that explains anything.

“Knows you’re here?”

“Yeah. She knows a lot about you, actually. Night, Mel.”

That only confuses her more, and his obvious dismissal makes her eyes narrow. Still, she closes her bedroom door behind her, takes a moment to collect herself and steady her breathing before collapsing onto her bed and screaming mutely into her pillow.

She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to get any sort of sleep with Frank in her living room, the silence is almost unbearable, she’s sure he can hear her every movement. That thought doesn’t help with the ache between her legs, either, Mel has to squeeze her eyes shut and pray that it will all stop.

When she wakes, she is disappointed to discover Frank did not climb into her bed in the middle of the night. And when she leaves her room, she sees that he’s already awake, he’s put the couch back together and erased any proof of his existence. She honestly thinks he’s already left, but then she hears the bathroom door open, and he exits, hair a mess and toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

His sweats are low around his waist. Mel is momentarily speechless, suddenly aware of her own tank top that she is acutely growing self conscious in, exposed before him.

“Morning, Mel,” he greets, despite the toothpaste in his mouth. She’s disgusted with herself for finding it so attractive.

“Hi, Frank,” Mel says instead.

***

Mel isn’t sure what she’s dressed as, she has her hair in two braids that Becca helped wove flowers through, she doesn’t usually have time for Halloween parties, or had ever been invited to one before, really.

She’d sent Frank a picture before she left, feeling insecure.

Is this okay???

Attachment: 1 Image

Holy shit was his reply

Yeah Mel

You look fucking great

Suddenly wishing I was invited

Lol

Enjoy trick or treating

Gonna be hard to now

Tease

Mel can’t figure that one out, so she tries her best not to dwell on it. The party, is also, the first time in months that she’d drank. Becca had bailed, went with Adam someplace instead, so Mel was free to do as she pleased.

She had too many buzzballs, probably. And two shots of Smirnoff was enough. There were several faces she recognized, and some she did not. Garcia was there, the farm girl (Amy?) that Whitaker was seeing, dressed as a tellatubby.

Mel was drunk by eleven pm, hiding out in the bathroom and giggling to herself. She calls Frank, and he answers on the first ring.

“Hey. Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “How’s you?”

“How’s me?” he echoes, snorting. “You drunk, Mel?”

“Lightly buzzed. Are you still picking me up?”

“Yep. Tell me what time.”

“Time is eleven thirty-seven.” He laughs again, Mel joins him. She’s not sure what is so funny. “How were the kids?”

“They gave up after six houses.”

“Did you get any good candy?”

“I snagged you some Reese's, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You know me so well.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Are you on your way?”

“You want to be picked up? Now?”

“Yes. I miss you.”

“Oh.” She hears him inhale, sharply. “Baby, I miss you too.”

Mel feels giddy at the pet name. She leans against the wall of the bathroom, twirling the end of her braid between her fingers.

“Why do you call me these names?”

He shuffles on the other end, she imagines him grabbing his keys. “Do you not like them?”

“I do. Uh-oh. Someone is trying to break into the bathroom. Gotta go.”

“Mel-”

She hangs up, opens the bathroom door to reveal Trinity, who cocks a brow. “Why hello.”

“Hi.”

“What cha doing?”

“Fixing my makeup.”

“You have no makeup on.”

“I was talking to Frank,” she comes clean immediately.

Trinity crosses her arms. “Oh, really?”

“Yes. He’s picking me up.”

“I have been wondering..” she trails off. “What’s going on with you guys?”

“Nothing. He hasn’t even kissed me.”

Trinity doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. Mel brushes past her, attempting to find her shoes in the mix of people. Frank texts her that he’s there a few minutes later, Mel can’t remember if she says goodbye to anyone.

She’s embarrassingly lightweight, she barely registers the car ride, the frequent glances he shoots her, the way she leans on him as he opens the door to her apartment.

Mel finds her bed with ease, she feels him drape a blanket over her. That stirs her awake, she reaches to grab his wrist, and he stills. “No,” Mel protests. “Stay.”

“Mel-”

“Please?”

He eyes her, softly. Then he kicks his shoes off, and climbs into the bed beside her. He stays above the blanket she’s sleeping on, but Mel still presses closer to him anyway.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

She thinks he kisses her forehead, but she can’t be sure. Mel sleeps better that night than she has in her entire life, or maybe she’s still a little drunk.

***

Dr. Robby comes back that month. The entire department is on edge, but Frank especially. He’s more jittery, glances over his shoulder like he’s expecting the attending to barge in at any moment.

She doesn’t realize just how bad it’s affecting him until she hears him outside on the balcony. Mel stirs from her sleep, her door is still cracked—something she started doing in hopes of him coming in instead of sleeping on the couch. He never does. She tries not to be upset about that.

Her alarm clock reads 1am. Groggily, she pushes herself up, listening to his voice carry in. She can tell he’s on the phone from the pauses between his words, and she slowly starts to make her way out to him.

He’s left the slider door open, which annoys her because it’s November and it’s cold, but he’s pacing as he talks, back toward her.

“I know,” he’s saying. “I know. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t let it. It’s driving me fucking insane. I don’t.. yeah. No, definitely. She’ll have to find out eventually. She’s not stupid.”

Mel stills.

“Not yet, I don’t think,” Frank goes on, oblivious to her standing there. “I don’t really care about that. Okay, well if he tells her good on him. Yeah. Right. Okay, yeah. Goodnight, sorry for bugging you. I know what you said, but still. Yeah, bye.”

Mel’s jaw is tight. “Was that Abby?” she asks.

Frank jumps, spins to face her. “Oh, shit. Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Were you talking to Abby?” Mel demands. “Oh my gosh. You’re getting back together.”

Frank’s brows furrow. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You’re making mysterious phone calls in the middle of the night, talking about you don’t care who finds out? If she finds out? I’m the she. You’re getting back with-”

“Melissa,” he holds a hand up. Mel’s throat goes dry. “Please.”

“Please what?” She folds her arms. “Please let you stay on my couch while I sort this out with my wife? Let me string you along and make you think I have feelings for you?”

“I do have feelings for you!” He shouts, then he lowers his voice, immediately looking guilty. “Oh, God. Mel, seriously? I was talking to Mckay. This Robby shit is making me freak the fuck out for no reason. I’m so paranoid he’s going to come back tomorrow and tell me I’m still not worthy of working in his department. His voice just keeps.. ringing in my head.”

“Oh.” Mel feels like an idiot now. She shifts on her feet awkwardly. “Okay, then what about all that stuff about.. someone finding out?”

“Well.. Mckay thinks that Robby will find out about us and tell Abby. Like, some bullshit high school level petty stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised. And Abby knows. Sort of, anyway. That I’ve been staying with someone.”

Mel deflates. “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry.”

He cocks a brow. Her stomach flutters. “Don’t be. That was cute.”

She hides her face. “Please stop.”

“No, seriously. Get jealous over my ex-wife again.”

“Frank,” she groans.

He’s standing in front of her when she opens her eyes again, prying her hands away from her face. “There is no chance of that happening. Ever. I’m pretty in love with you, as it turns out.”

Mel gapes at him. “You-”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t even kissed me,” she accuses. “How can you know you love me if you haven’t ever kissed me?”

He laughs, like he can’t believe her. “What? I thought- I just thought you didn’t like that kind of thing. You don’t like being touched.”

”That doesn’t answer my question, Dr. Langdon.”

”Oh, Dr. Langdon?” He echoes. Mel squirms under his gaze. “Melissa, I do not need to kiss you for my feelings to be true. Do I want to kiss you? Yes, obviously. God. But I can live with not doing it if it means you’re comfortable and I still get to be with you.”

”And are you?”

”Am I what?”

”With me?”

He gestures around them. “Christ, woman.”

She scowls at him. “You don’t come into my room. You don’t kiss me.”

”I’m trying to- to respect your boundaries. I know you, Mel. You don’t like to be touched.”

Not by anyone else, she doesn’t say. Just by you. Touch me, please. Touch me or I think I’ll die.

“Well, how would you know? You haven’t tried.”

Frank raises a brow, the way his hair is falling into his eyes makes Mel want to reach and brush it out of the way. It’s Frank who moves instead, actually, leaning down, taking her jaw in his. He kisses her slowly, like he’s giving her time to pull away, and when she doesn’t, he backs her up against the wall—well technically it’s the glass door, but Mel thinks it’s sturdy enough so she doesn’t argue.

He pulls back, Mel is frowning at him. “That’s it?” she asks.

“No. I was just seeing if kissing you confirmed my suspicions.” Frank shrugs, pulling her lower lip down with the pad of his thumb. “I was right, by the way. Still in love with you.”

Mel is hungry—starving, actually. She lurches forward, hooking her arms around his neck and pulling him back to her. She can feel him grinning against her mouth, tongue parting her lips and evoking a gasp from her that is far too loud for what time it is. His grip on her jaw is what guides her to her bedroom, she can feel the pounding of his heart as they stand chest to chest, his body guiding her through the door. He doesn’t stop kissing her once.

“What do you think, Mel?” Frank murmurs, his words coming out strangled. “Gonna let me love you, baby?”

“Yes,” Mel answers instantly, tipping his head as she tugged on his hair. The sound he makes is guttural. “I love you, too,” she says. “And I like ‘honey’ more.”

“Hotch,” you say, and your relief is worse now. Like you aren’t covered in your own blood, like his being there has fixed everything. 

“Y/N,” he says back, holding your elbow carefully, “it’s okay, it’s all right.” 

“You have to get the straps off of me. I need to go home-”

“I know, that’s what we’re doing. We’ll get them off of you–”

“–I have to go home, Hotch. You have to take me home.” 

He knows that medical are close behind them, they’re coming in just as soon as the building has been cleared, and there’s more than enough agents to have it done in the next thirty seconds. He has to assess you in that time. He can take care of you. 

The SWAT agent cuts your last bindings and you immediately attempt to get up, gasping in pain when four hands push you down at the same time. “Sit down,” Hotch says, “Y/N, just stay there, just for a second.”

“No, no, let me down, I need to go home, I haven’t looked after anything and– and the laundry’s piled up, and–”

“Honey,” he says firmly, “I’m gonna take you home. I am.” He meets your eyes, panic and tears and concerning bloodshot clouding your vision. “I’m gonna take you home, but please stay still. Just until the EMS is here. Just so they can look at you.” 

“I want to go home now,” you say, nearly shrieking, grasping at his arm. It’s so loud in the room with so many people speaking that he’s almost glad for it. 

