needed me 𖦹⊹⋆♡ ˖༘⋆ | “i know i can’t wait ‘till you get home.”
driver x assassin!fem!reader | [previous episode]
—established unlabeled relationship, injury and blood.
THE first thing that tells him the night has gone badly isn’t the blood, it isn’t the pain in his ribs every time he breathes. it isn’t even the fact that he’s pretty sure his right hand is fractured.
it’s the fact that he’s driving to you.
the city slides past outside the windscreen in a blur of neon and empty roads, streetlights reflecting gold across the hood of the car. normally, after a job goes wrong, driver has a process. a routine. places to go, people to avoid, routes planned in advance.
he doesn’t think about any of them tonight.
he just drives. one hand gripping the wheel, jaw clenched, and eyes fixed ahead.
and every time his concentration starts to slip, every time the adrenaline threatens to wear off and leave him with nothing but exhaustion, he finds himself thinking the same thing.
almost there.
just get to her.
it’s strangely comforting… that thought. the knowledge that somewhere across the city you’re asleep in your flat, completely unaware that you’re currently the only thing keeping him moving.
the mission had unravelled in minutes. one mistake, then another, then everything after that happening too fast to stop. sirens, gunshots, running.
the kind of night that leaves people dead, leaves bruises. the kind of night that reminds him why this life isn’t supposed to have room for attachments.
and yet the only place he wants to be right now is with you.
when he finally pulls up outside your building, he doesn’t move for a moment. the engine idles quietly and his hands remain on the steering wheel. the city feels oddly distant.
he’s so tired, overwhelmingly tired. exhaustion is settling deep in his bones after fear and adrenaline finally fades. for a second he closes his eyes, and just breathes. then he forces himself out of the car.
you’re upstairs. he can almost picture you already. probably half asleep because you always have to be aware of your surroundings. warm and safe.
the hallway outside your flat is silent, driver unlocks the door as carefully as possible. the last thing he wants is to wake you because he knows exactly what will happen if you see him like this.
you’ll panic, you’ll worry and you’ll ask questions.
and despite everything, despite the fact that he’s the one injured, he still doesn’t want to be responsible for putting that look on your face.
the door clicks shut behind him. darkness. quiet. home. immediately, some invisible tension leaves his shoulders. it’s ridiculous.
the apartment is so special to him. it’s slightly cluttered. there’s a pile of magazines on the coffee table you’ve been promising to sort for three months. one of your shoes is lying inexplicably in the middle of the sitting room. it smells like you.
and suddenly the world feels manageable again. driver stands there for a second just listening. the hum of the fridge, traffic somewhere far below. and silence drifting faintly from the bedroom.
he hadn’t realised how badly he needed to hear that.
he manages exactly four steps before he hears two clear clicks in front of him. driver closes his eyes.
immediately:
“don’t you fucking move.” your voice. sleepy and confused coming from down the hallway.
well. so much for not waking you.
the light clicks on. driver’s first thought isn’t about the blood, or the bruises or the fact that he’s probably about to receive the lecture of a lifetime.
it’s that you look beautiful, which feels unfair. it’s nearly three in the morning. your hair is a complete mess. you’re wearing an old tank top and panties. you should not look this good at three in the morning. oh, and you’re pointing a loaded gun at his face.
then your eyes focus properly and everything changes. the confusion vanishes, the sleepiness disappears. your expression drops and so does the gun from your hand. “oh my god.” the words come out barely above a whisper.
driver immediately regrets every decision he’s made tonight, because he knows that look. he’s seen it before. the split second where panic takes hold. where your brain starts imagining worst-case scenarios.
“hey.” his voice comes out rough, gentler than usual.“i’m okay.” you stare at him, at the blood, the bruises. the way he’s standing slightly crooked because one side hurts more than the other. then you point.
“you’re literally bleeding on my floor.”
driver glances down, “it’s not that much.”
you manage to get exactly three steps into patching him up before realising driver is going to be completely impossible. not because he’s arguing, that would almost be easier.
he’s just sitting there on the edge of the sofa looking exhausted enough to fall asleep upright, answering every question with one-word responses while blood continues to dry on his skin. which somehow makes the whole thing worse.
“when’s the last time you showered?” driver blinks slowly. “today.” you stare and he stares back. you stand up immediately, “c’mon.” his brow furrows slightly. “where?”
“shower.”
he looks genuinely offended by the suggestion, “i can shower myself.” you glance at the blood on his neck, the split skin across his knuckles, the way he’s visibly favouring one side every time he moves. then you look back at him.
“in what world exactly?”
