fic recs

You're atop him, legs straddling his thighs. Jason drums a silent pattern on your hip. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.

"Dude."

"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.

"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."

"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.

"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.

He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.

"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."

"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"

"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"

"Sure, baby."

"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.

So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.

I like to think of it as motivation.

And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.

You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.

"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."

"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."

"Favorite?"

You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."

Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.

"What're you—"

He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.

"Jason!"

"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.

"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."

He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.

"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.

"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.

"You're on thin ice, baby."

"I came 'cause y'asked me to," he says, leaning in to talk in your ear, wary of potential eavesdroppers. "Now y'wanna kick me out?"

"No," you say, staring at his exposed tattoo of a phoenix on the underside of his forearm. Rising from the ashes, he'd explained. And I'd know about that, wouldn't I?

He wears long sleeves as Hood. You know what a big deal it is to have him come as a civilian with his sleeves rolled up. Presentable, even though no one wants to see my face, he'd told you tonight. Jason came because you wanted a friend, because you hate these work events, and you especially hate gossipy co-workers who have nothing better to do than talk shit about you and speculate on why you didn't come.

"I don't want to kick you out," you add when Jason says nothing else. "It just feels like you want to shoot everyone here."

"Well, that's nothin' new. Anyway, how would you get home if I left?"

"Nothing gets past you."

Jason taps his temple with a finger. "Nope. Steel trap."

"We'll leave soon. I promise."

Jason smiles a little, amused, and cocks his head. "I didn't even say anything. We can stay as long as you want to. Look, I don't know these people. That's why I've been parked here all night. I think it's a little rude if I ditch ya and go mingle."

That is a good point, you must admit.

You sigh. "So I should go talk to people, right?"

He shrugs. "Beats me. I don't work in an office for a reason."

You rise from the table and gulp the rest of your drink. You don't normally drink at these things, but Jason's here. Jason would never let anything happen to you.

"Okay," you say. "I'm gonna be an adult with a job and do a lap."

"Want me to come?"

You consider that, then shake your head. "Not right away. Otherwise we'll never escape. Come find me when I'm talking to Edgar, my manager. He's over there, in the green shirt. I hate his guts. You can interrupt and save me."

"Sure. Throw you over my shoulder Neanderthal-style and jet?"

"You think you're so funny, Red Hood," you mumble, shoving his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. He could throw you over his shoulder, no doubt.

"I think I'm hilarious, yeah." Jason grins. "Okay, I'll save ya."

You set off, very bravely, to talk to your co-workers. They aren't all bad. Jenna from your department is cool, and she shows you pictures of her new kitten. Elsie, an elderly accountant, is in a bird-watching group. But then there's Karina, who likes to act like your manager when she's not. She tells you "not to drink too much" and you barely refrain from throttling her. There's also Geoff who thinks he's smarter than he is, and you almost make eye-contact with Jason to signal him to help!

But you don't. You make it to David, who's the head of marketing. He's about your age, and you haven't talked to him much, since you don't work under him, so you're surprised when he approaches you first.

"Hi," he says, smiling. He says your name. "I got that right, yeah?"

You nod. "You did."

"We met at the Christmas party, I remember," David says. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

You muster up as much false excitement as you can. "Yeah! It's great."

He grins. "That's alright, I don't care much for these things either. I won't tell if you won't."

Your shoulders fall, tension ebbing. "I won't tell, no."

"I go because it's expected of me, but I think we could do without. I can't say that these events do much for the morale of the company, or whatever."

"It kills my morale, to be honest with you."

David laughs. He has perfectly straight, white teeth. You think of Jason's smile, and his fanged canines. You both like to joke that he came back as a vampire.

"That's a lovely necklace," he says.

"Thank you." You touch the chain out of habit. "It was a gift."

Jason, again. For your birthday. You were morose over a sold-out Swarovski charm in the shape of a rose that was a near identical copy of a pendant made of emerald, mother-of-pearl, and gold. The original was also a tidy sum, so you would've settled for the slightly less expensive Swarovski charm.

But when you'd opened the gift box, there lay the original on a delicate gold chain.