Your fingers slide down his sleeve and leave streaks of gore in their wake. Your hands are caked in your own blood. Done with his bargaining, you push up into his arms and get onto one of your feet, an incredible amount of force behind you as you get your way. Your knees buckle immediately —Hotch scoops you up and dumps you back in your chair, even as you cry and cry into his chest. 

“No, I need to go home, I have so much to do, I can’t stay here,” you whine, pain eating at your voice, your fingers weakening where they’re pressed to his stomach. 

“I promise I’m going to take you home,” he says, ducking to speak directly into your ear. “Do you trust me? I promise I’m going to take you back home. Please, please, sweetheart, trust me.” 

You hiccup, tears thick running down your cheeks, and orange where they collect at your chin, chest heaving as you border incoherency. “I do trust you. I– I trust you, I just–”

He takes a showful breath. “Deep breath. I’ll bring you home soon.” 

“All my plants are dead,” you mumble, blood smudging over your eyelids as you rub them harshly. 

Hotch holds your wrists. 

— <3 

He keeps his promise (though you don’t remember him making it, not beyond what Morgan recounts). Hotch takes you home when you’re well enough to be there, and he, done with pretences, stays for a while as you recover. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, more tired than you’ve ever been in your life, peering at him through sticky lashes where you lay in bed. 

He’s odd to see without shoes. “Nothing,” he says, misting the leaves of your window plant with a frown. “Just hoping I can bring this one back to life.” 

You’re not sure why he’s so worried about the plants. It can’t be judgement; he knows exactly why they died. 

Well. Whatever professionalism was between you is well and truly gone. You wonder what it is you said to him that made him finally snap, but it was nice to wake up with his hand in yours, and it’s nicer still to see him each morning. When you clear your throat and look at him longingly, you know without asking that he’s going to find his way back to your side, and kiss your cheek, hands smelling of fresh soil. He does it all with ease. 

“You brought me back to life,” you joke weakly. 

“I had much more help than the plants.” He’s been panicky around you sometimes since he found you again, but not scared. He tilts your face gently one way and then another. “You look pretty, but very tired. Why don’t you sleep some more, hm?” 

“Can I… I mean, do you think you could…” 

He takes your arm as he settles in to comfort beside you. His fingers begin to trace a gentle line down your arm, meandering around cuts and bruises. 

You close your eyes, hesitant of the darkness. “Are you sure I’m okay?” you ask quietly. 

But right now, all you cared about was filling your Snoopy mug with something. The coffee machine was broken by a certain muscly man, so some tea bags delivered that day were your only solace. Chamomile. Sounded tranquil enough. 

As you waited for your beverage to brew, you glanced back to your desk and then to your teammates. You should’ve taken Spencer and Emily’s offers to take some files off you, but being a perfectionist and selfless, you kindly declined. Shoulder’s slumping, you pulled the mug close to your nose and took a long smell, closing your eyes in relief. 

Suddenly, right before you could take the much needed first sip, a pang hit your head and your eyes and eyebrows ached, causing you to clench them. When you opened your eyes, the light brownish-yellow of the tea was mixing with red.

Blood. Shit. 

You swiftly turn to grab some tissues as your boss, Aaron Hotchner, was grabbing his plain mug from the top shelf, you hadn’t even noticed him in your panic. He followed you with his eyes as he grabbed a green tea packet. The tissues held against your nose were turning red and soggy. And before he could ask what had happened, you had abandoned your mug and vanished from the room, heading for the bathrooms. 

Aaron furrowed his eyebrows and noticed the discolouration in your mug, before grabbing it and washing it out for you. 

A few days later, Morgan and Reid were sat in front of you, JJ leaning on your seat’s armrest as Aaron conversed with a lawyer over the phone. Prentiss covered the basic details of the case but all you could focus on was the slight pang in your heart when you heard Aaron chuckle at whoever was talking with him. Though your eyes didn’t leave the case files, your ears were suddenly attached to your boss’ voice. 

Which was much closer, after he sat down next to you. 

You felt stupid, being happier now that his attention wasn’t on some other woman, even though his attention still wasn’t on you. He sighed as he sat, a whiff of his strong cologne circling the group as they updated him on other details they had caught. You mentally scolded yourself for acting like a 14 year old girl crushing on her teacher, but alas, you would continue.

“We noticed all of the victims went to private religious schools, most of them went to church as well. Y/n pointed out how in all of their photos, they were dressed in a conservative way - which is a contrast when we look at their ages.” Spencer started before Rossi added,

“They’re all teenagers, nearly turning 20. They all had boyfriends, and we found that one of them was already engaged.” 

You listened carefully, looking at the faces of the victims that were spread on the table, “As well as the common religious commitments, they all had one other thing in common.” You squinted your eyes with a short breath, feeling a headache approaching before you pointed something out that nobody else had noticed, “Same initials, all of them.” 

Hotch nodded, “Amy Sanders, Alice Soo, Adriana Santiago and Alexa Smith. Nice work, Y/n.” 

But before you could reject the complement and internally squeal, a throb attacked your head, and your eyes scrunched to create wrinkles you would try to massage away that night, before you threw your hand under your chin to swiftly catch a drop of blood. It was like a 6th sense these days.

“Excuse me.” You croak, leaving the back of the plane with Prentiss close behind you. You bent your head back before the raven haired woman’s hand pushed it forward. “Don’t do that, the blood might go down your throat.” 

You followed her instructions and raised any eyebrow, pinching the bridge of your nose. “My niece used to have a lot of nose bleeds whenever she had a cold.” She promptly explained as she bent to pull out tissues from the white bathroom cabinets. 

Around 5 minutes later, you and Prentiss returned to your respective seats, no one but you noticing a strong stare following you. “Are you okay, L/n?” Spencer asks, squinting in curiosity. “Yeah, sorry, sensitive nose, that’s all,” you lied.

These weren’t the first times you’ve had nose bleeds at work or around the team. There was one on your third day of work, the second time you went to a bar with Garcia, and one time on the plane around 4 months ago. You had been lucky that all your other nosebleeds happened either on the way to work or in the comfort of your own apartment. These days, when each case was followed by a heavier one, and each road trip was followed by a 10 hour flight, you were starting to get exhausted. You’re body has decided nose bleeds was the indication for you to take a fucking break.

The next week, you had almost forgotten about your unfortunate trait until a certain tall man called you into his office. “I need those finger print files done by tonight, is that alright?” He asked, smooth voice cutting through your fatigue, leaning on the front of his desk only a metre away from you.

You glanced at him up and down. He was clad in a smoke grey suit, perfectly fitted to his muscles and wide shoulders, tie loose enough to show the amount of work he had been through that morning. He smelt amazing, like wood and petichor, like metal and… “Yeah of course, sorry. I put the victims confirmed profiles on Spencer’s desk to check over before I could finalise the um…” Shit. Why did this have to happen right now?

But before you could even excuse yourself or hold a hand to your nose, a soft hand was cupped under your chin, careful not to touch you but close enough to catch droplets. Heat was radiating from the near contact, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the eye contact you were putting yourself through, or the blood that was currently pooling down your chin and into his palm. Aaron had appeared so swiftly, you wondered how he knew. “We should really get you checked out.” He said, recalling back to your third day on the job. 

“You can check- You’re right I should get… your hand is getting blood on it.” He broke your eye contact and glanced down at his palm, before taking a breath and nodding. “Right, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

His other, clean, hand is hovering over your lower back, and everyone’s eyes are hovering over the two of you, following you into the closest bathroom available. You can feel your cheeks heat up. As you pass the kitchenette, he picks up the box of tissues and you try to grab some from his hand, but instead of allowing you, he takes your wrists and holds one to your nose himself. His grip is soft, but restricting, warm. And you can’t help but look at him as he searches for an empty bathroom.

In the bathroom, he guides you to lean over the sink, washing his hands in a sink beside yours while watching you carefully. You look at him through the mirror, and you’re so distracted you almost don’t hear him tell you, “Lean forward more, don’t pinch your nose too hard.” 

You comply and he crosses his arms and leans adjacent to you. “Do you know what’s causing all these nose bleeds?” 

You thought back to shorter than 5 minutes ago and bit your lip, feeling your cheeks heat up once again. “Um, I think it was your cologne.” You glance over to him finding he was already looking into your eyes. You were embarrassed, he was your boss and you were basically insulting him. “You smell great, don’t get me wrong. My nose and I obviously have different… opinions.” 

Aaron nods with a small smirk, compelling you to look away before you say anything more. 

Thankfully, saving you from any more embarrassment, your nose stopped painting the porcelain sink reddish-orange. “Thank you for helping me, Hotch.”

Aaron returned to his computer and opened a tab, searching ‘Common causes for frequent nose bleeds’, and, ‘Ways to avoid nose bleeds’.

And the next morning, Aaron walked into the office to get his coffee (the machine had been promptly fixed after your nose bleed situation) before Morgan spoke up, “New cologne, Hotch?” 

Hotch nodded, and turned back to his coffee, pocketing some chamomile satchels to dispose of later. The comment reassured Aaron.

He wanted to be someone you could be around without risking anymore red tissues. 

Aaron placed himself next to you on the plane, the team had gone over the case six times already, and the plane flight was long. It’s always been long. You opened your mouth to greet him before he cut you off, “We can provide a doctor for you, if these nose bleeds keep happening.” 

You blink in surprise, “I’m sorry they’re inconvenient but there’s not much I can do about it.” You bit the inside of your lip, unaware that your bleeds had caused anything negative other than a decrease in tissue supplies and unwanted attention (not including Aaron’s).

“I’m not saying it’s an inconvenience to me,” he shakes his head, “They’re an inconvenience to you. I’m worried it’s because you’re overworked.” 

Oh. 

You cleared your throat and avoided eye contact.

He continues, “You get to work the earliest, stay the latest, you’re always the one travelling the furthest when we have to split up.”

A smirk appears on your face as you finally look back up at the stoic man, “Sounds like someone I know.” 

“I make time, Y/n.” 

You wrung your hands in your lap and sighed, “I’ve had this problem since I was a kid, Hotch. My longest record between nose bleeds was three months, that's only because I finally found some medication.” Aaron raised an eyebrow. “They had terrible side effects, it wasn’t worth saving some tissues. I can deal, is what I’m saying.” 

He nods and looks away in thought, that's when you allow yourself to look over his chest and arms, his posture and his… smell?

“You smell different.” “I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday.” 