“i can.”
“baby.” and he knows not to argue with you after using that tone and nickname, “if i leave you alone in there, you’re going to stand under the water for thirty seconds, wash exactly one shoulder and then decide you’re healed.”
then, because he’s exhausted and apparently no longer possesses the energy to argue properly, he sighs dramatically and lets you pull him to his feet. “you’re bossy.”
“and you’re bleeding on my persian rug.”
“your assassin money rug?”
“oh, shush getaway boy”
his hand settles automatically against the small of your back as you guide him towards the bathroom. even now while injured, even half-asleep, he’s always touching you. just making sure you’re there.
the shower starts running while you dig through the cabinet for supplies. clean towels, fresh bandages, painkillers, the giant fluffy robe he secretly loves despite pretending otherwise.
behind you, driver leans heavily against the counter. his eyes follow every movement you make. there’s something strangely soft about it. like he can’t quite believe you’re real. he’s still grounding himself after whatever happened tonight.
eventually you turn around, he’s still staring, you point towards the shower. “clothes off.” driver actually laughs, a real laugh. “buy me dinner first.” oh, he’s loopy and talkative tonight. “there’s soup heating up on the stove right now.”
“good point.”
you roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. but a few minutes later he’s finally sitting on the closed toilet lid wearing nothing steam fills the bathroom around you.
and boy does he look miserable. not just emotionally, physically too. the adrenaline has completely worn off now. every bruise is darker, every injury looks angrier. the exhaustion has settled into him properly. his head hangs slightly forward while you crouch in front of him examining a cut near his ribs.
and suddenly your irritation vanishes. because beneath all the blood and bruises and stubbornness, he just looks tired. so incredibly tired. your fingers brush carefully across uninjured skin.
“hey..”
his eyes lift immediately. always immediately when you call for him. “what?”
“you okay?”
something soft flickers across his expression. something vulnerable. but it’s gone almost instantly. but you catch it. “yeah,” his voice comes out quieter this time. less certain. “i’m just tired.”
your chest aches, because driver never admits that. never. not unless he’s genuinely running on empty. you brush your thumb gently against his cheek. there is a bruise there that is already forming, dark against his skin.
“poor thing.”
driver immediately closes his eyes. and if that isn’t the most heartbreaking thing you’ve ever seen. just for a second. one second. he leans into your hand. completely unconscious. trusting. your heart practically explodes.
“okay,” you murmur softly. “c’mon.”
he lets you help him stand, lets you guide him beneath the warm water. lets you fuss. which is how you know he’s exhausted beyond reason. because normally there’d be at least some resistance. maybe some pride, some attempt at independence. tonight? nothing.
he just stands there beneath the spray while steam curls around both of you. his eyes half closed and his head is tipped slightly forward. just letting you take care of him.
you work carefully. washing dried blood from his shoulders, cleaning dirt and grime from scraped skin. checking every bruise, every cut, every injury. the whole time driver remains suspiciously quiet.
suspicious because he right now, you’d assume has something sarcastic to say. eventually you glance up and discover why. he’s nearly asleep while standing up. water running over his hair, blue eyes barely open.
you just stare for a minute, “baby?” then a quiet “yeah?”
“are you falling asleep?”
“…maybe.”
“oh my god.”
he smiles slightly, and somehow that makes it worse. you finish as quickly as possible after that. partly because he’s exhausted, and mostly because you’re genuinely concerned he might topple over and crack his head open.
eventually you shut off the water and wrap a towel around his shoulders. the second you do, driver immediately leans towards your warmth. again completely unconsciously. like a sunflower turning towards sunlight.
your heart nearly leaves your body, you’re surprised by how genuinely open and vulnerable he is tonight. “c’mere.” he follows obediently, head ducking slightly so you can dry his hair. and for a few wonderful seconds, driver just stands there letting you do it. eyes still closed, shoulders relaxed, looking impossibly soft.
you’ve seen him after jobs before. seen the dangerous version, the violent version. nobody would believe this version exists, the sleepy one, the clingy one, the one who practically melts when you touch his hair.
eventually you wrestle him into the robe, which somehow becomes its own battle. one arm goes into the wrong sleeve, he nearly trips over the belt. you have to physically stop him from walking away with it hanging completely open. “stand still.”
“i am.”
“you’re moving.”
“barely.”
“baby,” he mutters, looks down at you and for the first time all night you see genuine amusement in his eyes. “you really like taking care of me.” you poke a finger at his chest. “don’t get cute.”
“too late.”
“you got shot at.”