You couldn’t stop thinking about Aaron Hotchner since what he said on that plane a little over five days ago. He changed his cologne, he offered to find a doctor, he listened to your reasoning. You thought he was being friendly. You wanted him to be a little bit more than that.

The plush seats and convenient seating arrangement that put you next to Aaron didn’t offer any comfort against the dry and hot weather of Nevada. If a place was your enemy, this was it. You had already concealed a small bleed in the drive over, Spencer not giving you a second look when you pretended to sneeze into a tissue. With the increased frequency, she didn’t want any useless worry. You weren’t going to take a break, so you needed to hide any signs of exhaustion as best you could. Even when the sheriff opened every window in the temporary office, JJ continued waving herself with a file, Morgan had already chugged three plastic bottles of water. Even Hotch only had a dark blue dress shirt on and damn did he look hotter than the sun. 

But even with your best techniques and play-pretends (never looking down for too long, staying hydrated, avoiding the hotter places in the precinct), an unfortunate pang hit the front of your head and travelled to your nose. Your eyes shuddered, and you started to look for a tissue, before one appeared at the bottom of your chin before blood even trickled down your top lip. 

It was Aaron holding it there, eyes on the case. 

You looked at him in surprise and awe, before you took the tissue off him and excused yourself, getting a worried look from the old sheriff. 

The tall man had learnt when you were about to get a nosebleed, a sudden stop in motion, scrunched eyebrows and eyes, stopped breathing. And as you left his line of vision, he tried not to worry about the amount of blood you would lose in this weather, and it motivated to close this case even more. 

Everyone around the table glanced at Hotch and then at each other, putting on blank faces when Hotch looked up. 

It wasn’t much better in the hotel rooms you had been given. They had aircon, and free water, but small windows, and broken fridges.

It was a relief to be able to sit on something that wasn’t covered in someone else’s sweat, even if it would be covered soon by your own. You had the coldest shower you think you’ve ever had, put on a larger t-shirt and a small pair of basketball shorts to fight against the heat during the night.

It came a surprise to you when you were blood free the entire afternoon and you counted it as good luck for the flight home, forgetting to place tissues or water on your bedside table. After denying an invitation to poker, you threw yourself onto the bed with crisp white sheets and soft pillow cases, in the direct shot of the air conditioning and only window in the room, and passed out.

There was a frantic knocking on your door, or maybe a pounding in your head. You couldn’t tell, and when you tried to investigate, you felt like your eyelids were sewn shut.

You were able to peak them open and lift yourself weakly, when suddenly a figure appeared in front of you with long blonde hair and soft hands on your shoulders.

“JJ?” Your lips felt tight.

“Jeez, Y/n. How long have you been sick?” Her voice was muffled, but as your vision became clearer so did your hearing. Hotch stopped in your open doorway, already dressed and bags dropped in the hallway, before walking in.

For a second you were going to try and stand to clean your room, realising how late it was. But as soon as you tried to stand, everything went hazy, and you could taste metal on your tongue.

“Y/n, we need to get you cleaned up.” JJ said sweetly, as if you were a child. She took your heavy arms and pulled them to the bathroom, light making your headache into a migraine.

You lifted a hand to the bone between your eyebrows, and when you took it off, it had dried blood on it. As JJ grabbed your body towel from last night and wet a corner of it, you stole a sight of your face. Your mouth and nose was covered in dry blood, some of it had travelled to your left cheek, and between your eyebrows. There was fresher blood on your chin and some even on your next.

You had a delirious thought that you had been stabbed, or you had stabbed someone, but when you looked out into the bedroom and saw Aaron taking the pillow case off of the pillow you were using, you wondered if you caused it to go from white to red overnight.

“What happened?” JJ asked, carefully placing her fingertips on the bottom of your jaw while her other hand dabbed softly at your face. You couldn’t answer, even though you had a fairly good guess. Aaron appeared in the mirror to hand JJ some pain killers, for you.

Swallowing was painful, but as your blonde friend wiped off the last bit of blood from your top lip, you looked worse than your throat felt.

“I’m sorry JJ, I could’ve cleaned myself up.”

“Don’t apologise Y/n. You worried me. You weren’t responding to your texts, not even Hotch’s,” she put the towel down and looked into your eyes with a motherly concern. “I think you need to listen to Hotch when he offers you a doctor again.”

And you nod, because she was right.

JJ left the room with a hug, leaving you with a very cross Aaron Hotchner.

“I’m-“

“You could’ve choked, or suffocated, or passed out- Actually I think you did.” He motioned towards your alarm clock that had been running since 5 a.m. “Y/n…” He looked confused, worried, sad? Your eyes hadn’t 100% cleared yet, a headache slowly throbbing, knees still slightly buckling. You wanted to lay down and be thrown into an ice bath.

“How was I supposed to know this would happen?” You croaked out.

“You’ve got one window open, cold and dry aircon on, and no water bottle on your bedside table. You should’ve asked to sleep in the same room as someone, in the same room as me.”

You looked down to your feet, only noticing now that Aaron had packed all of your things for you.

“I thought you had been…” He raked a hand through his hair and paced before placing his hands on your upper arms, “I’m going to get you to a doctor, and you can’t say no. That’s an order.”

His grip tighten only slightly, before he turned around and left with your luggage, heart beating fast in his chest.

You were back home, thank god. The air was cooler and clearer, and you didn’t feel like you needed to moisturise every two minutes. You stretched your arms above your head, squishing your eyes closed for some relief to the sting from the computer screen. Your chest expanded deeply, and your nose finally cleared. 

And when you opened your eyes, you glanced over to your boss’ office windows to see if he was still working. But he was already out of his door, looking at you. 

Butterflies played tag with each other in your stomach, a blush crossing your face and you both shot your gazes away. 

His shoes were nearly silent against the floor, but when you quickly stood to pack your shoulder bag and take the sweater off the back of your chair, Aaron was there to greet you when you turned around.

“Let me walk you out?” He asked, as if the last words he said to you weren’t full of unprofessional emotions.

You were silent for at least 3 seconds, Aaron getting worried for a second before you stumbled over your words, “Y-Yes plea- Yeah. Sure.” 

He smiled, a genuine smile. 

Side by side, his briefcase touching your shoulder bag, you made your way towards the elevator. Aaron fiddled with his fingers and felt unfamiliarly nervous, heart thumping a little harder than when he walked out of his office. 

“Thank you for everything. Caring, catching my blood. I would ask how you knew, but you are a profiler after all.” You smile softly, and he nods. “I’m glad you noticed.” He presses on the car park level in the elevator, hands coming to discreetly fidget once again. 

And you can’t take the silence, “You still smell good.” 

“You always do.” Aaron looks as surprised that he said that as you do, looking away quickly before looking up and sighing, “Tomorrow is Saturday.” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any plans?” 

“I have a movie I want to watch, maybe a recipe I wanna try,” you reply oblivious, shuddering at the sudden change of temperature when you both exit the elevator. Suddenly a thicker layer of fabric was draped over your shoulders, one that smelt like new cologne. You blushed, looking up at him. 

The cold breeze was pushing his hair out of place slightly, making his nose a little redder, his eyes clearer. He looked like the word handsome humanised. 

“I think that you should watch that movie and try that recipe at… my place.” 

You widened your eyes chasing any regret or embarrassment in his eyes, but all you got was nervousness, something you had rarely seen in him before. 

He is so handsome, I can’t believe this is happening, I have to tell Garcia- Can I tell Garcia? He’s my boss after all- I mean this doesn’t mean it had to be a date or anything- 

Some blood dripped onto the jacket draped over his shoulders. 

“You could’ve just said no.” He joked as you pinched your nose, smiling against the small headache. It must’ve been the last bit of blood from that morning. “No, I wanna go, I do- Just, could you get a tissue from my glovebox? I don’t want to get anymore blood on your coat.” You reply, nasally and carefully. 

“We’re definitely getting you to a doctor.” 

He was an excellent boss. Understanding and protective, quick to defend anyone on the team like they were his own family. Except, he was so much more than just your boss.

Now, you’d call him your closest friend, someone who’s number you’d call if you were in trouble. He’s your closest friend and yet you feel so much more for him.

It started slow, a friendship blooming the way a plant does with just enough sunlight. It was a shared smile here, a nudge of the shoulder there. It grew to be a seat next to him reserved for you on every plane ride.

Today, it’s eating lunch with him in his office.

Aaron usually works through lunch, more eager to get things done than he is to worry about skipping a meal. Somehow, with two tupperware containers in your hand and a sweet smile, you’d managed to get him to take a break.

“Whatcha doing?” You’d asked.

Hotch looked up from his paperwork then, dropping his pen because you were in his doorway. “You know, Unit Chief business. Reports.”

“Sounds like you have time for lunch, then.” You set the containers down on his desk, making sure to avoid the papers he’d just been working on.

“I should really get this done-”

“Hotch,” you stopped him, “you and I both know that you’re always ahead on this stuff because you stay here so late. Lunch won’t set you back.”

With a shake of his head and the biting back of a smile, a simple twitch at the corners of his mouth, Aaron agreed and stacked his paperwork off to the side.

That’s how you’ve ended up in the chair that’s usually on the opposite side of his desk, only now it’s tugged to be next to his. Your knees touch every so often when one of you shifts, and the warmth stays with you even when the contact is gone.

“Sorry it’s nothing fancy,” you say as he opens the container you brought for him.

“Don’t apologize. It’s great.” Hotch has a way of saying things that make them sound true, no matter how few words he uses, so you accept it.

“Okay, good!” There’s a small silence, a lull as you both take your first bites. “Can I help with anything?”

Aaron looks from the paperwork to your face, your eyes already on his. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” you reassure him. “I think sometimes you forget that you aren’t the only one who can do this stuff.”

He knocks his knee against yours. Purposeful this time. A silent ‘thank you.’

“Like you said, I’m ahead anyways. I’ve got it.”

“Come on, Hotch. I’m already done with my report from our last case. I’ve got time. Let me help.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept help, to ask for it, but when you’re asking so sweetly, when it’ll give him an excuse to spend more time with you, it’s hard for Aaron to say no.

“Alright. You help for an hour, that’s it.”

You grin at him, like his acceptance of your offer was some kind of gift he’d given you. Your nose crinkles a little with it, and his hand flexes in his lap, like he’s fighting not to reach out to you.

“Okay, put me to work, boss.”

“We just started lunch,” he says, a little chuckle puffing out.

“Have you ever heard of multitasking, Agent Hotchner?”

Aaron laughs, shaking his head as he reaches for one of the files in the stack he’d made and hands it to you. He’d call everyone at the BAU a friend, but there’s something different, something more about how he’d describe you.

He’s grown closer to you than he usually lets himself get to people, like you’re the only one with the right tools to break through walls he’s put up. You see each other outside of work (on the rare days you aren’t working), and still, he feels like it’s never long enough.

Hotch briefly wonders if he could just move your desk into his office. He shakes off the thought and what it might mean.

Head bent, you’re now focused on the work he gave you, and Aaron takes the chance to admire you. His eyes flick over your profile, the light hitting your cheeks, the flutter of your eyelashes every time you blink.

As if you could feel his gaze on you, you turn towards him and smile—a small, closed-mouth smile, but a smile all the same—before turning your attention back to the page.

When you take a pause and take another bite of your lunch, a small drop of sauce lands on your thigh. “Oh, shit.”

Aaron grabs a tissue from the box on his desk, wrapping it over his fingertip before wiping the small spot from your leg, his finger a spark against you even through your pants.

“Good thing you wore black,” he says, tossing the tissue in the garbage. His hand, however, stays on your leg, and though the touch is light the weight of it feels the opposite. Heavy, huge.

“Good thing you’re here to clean up after me, more like.”

Your eyes meet, and you share a smile with Hotch the way you often do. Mid-conversation, across a room, it’s a smile you sort of reserve for each other.

In the main office below, Derek, Spencer, and JJ stand together, watching the interaction through the window into Hotch’s office. You and Aaron seem to be in your own bubble, completely unaware of your small audience.

“They’ve gotta be together,” Derek is the first to speak, waving a hand towards the office where you and Hotch are talking. “I mean, come on.”

“I don’t know,” JJ shrugs, “they both seem kinda clueless.”

“We probably shouldn’t speculate about them,” Spencer, always the sweetheart, says. “But, statistically, Hotch never eats lunch. Just saying.”

JJ pats Reid on the shoulder, huffing out a laugh before she heads back to her desk.

You stay in Aaron’s office much longer than an hour that day.

-

Punctuality is important in the BAU. Really, if you’re not early, you’re late. You’ve always got to be ready, wheels up in ten, or five.

You suppose that doesn’t really apply to outside-of-the-office parties at Garcia’s.

It’s rare that you’re all available at the same time, from late nights at the bureau to families, it’s tough to make your schedules line up when you aren’t working, which is why whenever she can, Penelope likes to host drinks for the team.

You’re on your way there now, or, you should be. Instead, you’re getting ready in your bedroom while Aaron waits in your living room.

Hotch has offered to drive you to these things every time, and with every offer, comes your easy answer of ‘yes.’ He’d been outside in his car for five minutes before he decided to call, because you’re usually in his passenger seat within seconds of him pulling over by your building.

The ringing of your phone had your eyes blinking open, squinted against the sudden brightness of your TV. You’d accidentally fallen asleep, and, still disoriented, picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, everything okay?” It’s Aaron’s voice on the other line, and you pull your phone away for a second to check the time before sitting up quickly.

“Shit, Hotch, I must’ve fallen asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, I can wait for you.” He’d wait as long as you need, he thinks. The thought passes through like a leaf blown in the wind, freely, randomly.

“Have you been waiting long?” You ask, fingers tugging at a loose thread in your pants.

“No, don’t worry. Barely five minutes.”

And he still wanted to check on you.

“Why don’t you come in? My couch is probably more comfortable than your car, right?”

“You sure?” He checks, like he hasn’t been to your place before, like you’d ever not want him there.

“Get in here, Hotchner.”

You hung up before he could reply, and he laughed to himself in his car before shutting it off and doing exactly what you’d told him.

So, now, you’re rushing to find an outfit while Aaron sits on your couch by himself.

Even though he’s in the next room, you can feel his presence around you, the steady security he gives you, the warmth that seeps out of him even when he tries to hide it.

You settle on a knitted sweater, a skirt, and some tights, which you realize as you tug them on aren't the speediest of options, but it’s too late to change your mind now. With your hair figured out and the mascara that had smudged during your nap fixed, you step back out into the living room.

Aaron made himself at home while you were gone (he often feels that way with you, at home), sitting on your couch with his arms spread across the back. He looks better than he should there, suit stretched across his shoulders, and you have to clear your throat to snap yourself out of it.

“Okay, sorry again for the delay. I’m ready to go.”

He looks up as soon as you walk in, eyes skimming over your legs and the tights wrapped around them, your waist, up your neck. His gaze lands on your eyes the way it often does, like magnets.

He shakes his head, “don’t be sorry. We’ll be what they call ‘fashionably late.’”

You laugh, because who would’ve thought that the words ‘fashionably late’ would ever come out of Aaron Hotchner’s mouth.

“Who taught you that one, huh?”

“I like to keep my sources anonymous.”

“Well okay, then. Let’s go be fashionably late, Hotch.”

He lets you lead the way to the car, only jogging up ahead to open your door before you can reach it yourself.

During the drive to Penelope’s, you take control of the music with little objection from Aaron, and when it gets to a song you know he likes, you sing along, encouraging him to do the same.

“Let’s hear it, Agent Hotchner.” You hold your fist out like there’s a microphone in it, looking at him with a grin on your face.

“I can't sing.” Aaron’s fighting off a smile, because you’re sitting beside him, not too shy to sing along, being all cute and, briefly, he thinks about reaching out and grabbing your hand and holding on.

“Sure you can! Everyone can sing, come on.” You unfurl your faux microphone-holding fist and tug on the knot of his tie, “loosen up a little.”

And, because you have some way of convincing him of things—first lunch, now this—he humors you by joining in for one chorus of the song. When your eyes light up a little, and your grin only widens, he can’t bring himself to be too concerned of how bad he probably sounds.

By the time you’re at Garcia’s door you’re a solid hour late, yet you and Aaron walk up to the door with matching smiles all the same.

“I’m getting you to do that every time I hear that song now, I hope you know.”

“That was a one time special,” he says. He reaches over your shoulder to knock on the door. His hand brushes against you, featherlight and quick, a crackle over your skin.

On the other side, Morgan says, “must be the lovebirds” when he hears the sound.

You and Aaron don’t hear him, only broken out of your little shared bubble when Penelope opens the door. “There you guys are! I made your drinks but the ice might be melted by now. You know, ‘cause you’re late.”

You know this is directed towards you more than it is Hotch, because Garcia’s a little intimidated by him still. You also know she’s only joking, and greet her with a hug before stepping in.

Aaron isn’t far behind you, though at these things, he never is.

You’re met with warm greetings from the team when you walk in, and you chat for a bit, but it isn’t long before things split off into smaller conversations. They all know that Aaron drives you to these things, and, as profilers, they’re also all able to see the way you look at each other, the way the knot of his tie sits lower than usual.

In the corner, Emily leans over to Derek, saying, “usually it takes at least two drinks for Hotch’s tie to look like that.”

“I told you, they’re together,” Derek shrugs.

“I don’t think they know that,” Emily replies.

This time, Aaron hears them, and he can’t help but look towards you in the room the rest of the night, thinking and thinking and thinking.

He ends up deciding that they might have a point. That maybe, that shift in his heartbeat when you’re around isn’t nothing, isn’t just friends.

-

The flight home from a case always feels the longest.

On the way there, you’re packing every hour with information about what’s going on, talking to Garcia, reading police reports. You’re all on edge, eager to get out there and help and do your jobs,

Then, on the way home, with another case solved, all you’re thinking about is going home, sleeping in your own bed, and time seems to go slower.

If your name happens to be Aaron Hotchner, you’d spend the plane ride home doing paperwork that actually can wait.

You and Aaron sit next to each other on pretty much every flight, though the seats have never been assigned. It’s an unspoken thing, like your names are written on the fabric of the same two seats on the jet and that’s just the way it is.

The first time was early on in your time on the team. It was a tough case for you, and Hotch seemed to know it without you having to say anything, so, when you got on the jet to come home, he smiled that small, twitch of his lips smile at you and nodded at the seat next to him. You’ve been sitting there ever since.

Today, your flight is on the shorter side, but feels long the way it always does. Trying to keep yourself occupied, you pull out your earbuds and shuffle your playlist, hoping that the songs will speed things up.

“Sick of me already?” Hotch speaks up when he notices your headphones.

You tilt your head to look at him. He looks tired, the way you’re sure you do, too, but never any less handsome. His eyes are soft where they meet yours, paired with a hint of a smile that you’re always able to catch.

“Sick of you, Hotch? Never.” You nod at the file he has open on the small table, “just didn’t want to distract you.”

“I thought you enjoyed distracting me. Always telling me I work too much.”

“‘Cause it’s true,” you say. “That doesn’t mean you listen.”

“I listen to you more than I listen to most people.” Aaron’s voice is gentle when he says it, the words sinking in and melting you just a little, sugary sweet. It could mean absolutely nothing, but with the way he keeps his eyes steady on yours, you don’t think it does.

“Listen to this, then,” you hand him one of your earbuds, and his fingers brush yours when he takes it from you. “But you can’t make fun of me if a musical soundtrack comes on, okay?”

“Okay,” he huffs a small laugh, and you feel a little brighter. “I promise.”

You’re aware of the team having their own conversations in the rows in front of you and Hotch, but you can’t bring yourself to join in, because you and Aaron are sharing your earbuds and his head is bent just a little closer to yours. It’s delicate, and you’ll do your best not to break it.

You talk a little longer, until it naturally fizzles out and Hotch is back to working on his files and you’re bobbing your head along to your songs. Only now, Aaron sits closer to you, his arm against yours.

He’s not sure what to do with his newfound realization that his feelings for you run far deeper than friendship. All Aaron knows is that he likes the feeling of you beside him, and that he’s planning on keeping you there as long as you’ll let him.

It’s quiet between the two of you aside from your occasional ‘this is a good one,’ and his hum of acknowledgement.

Eventually, you’re relaxed enough that your eyes grow heavy, the sleep you’ve been lacking suddenly catching up to you, and when you hit a patch of slower songs you’re fighting to stay awake.

When your head lulls onto Hotch’s shoulder, you jerk your head up, “sorry, Aaron.”

His chest does something funny. A jump. It’s not often you call him Aaron, and he’d listen to the sound of his name on your lips on a loop if he could. Because he can’t help himself, he scooches himself even closer to you.

He decides to call you something different, too, saying, “it’s alright, honey.”

You’re too sleepy to really read into that one, all you feel is the flutter in your stomach and Aaron’s hand on your head, gently guiding it to his shoulder.