“yeah.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“i know.”
his smile softens, so does his voice. “thank you.” and just like that, all your annoyance evaporates, because he means it. you help him back to the kitchen afterwards. one hand wrapped around his wrist to make sure he doesn’t wander off and collapse somewhere. he lets you. by now he’s basically running on trust alone.
you sit him down at the table, immediately place a mug of tea in front of him. then disappear to make actual food. behind you, the flat remains suspiciously quiet. too quiet. you narrow your eyes.
“baby?”
“yeah?”
“don’t fall asleep.”
“…okay.”
a pause.
then: “…what if i accidentally fall asleep?”
you turn around, he’s sitting there wrapped in a giant robe. hair still damp. looking like the world’s most dangerous golden retriever. you physically have to look away because laughing will only encourage him. when you finally return with food, he’s exactly where you left him.
barely.
his eyes are half closed, one arm resting on the table, completely exhausted. but the second he sees you approaching, he straightens slightly. attention immediately shifting towards you. towards the bowl of soup. towards home.
“eat.”
he obeys. you don’t even have to tell him twice. which is honestly miraculous. for a while the only sounds are quiet chewing and rain against the windows. warm and peaceful. eventually you reach across the table and brush a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.
driver immediately catches your hand, holding it there. his thumb moving slowly across your knuckles. the movement is sleepy and absent-minded. it’s comforting to him.
his gaze lifts meeting yours, and suddenly the room feels very quiet and very small. “better?” you ask softly. driver looks at you for a long moment, really looks at you. then his eyes drift around the room.
the food, the blanket draped over the chair nearby. the warm kitchen light. you. finally they return to your face. and something in his expression softens completely. all the way. “yeah,” his voice is rough, sleep-heavy, and sincere. “much better.”
then he lifts your hand and presses a slow kiss against your knuckles. the look he gives you afterwards is so full of quiet affection it nearly hurts. because for all the danger and violence and chaos that follows him through the world, moments like this make one thing painfully obvious.
driver never came here because he needed bandages, or food, or somewhere to hide, he came because he needed you.
and now that he’s sitting warm and clean and fed beneath your kitchen light, looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever found, you suspect he’d made that decision long before he ever knocked on your door.
by the time he’s finished eating, driver is barely conscious. the sort of exhaustion that settles into a person after adrenaline finally leaves their system. he’s clean now, warm, wrapped in that oversized robe, fed and safe.
which means his body has apparently decided its job is done. you notice it in little ways at first, the way his blinks get slower, the way his head dips every few minutes before jerking upright again, the way he keeps staring at you with that soft, sleepy expression like he’s trying very hard to stay awake and failing miserably.
it’s honestly kind of adorable, which you’d never say out loud, because he’d be insufferable about it.
eventually you stand up and start gathering the utensils. immediately you hear: “where are you going?”you slowly turn around, driver looks almost offended, like you’ve abandoned him. “the sink.”
his expression doesn’t change. “oh.” then slowly: “you thought i was leaving?”
“maybe.”
your heart skips a beat, because he sounds so serious. so genuine. like the possibility genuinely crossed his mind. “baby..?”
“what?”
“i was gone for three seconds.”
“felt longer.”
you physically have to bite back a smile, because otherwise you’ll never recover. eventually you manage to herd him out of the kitchen. which turns out to be significantly harder than expected. mostly because driver has somehow become convinced that following directly behind you is necessary.
you stop walking. he stops walking. you turn around. he nearly walks straight into you. “what are you doing?”
“walking.”
“why are you right behind me?”
“…don’t know.”
honestly, the answer is so ridiculous you can’t even argue. because he’s telling the truth. he probably doesn’t know. he’s just tired enough that instinct has taken over. and apparently his instincts have decided that wherever you go is where he should be too.
the bedroom is dim when you enter. only the small bedside lamp illuminating the room in soft gold. the blankets are still tangled from where you’d climbed out earlier. one pillow missing entirely because you’d somehow kicked it onto the floor.
driver stops in the doorway, and for a second you actually watch something change in him. his shoulders relax further, his jaw completely unclenches and some final layer of tension slips away. because now he’s really here.
the night is over. he made it.
“okay.” you point towards the bed, “now get in.” driver immediately sits down on the edge, then stays there. motionless. you wait but nothing happens. “baby..”
“yeah?”
“the rest of the way.”
he looks down at himself, looks at the bed, looks back at you. clearly processing this information. you realise with dawning horror that he’s so tired his brain has simply stopped functioning. “baby.”
his eyes immediately lift, you almost laugh. every single time. call him baby and suddenly he’s paying attention.“lie down.”