When he’s sure you’re asleep, Hotch looks away from his files and over to you. Your cheek is squished against his shoulder, your lashes fanned shut. He thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

Aaron doesn’t even feel the smile that spreads over his face as he reaches up and pushes your hair away from your face. He’s completely unaware of the eyes that catch him, far too focused on you.

Emily turned around when she realized she hadn’t heard your voice in a bit, and she did it just in time to catch Hotch’s movement. Instead of saying something, she turns back around and shakes her head to herself.

Hopeless, she thinks.

Sleep doesn’t come so easily with this job, with the things you see, so Aaron can’t help but try and stay steady for you, and if that leads to him letting his eyes close and resting his head on yours, then so be it.

It’s not until the end of the flight that the team checks on the two of you. As everyone stands and grabs their go bags, they notice the two of you, asleep next to each other, earbud wires hanging between you.

“Should we wake them up?” JJ asks.

“Hotch doesn’t get enough sleep as it is,” Spencer chimes in. “Neither does she, actually.”

Of course, Derek finishes with, “let’s leave the lovebirds to it,” before the team gets off the plane.

It’s only about twenty minutes later that Aaron does wake up, but he feels more well-rested than he has in a while, even with the kink in his neck.

Blinking his eyes open, he’s met with an empty jet and the comforting weight of your head on his shoulder. “Shit,” he sighs.

He debates waking you, ultimately deciding that you’d probably rather sleep in your bed rather than the seat of the BAU’s jet. Reaching up, he pulls your earbuds away, setting them on the table. With a brush of his fingertips to your cheek, he coaxed you awake.

“Hey, honey,” Aaron’s nearly whispering, like he’s afraid to scare you. Or, maybe, he’s convinced that if he moves too quickly, too loudly, this whole thing will fade away as if he’d been dreaming. “Wake up, we’re home.”

“Hm?” You grumble, scrunching your nose when he brushes your cheek again.

“We fell asleep, but we landed.”

“Oh, god.” You sit up properly, lifting your head. “I’m sorry, Aaron. Hotch.”

“Aaron is good,” he eases you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

Sleep-hazed, or maybe just happy that he can be Aaron to you, you agree easily and take his hand when he offers it, letting him lead you to his car.

-

You’ve been spending more time at Aaron’s ever since that flight. In the car, he’d convinced you to stay over at his place in the guest room, since it was closer. With your go bag already in his car and heavy, sleepy eyes, it was hard for you to do anything but agree.

It’s another slice of his life that he’s let you see, and you can’t help but feel like it means something, like you’re stepping further and further away from being coworkers who are friends and towards something different. Something more.

That flight feels like the catalyst, the thing that caused things to shift into what they are now.

Aaron’s couch is much more comfortable than yours, and though you’ve yet to spend the night again, you’re sitting there with him at almost every chance. The time off you get is rare, and Aaron wanting to spend it with you sends flutters to your stomach whenever you think about it.

You feel like you know him better, getting to see his space, how he chose to decorate, what colors he likes, which ones he doesn’t. You also know what temperature he likes to set his thermostat.

“Do you enjoy living in a refrigerator?” You ask, hands tucked into your sleeves. “Just wondering.”

Aaron laughs, a small huff, “I think you just run cold, honey.”

He’s been calling you that a lot, too. Honey.

“No way, Hotchner. Your house is what runs cold. Or maybe you’re cold-blooded.”

Not with you, he thinks. Years and years of doing what he does, Hotch might even call himself cold when he’s thinking a little too hard. But never cold with you. He thinks that might be impossible for him.

“Shhh, don’t tell anyone my secret,” he says, his arm brushing against yours from where he sits next to you on his couch. “Where are you cold?”

“Can’t feel my toes, Aaron. I might be out of commission for the next case.”

“Well we can’t lose our best girl, can we?” Best girl, he says. Like he means it, like it’s simple. “I’ve got some thick socks you can grab. Bottom drawer.”

Just like that, he’s cracked another wall of his down even further, giving you permission to go into his bedroom as if you’ve been in there a thousand times.

“Really?”

“Unless you’d rather not feel your toes-“

“Okay, okay,” you stop him, unable to fight your smile. “Thanks, Aaron.”

When you stand and head towards his room, Aaron can’t stop himself from thinking that you belong there, in his home, his room, his life. You fit in so seamlessly he wishes you’d never leave.

He stands up too, because the couch suddenly feels sort of empty without you beside him, without your warmth. He walks over to his thermostat on the wall and turns it up for you.

You’ve always thought that you can tell a lot about a person from where they live, and seeing Aaron’s bedroom now solidifies it. His place does too, but there’s something about his bedroom that feels much more personal.

Here, there’s more of him, little bits of his life scattered around. A picture of him as a kid with his parents on the dresser, the newspaper’s crossword sitting completely finished on his nightstand, his bed neatly made.

You smile at the framed photo before slipping the top drawer open and finding the pair of socks he’d been talking about. As much as you’d love to snoop, you don’t want to invade his privacy in any way. Besides, from Aaron, even a glimpse of his space feels special.

You slip on the socks before you leave his room, letting them bunch at your ankles.

As soon as you walk back into the living room, Aaron’s phone rings. Glancing at you softly, almost apologetically though he’s got nothing to be sorry about—you work with him, you know how important a call can be—he picks it up.

“Hotchner,” he says, holding it to his ear. His voice is different this way, more professional, controlled. Never any less pleasing to hear.

He’d wanted to say something about how good you look in his clothes when his phone rang, Garcia’s name flashing on the screen. Aaron wishes it was someone else, only to spend more time with you this way.

“Sorry to call late, sir,” Penelope says. “We’ve got a case. Missing kid; it’s urgent.”

“Don’t be sorry, Garcia. We’re on our way.”

“Wait, we?” She asks, curious as always.

“What’s going on?” You ask Aaron.

“Got a case. I’ll drive, honey.” He lets the pet name slip, like it’s a habit.

On the other line, Garcia’s grinning to herself in her office. She’d had a suspicion of who on the team Hotch would be with outside of work, and hearing your voice, and his use of the word ‘honey’ all sticky sweet, she knows she’s onto something.

“Oh, that’s ‘we,’” Penelope’s voice teases. “Tell her I’ll see you guys soon!”

Aaron shakes his head, fighting his smile. “Bye, Garcia.”

He hangs up and looks from his phone to you, your eyes already on him, corners of your mouth tugged up just a little like you’d heard what Garcia said, heard the lilt in her voice. Like you liked the idea of you and Aaron being a unit. We.

He likes that idea, too.

Back at the BAU, Garcia calls Derek next, who picks up with his classic, “hey, babygirl.”

First, she tells him that he needs to come into the office, that they’ve got a case, then, “you’re never going to believe this.”

Penelope loves to talk, and Derek’s happy to listen, so she tells him about how you’d been with Aaron when she called, and that you were on your way together.

“I give them another week, max, before they’re holding hands when they come in.” Derek laughs, because he can see yours and Hotch’s feelings so easily, plain as day, and he loves to be right about things.

“How mad will Hotch be when he finds out that we talk about his relationship?” Penelope’s mostly joking, only a fraction concerned.

“If the boss didn’t want us talking about it, he shouldn’t be so obvious, sweetheart.”

Once you arrive at the office, you don’t catch Penelope and Derek’s shared looks behind yours and Aaron’s—who happens to be carrying both his and your go bag—backs.

And if anyone notices the loose socks around your ankles, they don’t say anything about it.

-

You’re not supposed to go off on your own unless it’s absolutely necessary. You know that, the team knows that. Aaron, who is always trying to keep you as safe as possible, enforces it.

You guess that this time might be up for debate.

When it comes to what you do, you have to trust your instincts most of the time. And today, your gut told you to make a decision that might not have been safe, but to you, it felt like what you had to do.

Aaron had been on the phone with you, trying to figure out a way to make the car drive any faster to get to you. He’d heard it in your voice, in the tone of it, that he couldn’t convince you to wait for someone else to show up.

“I have to do this, Aaron,” you’d said. While the team would normally probably tease him about you calling him Aaron, as if it isn’t his name, they’d known not to interrupt this time. “You know I do.”

“You don’t have to.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he spoke. “We’ll be there soon, alright? Just-”

“I’m sorry.” And then, you hung up.

In the end, going in when you did had been the right move. A life had been saved, and you’d slowed the guy down enough that the police were able to arrest him when they arrived. All it cost you was a cut and a bruise on your cheek.

So, your instincts weren’t so bad.

Aaron, however, disagrees. Logically, he knows that he would’ve done the exact same thing you did, knows the rest of the team would’ve, too. But when it comes to you, he has a hard time thinking logically.

After you hung up on him, all he could do was breathe and breathe and breathe over the heavy thumping of his heartbeat and the worry spinning in his head. He drove the quickest he could manage, the car silent inside. A static.

It’s not that he doubts your abilities—he’s always thought you were incredible, even before the friendship, even before now—only that the idea of you being alone with such a bad man makes him feel sick.

He’d take your place in a heartbeat, if he could, just to make sure you’d be safe.

By the time he and the rest of the team get to the scene, you’re walking out of the building with a hand pressed to your cheek and a paramedic leading you to a nearby ambulance.

Aaron spots you right away, his eyes scanning the small crowd through red and blue lights and conversations surrounding him. When he spots you, everything goes quiet.

His first thought is, thank god she’s alive, then, it’s fuck, she’s hurt.

Without a word to anyone, he heads over in your direction right away. He meets you at the ambulance, where you sit on the small bench inside while the paramedic presses your cheek with gauze.

“Honey.” It comes out in a breath. Relief and pain all at once.

You look over to him, his hair a little messy, his eyes wide and roaming all over you like he’s checking for any other injuries. He cares about you, and it’s written all over him.

“Aaron. I’m okay.” You hold a hand out, and he grabs it, sitting beside you on the bench in the ambulance. “Promise.”

For now, he nods, letting the paramedic do their job bandaging up your cheek. When they’re finished, they hand you a spare bandage saying, “it’s gonna bruise, and it might feel sore for a bit, but you’re all patched up.”

The paramedic leaves after that, probably going to check on other people. The lights inside the ambulance seem to cocoon you, a bright difference to the darkness outside.

The first thing Aaron says is, “let me see.”

His hands reach for your face, rough fingertips gently holding your jaw, tilting you so that he can look at your cheek. It’s a little swollen, discolored where you must’ve been hit. There’s a furrow in his brow, something that looks like a pout on none other than Aaron Hotchner.

“Hey,” you grab his wrists, but his hands stay on your face. “I’m fine.”

Aaron’s always worried, he’s always cared about you and about everyone on the team, but this is different. He was usually able to hide things much better than this. Much better than with you.

Now, all he sees is the tiny bloodstain on your shirt and the bandage on your cheek. All he feels is your hands squeezing his wrists and your eyes locked on his.

“You should have waited,” he says. “I could have been there.”

“Hotchner,” your deadpan tone is intact, which he’ll take as a win, even if it’s directed towards him. “You and I both know you would have done the same. I had to.”

One of his hands shifts to cup your non-injured cheek. Normally, he’d be much more composed while working, but he can’t bring himself to care about how he must look right now.

“I know you did,” he tells you, because he does. “I just wish that you didn’t. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Your stomach is tumbling, rolling, your heart doing silly things in your chest. You can hardly feel the pain of your cheek anymore when his hand is on the other, his palm warm against your skin, his gaze even warmer.

“I’m hardly hurt, Aaron. Just a scratch.”

“Right. One that required medical attention. That’s more than just a scratch, honey.”

“If you say so, Hotchner.”

He shifts his hands so that they fall into your lap, palms up and fingers instantly finding yours, tangling together perfectly. Like puzzle pieces.

“Good job, by the way.” Hotch rubs his thumb over your skin once, back and forth. “You did the right thing.”

“Learned from the best,” you say.

You’re both oblivious to the fact that the team is watching from a distance, and that the two of you look so lovesick it’s ridiculous that you haven’t spilled your feelings yet. You’re both absolutely fucked.

Where she stands with the team, Emily shakes her head, “I haven’t seen Hotch like this since… ever.”

Beside her, JJ merely shrugs, like it’s obvious, “yeah, they’re in love.”

Spencer looks at you and Aaron in that ambulance with a smile. “The odds of you guys being right are very, very high.”

-

+1

Aaron Hotchner was never the biggest fan of birthdays. Was never big into the cakes and making wishes, the song and the presents and the fuss of it all.

When he started at the bureau, it stayed that way. Days off were rare enough as it was, so he’d always work on his birthday. And while he kept the signed cards from the team, he treated it as any other day. Nothing special.

This year, you’re on a mission to change that.

While it isn’t the first of Aaron’s birthdays you’ve spent with him, it’s the first one since the two of you have grown as close as you have, since you’ve felt the way you do. You’re just hoping to make it a good birthday for him.

You’ve roped the whole team into it. Decorating the conference room with streamers and balloons and a sign that hangs crooked on the wall, bringing in a cake that reads ‘Happy Birthday Hotch’ in frosting, and keeping it all a secret.

Of course, you’ve all already said happy birthday to him, and you’ve got a present stashed under your desk for later, but you’ve been doing your best to act natural even when the anticipation of your surprise for him eats at your stomach a little.

Surprises are a tricky thing, and there’s no way of knowing whether he’ll like it or not. You’ll just have to wait and see.

While in his office, the team had made it seem like they’d all left for the day, saying their goodbyes to Hotch. Instead of leaving, though, they’ve been hidden in the conference room waiting for you to bring him in.

“Aaron,” you say, knocking on his office door. “I think I lost an earring. Do you think you could help me look for it?”

Because you’re the one asking, Aaron says, “‘course, honey. Where do you think it is?”

You smile, because he’s fallen into your trap easily, because you know that he probably would search for an earring with you if you’d actually lost one.

“I remember having it on in the conference room, so maybe there.”

He stands from his desk, gesturing for you to lead the way with his hand held out. You grab onto it before he can drop it, tangling your fingers and leading him behind you.

Aaron lets you guide him, and when you open the door to the conference room and flick on the lights, he’s met with the team’s grinning faces and a chorus of, “surprise!”

For a moment, he’s speechless, frozen in his spot in the doorway with your hand in his.

No, Aaron’s never been the biggest fan of birthdays, but maybe that’s because nobody’s ever done something like this for him. You came into his life all sweet smiles and now you’re throwing him a surprise party? He’s never ever liked someone the way he likes you.

So much that like is spilling into a four letter word and he’s happy to let it.

You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like being the center of attention too much, so the only people in the room are those of the BAU. His closest friends. And you, his favorite person.

Before he can say anything he’s being spoken to by the team, getting a ‘happy birthday, boss,’ from Derek, a spill about how hard it was to keep this a secret from Penelope, a grin from Spencer, a tip about how you’d organized all of this from Emily, a squeeze to the shoulder from JJ.

When he finally gets the chance, the others split into their own conversations, Aaron tugs you aside to the corner of the room.

“You did all of this for me?” He asks, head bent to catch your eye.

Although you’d caught the signature Hotchner smile—closed-mouthed and quick—when he saw the surprise, you’re nervous about what he might say. You worry that you’ve done too much, that he’d been pretending to like it for your sake.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bit much,” you start, anxiously tugging at your sleeves. “I wasn’t sure if you liked surprises, I know not everyone does, but I wanted to do something for you because I care about you. A lot. And birthdays are meant to be celebrated, you know?”

Aaron can’t help but let a smile spread over his face as you speak; a real smile. His heart is light, his feelings for you melting through him like the soft pink of cotton candy. He doesn’t think you could ever do anything that he wouldn’t like.

“I’ll clean it all up, too, I prom-”

Your rambling is cut off with his lips on yours. He’s kissing you.

It’s soft, the press of his mouth against yours, and it takes you a second to push back. It stays delicate, a dance between the two of you like you’d practiced a million times before.

His hands skate down your arms to hold your hands, weaving his fingers with yours, squeezing like he’s making sure you know this is real.

You feel it all over, your stomach tumbling, your heart beating in a rhythm that thumps his name. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, over and over.

It’s a kiss worth a thousand words that you haven’t said yet, a kiss full of feelings and meaning and you know it, just by the way he does it, because you know him and he knows you. It’s you and Aaron, and it feels like the beginning of something huge. Of the rest of your life, maybe.

When he pulls back, Hotch rests his forehead against yours, giving your head a gentle nudge, locking his brown eyes on yours.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

The next thing you hear is Derek Morgan cheering, “I knew it!”

Similar words come from the rest of the team.

“Finally,” from Emily.

“About time,” from JJ.

“This isn’t surprising,” from Spencer, who smiles while saying it.

A sweet, “yay,” from Penelope.

Distracted by Aaron kissing you, you’d sort of forgotten they were there. Bashful, you tuck your head beneath Aaron’s chin, forehead against his collar. He simply tightens his hands around yours.

And when it’s time for cake, this year, Aaron Hotchner makes a wish on his birthday candles. He wishes to spend every other birthday just like this. With you.

༄

The morning of your first shift at Last Chance Bookstore, you don’t understand it, but you wake up with a feeling that today is going to be the most important day of your life. As you get ready, dressing to impress, you think of the whole reason you applied at this bookshop in the first place - the boy from your dreams. He’s never told you his name, and as you’ve grown older, so has he. He’s beautiful with silvery blond hair, a strong jaw, and a brilliant blue eye, the other replaced with a gorgeous sapphire. You feel as though you know him, as though you’ve known him forever. And for the last few months, in your dreams, he’s just been repeating two words, over and over.

Last chance.

When you passed by Last Chance Bookstore on your way back to your flat from your afternoon classes, it was like something suddenly became very clear to you. The owner was working the till, a sweet older woman, whom you dropped your CV off with and did a quick interview. She absolutely adored you and so hired you on the spot, stating that you could start Monday.

That night, the boy in your dreams had a contented smile on his face, saying that this was the last time he would see you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and faded from your view. As he disappeared, you felt a sense of loss you didn’t quite understand, like something was missing from you.

You settle on a red and black plaid skirt and white v-neck sweater, paired with black stockings and flats, wanting to look studious and professional. This is the best job you could’ve gotten, considering your sweet boss is willing to work around your classes at King’s Landing University, where you’re enrolled in a graduate program to earn your Masters. The shop is only about five blocks from your apartment building, so you grab your purse, nearly forgetting your keys as you do, and head out, ready to face the world.

Aemond Targaryen sits at the counter of Last Chance Bookstore, thumbing through a well-worn copy of Wuthering Heights, his guilty pleasure novel, though he doesn’t feel so guilty about reading it in the cozy shop he works at. He glances at his phone and sees that it’s nearing 10AM, when he’s meant to do his new coworker’s orientation. He hopes they aren’t a complete idiot, he can’t handle that after the last few he’s had to train. He goes back to his book, waiting for the tell-tale sound of the bell hung by the door tinkling to indicate someone has walked in.

When the sound does come, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger before glancing up. And he sees you, standing there, just like a dream. Just like you’ve always looked in his dreams. The girl he’s seen every night for as long as he can remember. His throat goes dry and he doesn’t speak, no doubt coming off as standoffish to you, considering he’s just fucking staring at you. You can’t possibly be the girl from his dreams… Can you?

You look at him as though you’ve seen a ghost before clearing your throat and offering a bright smile and introducing yourself by name (has he ever heard a prettier one?), “A.T. right? I’m supposed to meet you for orientation.”

Aemond clears his throat and nods, coming to his senses, standing up and running a hand through his hair as if to smooth it, “Yes, that’s me. Pleasure to meet you. Your orientation is pretty simple, just follow me to the back.”

You follow him, and he looks at you from the corner of his good eye, smiling as you question, “So, Wuthering Heights? You a hopeless romantic?”

“That would require me to have a love life in the first place,” he jokes, “It’s my favorite novel.”

“Mine too,” you smile brightly.

The sight of your smile, the sway of your hips, it all distracts Aemond. Long enough that he collides with a bookshelf.

Your eyes go wide with concern and Aemond feels utterly humiliated, “Are you okay?”

“Oh, um, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s fine,” he mutters, regaining his composure and looking over at you, gazing into your eyes and feeling completely entranced before he clears his throat, “Right, staff room.”

You frown at him, leaning in, and for a moment, he leans in too, wondering if you’re about to kiss him, “You have a cut on your forehead. Do you have a first aid kit in the back?”

Aemond feels a pang of disappointment at the not kiss, even though he knows he’s being completely delusional, and mumbles, “Yes, we do.”

Fantastic first impression, Aemond. This is why you’ve never had a girlfriend.

You continue following after him and give him a quick smile once you reach the back room and he pulls out the first aid kit, “I can clean that up for you. I was a camp counselor for two summers. This is kinda my jam.”