“oh, right.”
he practically falls sideways into the mattress, no where near gracefully. just sort of topples over. you hear a muffled groan as his face disappears into the pillow. then complete silence. “…hey?”
nothing.
your eyes widen a little.
“baby.”
“still here.”
the relief that washes through you is embarrassing, “good.”
“mhm.”
“don’t scare me.”
then, quieter: “sorry.”
and immediately your chest hurts, because he sounds genuinely guilty. like he doesn’t realise half the reason you’re fussing over him is because seeing him hurt scared the life out of you.
you move around the room turning off lights, checking windows, placing your gun back under your pillow. doing all the little bedtime things you normally do. and every few seconds you glance over, and very single time he’s watching you, head still buried halfway in the pillow. eyes heavy. following your movements around the room.
the second you catch him, he doesn’t even look away. he just continues staring. like he can’t help himself. eventually you climb into bed beside him. the mattress shifts beneath your weight. and before you’ve even fully settled, driver moves immediately.
like a magnet finding north. one second there’s space between you, the next there isn’t. at all. his arm wraps carefully around your waist. carefully because of the bruises. and because despite everything, he’s still more worried about hurting you than himself. then he pulls you closer.
until your chest against his face, he’s shamelessly burying his face in your tits. one of your hands is in his hair. and finally, he lets out the deepest sigh you’ve heard all night. the kind people make when they stop pretending they’re okay.
for a long time neither of you speaks, the city hums quietly outside, rain taps against the windows, driver’s heartbeat presses steadily against your stomach.
your fingers find his hand beneath the blankets, instantly his grip tightens. not much. just enough. just enough to remind himself you’re there. he already looks half asleep. eyes barely open. hair almost dry. a faint bruise darkening one cheek.
and suddenly he looks younger somehow, softer. without all the walls up, without the scorpion jacket, without the distance he usually keeps between himself and the rest of the world. just your boyfriend… or something. just the man you love exhausted beyond belief.
your fingers move in his hair automatically, slowly scratching against his scalp. the effect is immediate. driver’s eyes close, his entire body melts. every muscle loosening one after another. and before he can stop himself, a tiny sound escapes him. not quite a sigh, not quite a hum, something in between, a whimper.
you freeze, then grin. “oh my god.” you mutter, one of his eye opens suspiciously. “what?”
“nothing.”
“what?”
“you like that.”
“no.”
you scratch again, and he immediately lets out the same whimpers. driver closes his eyes, completely betrayed by his own emotions.
“poor thing,” you murmur it softly without thinking, and suddenly he’s burying his face against your tits more. actually hiding. your heart nearly explodes. because he rarely does this.
driver’s affectionate, yes. quietly. a hand on your back, a kiss to your forehead, small things. this? this is something else. this is pure exhaustion stripping away every defence he normally has. leaving only trust.
your hand moves slowly through his hair again. and again and again. the rhythm becomes almost hypnotic, after a while his breathing starts evening out. deepening, growing heavier as sleep crept in. you think he’s drifting off. then suddenly: “was scared.”
the words are so quiet you almost miss them. you go still. “what?” driver doesn’t answer immediately. he moves his face, tucking it against your neck. his fingers tangled with yours beneath the blankets. for a moment you wonder if he fell asleep, then, “thought i wasn’t gonna make it.”
your heart shatters, because he says it so simply. you turn carefully, enough to cup his cheek. his eyes open immediately, dark in the dim light.
“hey,” your thumb brushes gently across his cheek, careful of the bruise. “you made it back to me.”
he watches you silently, “you’re here.” he’s still watching, “you’re okay.” something in his expression breaks, just enough that he leans into your hand.
“wanted you,” he says it like he’s still thinking about the drive over, still thinking about tonight.
“i know.”
“just wanted you.”
your eyes sting immediately, because you understand exactly what he means. you, the person, your voice, your hands, your presence. just you.
for a while after that, neither of you says anything. you just hold him, your fingers moving through his hair. his arm around your waist. the room quiet around you.
“i’m gonna need a name in the morning.” you state, and he hums with a small nod. eventually his breathing slows completely, his body growing heavier against yours, sleep finally winning.
right before he drifts off, though, he lifts his head slightly, just enough to press a sleepy kiss beneath your jaw, then another. lingering and lazy.
“i love you.” mumbled against your skin, and before you can even answer, he’s already asleep. still holding your hand. still curled around you protectively despite the bruises and bandages. like some stubborn part of him refuses to let go.
and lying there in the darkness, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, you realise something that makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
you loved him too.