Aemond smiles at you awkwardly, handing you the kit, “Thanks…”

Is she going to tend to my cut for real? Gods, I hope she does… Fuck, her shampoo smells amazing- GET IT TOGETHER, AEMOND!

You use an alcohol wipe and begin dabbing at his cut, “I’m sorry if this stings,” you offer him your free hand, “You can squeeze my hand if you need.”

“It’s all good-” he cuts himself off when you simply take his hand in your own, so soft and petite in his own, “Thanks.”

Aemond winces and grits his teeth, squeezing your hand gently as the alcohol does its work, the cut smarting slightly.

“Sorry,” you give him a sheepish grin before placing a light gauze on the wound, covering it with a bandaid, “There we go.”

“Thanks for that,” Aemond smiles back at you.

He looks at you for a long moment, noticing the way your skirt hugs your hips, the hint of cleavage he sees with the cut of your sweater, those gorgeous thighs-

For fuck’s sake, Aemond, pull yourself together, you’re not a bitch in heat! This is work, not a hookup. Not that you’d know anything about those either…

He clears his throat yet again and looks at you, “Let’s get your orientation out of the way.”

You nod enthusiastically, “Yep, I’m here, ready to learn. Your padawan,” you visibly cringe at what you just said, “Sorry. That sounded funnier and less lame in my head. I’ll just stop talking.”

She’s too goddamn cute, I can’t deal with this.

Aemond smiles at you, “No, it was funny, don’t worry. I’m basically just going to show you around the store so you get the feel of it.”

And then maybe you and I get a feel for each other- STOP IT.

Aemond explains everything to you, telling you that you’ll mainly be in charge of helping customers find books and working the till for the time being. As the two of you walk back toward the front of the store, he gazes at the way your hips move, the spring in your step, and he has to physically hold himself back from just grabbing you and kissing you.

“So, have you worked retail?” he asks as the two of you stand behind the counter and he shows you how to work the register.

You nod, grinning at him, “I have, I’m not a complete noob, don’t worry.”

Why is she so fucking cute?! GET A GRIP, AEMOND!

“Fantastic, you should be sorted then,” his eye travels to your lips then back up to your eyes, admiring your long lashes, “Have you ever been in this store before?”

He watches as you hesitate before speaking, “Nah, just when I dropped off my CV and interviewed. I usually go to that comic shop down the street that does the release parties for all the fantasy stuff. It’s a problem.”

She’s a nerd too? I’m in love. I am this close to just getting down on one knee-

“I like your shirt,” you compliment, breaking him out of his reverie, “That’s the Hellfire Club one, right? From Stranger Things?”

That’s it. This is my future wife.

Aemond blushes a bit, “Thanks. I’m guessing you’re a fan?”

You nod, “Mhm. One of my favorite shows. I’m a Steve Harrington girl till I die.”

“Steve?” he raises an eyebrow, “I mean, he’s a great character, but why him?”

“He’s so cute!” you gush absentmindedly as the two of you ring up a client, “Character development, amazing hair, sense of humor, teen dad of six.”

“You make some good points,” Aemond smiles at you, admiring your profile view, “I think Dustin’s my favorite.”

“He’s definitely my favorite out of the kids,” you smile back at him, “Him and Erica.”

Aemond laughs, “I agree entirely. They’re the best.”

He lets you ring up the next customer on your own, watching you with admiration as you chat with them, charming them entirely, yet remaining completely professional. He doesn’t think he can take any more of this.

“You’re doing a great job,” he compliments.

“Thank you,” you chirp happily, “It’s all on you, showing me the ropes.”

“You’re too kind,” he blushes again, “I’m just glad I could help.”

Is she flirting with me? She’s gorgeous AND she’s into me? This day cannot get any better, fuck, I just want to kiss her, hold her hand-

Your hands accidentally touch and all of a sudden, it’s as though the two of you aren’t in the bookshop anymore. You’re in some old castle, or at least, the library of it. You’re dressed in some sort of gown, and he’s in rather regal clothes himself. When you blink, you’re back in the present. You both chalk it up to some sort of weird waking dream, and you head off on your lunch break, wondering what the hell just happened.

Weeks go by and you and Aemond grow closer and closer, developing something akin to a friendship. He often teases you for your forgetfulness, considering you’re always complaining about having forgotten something - your phone, your snacks, your keys - but most often? Your umbrella. Luckily, it’s only been light rain so far and you’ve been able to book it all five blocks home with minimal damage.

Aemond amuses himself by leaving pressed flowers in the pages of the books he knows you read on your break, smiling to himself when he sees the way you light up when you receive them. He leaves sweet little notes from a secret admirer at times too, complimenting your sweet nature, your pretty smile, your enchanting eyes. He doesn’t know why, but the whole thing gives him a strange sense of deja vu. As though he’s done this very same thing before.

Tonight appears to be the night that your luck with your umbrella runs out. It’s pouring rain as the two of you close up the shop. You let out a groan.

“Dammit, I forgot my umbrella!”

“What a surprise,” Aemond drawls, playfully nudging you with his shoulder as he passes by you.

“Shut up,” you laugh before looking outside, “Okay, I’ll make a run for my flat. It’s only five blocks-”

“You’re insane,” Aemond deadpans, “Don’t you dare go running in the rain alone. I have an umbrella. I’ll walk you home tonight.”

“But you live the other way!” you protest.

“I’m not letting you walk home alone,” Aemond’s voice is stern though not unkind.

You sigh, following him outside into the rain, ducking under his umbrella, which you’re seeing for the first time, “Yellow umbrella? That doesn’t seem very you.”

He shrugs, “I saw it and I just had this… Feeling that I should get it. You know what I mean?”

You think back to the day you first walked past the store. When you walked into the store and recognized your coworker as the boy from your dreams.

“Yeah, yeah, I get you.”

“Now, come on, get under here.”

“You’re so bossy,” you protest, linking your arm with his.

“At least I’ll get you home safe and dry,” Aemond retorts.

He glances down at you and it feels as though time stops. His heart is in his throat and all he can think about is his lips on yours. His train of thought is broken when you speak up.

“Fine. But you’re coming up to mine, though. I’ll fix you some tea as a thank you and if it’s raining too much, you can stay in the spare bedroom.”

“Deal,” he smiles at you, hoping the rain gets worse.

The two of you continue walking until, suddenly, a bolt of lightning strikes just in front of you, missing the two of you by mere feet. And at the moment it strikes, all of the memories from every life the two of you have shared come rushing back in a tidal wave. Aemond drops his umbrella, both of you frozen for a moment.

You turn to each other, and you gaze up at him, amazed, “It’s you…”

“My love,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around you, “I’ve been waiting for you… For so long.”

You both remember it all. Your past lives, your love story, everything.

You move your hands to rest on Aemond’s face, rain pouring over the both of you, drenching you, “You always felt so familiar to me. The boy from my dreams.”

“My dream girl,” he echoes your sentiments, “I’ve known you for an eternity. Do you remember it all, my darling?”

You nod, “Aemond… Osferth… Tom… Billy… Ettore,” you laugh, “My name always stayed the same.”

As if drawn to each other by some unknown force, Aemond pulls you into a passionate kiss just as you reach for him. You stand there, kissing in the rain, holding each other, never wanting to let go, never able to get enough of each other. Thunder claps overhead, lightning strikes, but none of that matters.

“I never want to let you go again,” Aemond whispers, resting his forehead against yours, “You’re mine and I’m yours. Forever. One thousand worlds…”

“And ten thousand lifetimes,” you whisper back, “I’ve lost you too many times. Not this time. I won’t lose you again.”

“Oh, my love, I’ll never leave you again. I love you,” he says, pulling you close, grabbing his umbrella once again, “Let’s go, I want to get you warm and dry.”

The two of you all but sprint to your apartment. As you fumble for your keys inside your purse, you feel Aemond’s lips on your neck, kissing you, unable to stay away from you.

“Aemond!” you giggle.

“Oh, is someone ticklish? You always were right,” you yelp as he pinches your waist, “Here!”

“You suck,” you burst into laughter, finally opening the door, “Sit down, I’ll make us some tea.”

Aemond pulls you close by the hand, the two of you standing chest to chest as he whispers, “I’d rather kiss you, hold you in my arms, make love to you again.”

You pull him into another kiss before leading him to your bedroom, gently pushing him back onto the mattress and climbing over him, “My love.”

Aemond gazes up at you, kissing you once more, his tongue moving against yours in perfect harmony, flipping the two of you over so you lay back on the bed beneath him. Your clothes are removed in flurry of motion, the two of you seeing each other bare again, every time feeling like the first time. Aemond’s hands move all of your body, mapping out every part of you, committing it to memory once more, and you do the same. You have loved each other for what feels like an eternity, and you’ll love him for as many eternities that come.

“I’ve dreamed about you ever since I can remember,” you say between kisses, “I never understood till now.”

“You waited for me. And I searched for you,” he says, joining your bodies as one, the feeling being so perfectly divine, as though ordained by whatever gods exist, “Through a thousand worlds and ten thousand lifetimes. And we’ve found each other. Our love, our bond… It can’t be broken.”

As Aemond’s body moves against you, bringing you to the edge of paradise, you hold him close, kissing him over and over. After the two of you reach your peak, you lay in each other’s arms, kissing, locked in a tight embrace.

“I could kiss you forever,” you smile at him.

“Forever wouldn’t be nearly long enough,” he whispers, his lips finding yours again.

The two of you waste no time moving in together, getting married within the year. Your friends, both of your families, all of them wonder if the two of you have gone crazy. But the only thing crazy about it all is how in love with each other you are.

The two of you live on for many, many years, having children, then grandchildren, living a life full of love, the life that the two of you deserved. You pass on, warm in bed, holding each other, at the ripe age of 100.

When your eyes open, you find yourself in the Seven Heavens, Aemond gazing at you. You take his hand and he pulls you in for a kiss, taking his time with it, holding you close.

After all, the two of you have eternity together now, never to be parted again.

When you think of how many near misses you have when it comes to meeting Billy Washington, it’s almost laughable.

The first one is when you attend Christmas at the Washington household your first year working on the Metropolitan Police bomb squad. Your coworker, Lana, learns that your parents passed away a few years ago and you typically spend Christmas on your own, eating Chinese takeaway and watching horror movies. This is unacceptable to her and she demands that you come home with her for the holidays. 

It’s raining when you show up at the Washington house and you’ve brought your trusty yellow umbrella. You don’t know why you adore the stupid thing so much. Lana teases you like crazy about it, saying what an eyesore it is, but you simply stick your tongue out at her and tell her it’s because of your sunny disposition. When you walk in the house, her parents immediately begin doting on you, happy to have two kids home, stating that their son, Billy, is at his girlfriend’s house for the holidays.

You’re given Billy’s room to sleep in, and for some reason, it feels so familiar to you. You feel almost at home in this stranger’s room, which makes absolutely no sense. You note that he doesn’t have any photos in his room, probably having taken them all to his flat. You’re left wondering what Lana’s mysterious brother looks like. You assume that since Lana is quite pretty that her brother must be a looker too and muse how unfortunate it is that you couldn’t meet him.

That night, you have a dream, a strangely vivid one of a man with long blond hair and a sapphire for an eye. He’s unearthly beautiful as he walks toward you. He takes your hands in his and smiles, gazing at you with a fondness, a deep devotion that you do not quite understand. You read somewhere that you can only dream of people you’ve seen or met before, but you know you haven’t ever met a man as beautiful as this.

Your mysterious visitor says one word to you before you wake up.

“Billy”.

When you wake, you wonder to yourself what the man meant. It was probably just a coincidence that Lana’s brother is named Billy, right?

Every night you remain at the Washington home, staying in Billy’s room, you have that dream. You chalk it up to stress from your job finally catching up with you and put the thought from your mind, deciding that there’s no point in freaking yourself out over your super sexy dream man or your friend’s potentially hot brother.

After you leave, you’re distraught when you realize you’ve left your umbrella behind. Lana chides you for being forgetful, saying that she’ll ask Billy to grab it the next time he’s there.

The next near miss? When Lana wants to set you up on a blind date with none other than said brother, stating that he and his girlfriend broke up and she thinks the two of you could get on very well. However, you’ve just gotten into a relationship with someone new and tell her as much, declining her kind offer. You absently wonder to yourself what her brother is like, again thinking to yourself he must be pretty cute.

That night, you have another dream of your sapphire-eyed friend. This time, he speaks to you a bit more. He tells you his name is Aemond. You arch a brow, telling him that’s the weirdest name you’ve ever heard in your life. He merely smiles at you and tells you that your name is the most beautiful one he’s ever heard.

And then, before you wake up?

He says it again.

“Billy”.

The third near miss is when you end up catching the flu just before Joel’s funeral. You’re devastated that you won’t be able to go mourn with your friends. You’re unaware that Billy will be at the funeral until Lana tells you not to worry, that her parents and her brother will be there to support her. You nod, wiping your eyes, falling into a deep sleep in your bed, courtesy of one Miss Nyquil, hoping that the world won’t be as fucking shitty when you wake up.

You cry in your dreams and “Aemond” comes to you to comfort you. But his words are cryptic after you’ve finally stopped sobbing.

“Time is running out,” he murmurs, “You don’t have much longer to find him.”

You knit your brows together in confusion and meet Aemond’s gaze, “What do you mean?”

“Billy. He doesn’t have much time. You must go to him.”

You shake your head, “Lana’s brother? I don’t even know him-”

He rests a finger on your lips, which slightly pisses you off, but you choose to ignore that, instead listening to him tell you, “You need him. And he needs you, more than you know. He’s lost. Only you can help him be found.”

“Lost?” you repeat, completely confused.

Aemond isn’t able to elaborate, considering you wake up moments later, your head still fuzzy from your flu. This latest dream is soon forgotten.

Maybe things would have played out differently if you’d managed to remember his words somehow.

The last near miss you have with Billy Washington is when you need a lift to the dentist’s office, your car being in the shop. Lana tells you Billy says he’d be happy to help you out and you find yourself getting excited that you’re finally going to meet her mysterious (at least to you) and handsome (you assume) brother. He shoots you a text the night before that he’s excited to finally meet you, complete with a smiley face. He also sends a picture of your yellow umbrella, sitting on the passenger seat of his car, with a message saying that it’s waiting for you. The thought makes you grin and you go to sleep, happier than you have in a long time.

Aemond is happy in your dream that night, holding you in his arms, kissing you gently, saying that maybe, just maybe, this time everything will be alright. You’ve long since given up on trying to understand the cryptic words he says, instead, just enjoying the attention and affection he gives you in your dreams.

When you wake up the next morning, you’re beyond excited. You play “Walking On Sunshine” as you shower and get dressed up a bit too fancy for a mere visit to the dentist, wearing a pretty sundress, putting your hair in braids, and putting on a pair of tennis shoes with cute lacy socks. You feel like an idiot, but somehow you think that meeting Billy is fate. Somehow, you feel like he is going to become a major part of your life. And you’ll get your favorite umbrella back!

Then, you get a call from Lana. Billy’s been arrested in connection with a recent vandalization of a halal butcher shop. The thought of the boy you’ve been building up in your head being islamophobic or racist makes you feel sick to your stomach. Had you really been excited to meet a guy like this? The illusion of this perfect guy who you’d been dying to meet is shattered, and you get yourself a cab and head to the dentist’s office, feeling completely dejected and depressed. You’ve never had great luck with guys. Why did you think Billy would be any different?

You have another dream of Aemond that night. This time, he looks sad, giving you a broken little smile.

“What is it?” you ask as he takes your hand in his.

“It’s too late for us this time,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, a heaviness in voice, a sadness that you don’t understand, “I’m sorry, my love.”

“What do you mean it’s too late?” you tilt your head to the side in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head and murmurs, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m so sorry.”

When you wake up, those three words repeat in your head over and over.

“I’m so sorry”.

Billy doesn’t know what to make of the yellow umbrella he finds in his childhood room when he stays the night with his parents shortly after the holidays, having had a bit of a falling out with his lady love. He wonders what kind of person uses a yellow umbrella. It seems obnoxious, almost, but at the same time? It makes him crack a small smile. He’s informed that it likely belongs to Lana’s friend who stayed over for the holidays. He wonders what said friend is like.

When he lays down in his bed, he’s surprised that there’s still a feminine scent of coconut shampoo on his pillow. It’s soothing, it calms him and makes him smile as he drifts off into an unusually peaceful sleep. He dreams of the most beautiful girl he’s seen in his entire life, with a kind smile and a sweet voice. She assures him he’s not the failure he thinks he is and that there is someone out there waiting for him.

Someone meant just for him.

These dreams continue for a long while. And as the near misses continue, he grows more and more fascinated with the idea of you, finding sleep and his dream girl being far more appealing than the waking world, with all that he’s dealing with.

As he gets into his car after Lana bails him out, he looks at your yellow umbrella and sighs. He’s well and truly fucked it up now.

And in his dream that night, his dream girl sobs into his arms, holding onto him tightly, saying she thought things would be different this time.

The first time you hear Billy Washington’s voice and he hears yours is the day he takes his car to Farringdon station. You hear everything as he’s directed to go to Cranstead Fields, everything except his voice, only hearing Lana’s side of the conversation.

She puts him on speaker for a moment, and you hear him.

“You’ve gotta tell Mum and Dad I’m sorry, yeah?”

Your eyes go wide at the sound of his voice and you murmur softly, “Aemond…?”

You hear Billy let out a choked gasp through the phone as he whispers your name, “Is it really you?”

The memories come rushing back to both of you and you begin crying, “Yes, it’s me…”

Lana looks between you and her phone in confusion and asks you to keep her brother calm, seeing that he seems to get on pretty well with you, at least over the phone, while she runs point with the team to try and figure out what to do.

“I bet you look beautiful right now,” Billy says, his voice thick with emotion, “You always did.”

You laugh breathlessly, “I did try to get pretty for when you were going to pick me up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it, love,” he murmurs.

“Don’t say sorry,” you protest, “You’re going to make it out of this. Lana and I and the team are all trained professionals-”

“You know I’m not going to survive, love,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, “That’s what the dreams last night were. The one where I held you in my arms as you cried.”

“No,” you shake your head vehemently, “No. No, we didn’t even meet this time. No, Billy, it doesn’t end like this! That’s not fair!”

“I’m sorry, love,” he says tearfully, “You know, I’ve got your umbrella sitting by me,” he remembers something and smiles, “A bit forgetful still, hm?”

You laugh, still sobbing, “Give it to me when you see me.”

“Tomorrow night,” he says, wiping his eyes, “At the bar round the corner from Lana’s. Seven o’clock.”

“You better not be late,” you scold him, “You’d better be there.”

“I will,” he says as you hand the phone back to Lana.

And when you see the horrified look on her face, you know what’s just happened.

Ettore wakes in his jail cell, looking around frantically, drenched in a cold sweat. That fucking dream again. The one where he’s blown up. The one where he speaks to some girl and then he dies. He stands up and folds the sheet back on his bunk, giving his cellmate a nasty little glare as he snores, wondering if it would be too coincidental for him to get shanked during the next riot.

That’s when the warden comes and tells him he’s been chosen to be among the death row inmates boarding the spacecraft suicide mission, to extract energy from a black hole.

Though it likely means certain death, Ettore can’t help feeling that this is happening for a reason.

And that maybe it’s tied to that beautiful girl he’s been dreaming of all his life.

Tied to you.

“look at me,” you do what he says, vision blurry for all the tears that threaten to fall. “they just showed you the kind of people they are and you don’t need them, you hear me? they don’t deserve you.” you know his words are supposed to make you feel better but the pain in your heart doesn’t let you see how right he is.

you sob, hiding your face on his chest and clinging onto his shirt. his arms around your body make you feel a little bit better after a while, his soft words in your ear too.

“you still have people who care about you and value your friendship. and they love you as much as i love you.” he kisses your forehead, pulling away to look you in the eyes. “forget about them, we can have fun too.”

aemond drags you to the couch, forcing you to sit down while he disappears in the bedroom. you look confused at the door until he shows up again, this time your favorite blanket and his phone in hand.

“you order whatever you want to eat while i go look for something, okay?” he says as he covers you with the blanket, disappearing before you can say anything.

you don’t move, confused and amused with his attitude, until he’s back and sitting next to you.

“i tried to read the instructions but i’m useless so i just brought all the face masks i found in the bathroom.” his excitement softens your heart, a whole new set of tears threatening to pour out, but this time for different a reason. “would you help me put this on my face?”

“yes,” you smile, moving closer to him and cupping his face, his confused expression is the last thing you see before taking his lips with yours in a gentle kiss. “thank you.” you whisper, forehead resting against his.

“don’t thank me just yet,” he gives a quick peck to your lips before pulling away and taking the remote to find a movie. “because i’m going to make you watch all my favorite horror movies.”