Jason had insisted it wasn't a big deal, that he could afford it, and please wear it, don't worry about losing it. You refuse to wear it to work but you wore it tonight, knowing he'd like to see it.

"You wear it well." David touches your arm and you're speechless for a moment, realizing he's flirting with you.

"Oh. I, um—"

He retracts his arm. "I'm sorry. Was that too forward of me?"

You think, then shake your head. "No, it's okay. I was caught off-guard, I guess. I'm not used to people hitting on me. Especially not at work stuff."

"Really? I can't imagine why. You're beautiful and extremely competent and intelligent. I saw that presentation you gave on the new software model."

"You watched my presentation?" you ask, surprised.

David nods. "Yes, of course. And I have to say, I thought yours was the most articulated and researched out of everyone's. You ought to have a more central role in research."

"I want to. I initially took this job for that reason, but..." You shrug. "Things change."

"I understand. I didn't want to do marketing, but it's what was available. Luckily, I'm halfway decent at it."

You smile, leaning into him. He smells nice, light and woody. Nothing like Jason's familiar citrusy-cinnamon smell.

Actually, if you focus, you do smell cinnamon. And oranges. That's weird...

"Hiya." You feel a hand rest between your shoulder blades. "Great party."

Jason's suddenly next to you. He taps your back lightly, never taking his eyes off of David. "I need t'borrow you."

Your mouth forms several shapes, trying to land on a question. What are you doing here? But you can't give it away that you were waiting for Jason to swoop in and save you from tonight. You nudge Jason's arm with your elbow. He drops his hand.

"How y'doing?" Jason says, offering his hand to David, who takes it, ever friendly.

"Hello. Sorry, I don't think we've met before."

"No, we haven't," Jason says.

You know the expression on Jason's face. It's the same one he gets when he perceives a threat. You're instantly irritated.

"David, this is my—" you begin.

"Jason."

"Nice to meet you." David glances at you, then back at Jason. "Which division do you work in?"

"I don't work here. I came as a plus-one."

"I see." David clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's angled himself away from you. "Well, perhaps I'll see you at work?"

"Uh, yeah." You feel like you missed a step going down the stairs. "Sure. Good night."

"Good night."

Jason holds your bag out. "Ready to go?"

You frown at him. "Why did you interrupt me?"

"What? Y'told me to."

"No, I told you to save me when I was with my manager."

Jason shrugs. "I thought this guy was your manager."

"I specifically said the man in the green shirt! David's wearing a dark suit."

"Sorry. Must've slipped my mind."

You begrudgingly let Jason put your purse on your shoulder. He lets you lead the way out.

"It slipped your mind? Aren't physical descriptions the core of your job?"

Jason laughs. "Look, 'm sorry. 'M not focusing on what people look like the way I would on a case."

You stop and look at him. You're on the street, a few cars away from where Jason parked.

"That's crap, Jay. You're the smartest, sharpest guy I know. You're telling me you forgot 'green shirt'?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling ya. I thought I was doin' you a favor, like y'wanted. He looked like a boss, and you're always going on 'bout how you hate the bosses, so I cut in."

"He isn't my boss, and he's nice. He was... really nice." You huff, yanking your purse strap over your shoulder tighter. "Whatever. It's late anyway."

You get in the passenger seat. Jason starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot. You lean your head on the window, feeling the effects of the day. You worked and then came to this. You're exhausted.

"Wanna sleep at mine?" Jason asks.

You yawn. "Hmm."

"It's closer than your place."

That's true. The bar the company chose is forty minutes away from your apartment, which sucked big-time. You hate driving in Gotham and avoid it when you can. Jason offers to drive whenever you're together.

"I don't know. You annoyed me."

He scoffs. "I annoyed you?"

"You know David wasn't my manager, Jason."

"How many times can I apologize? Y'want me to drop you back off?"

"No, because it wouldn't matter. He liked me, and I liked him, and now he thinks we're... And you were so... Hood-ish. You acted like we were on a job."

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. You keep staring out the window. It feels stupid to fight about this. You don't want to fight. It isn't even about David. It's the fact that Jason won't own up. Jason's always straight with you, just like you are with him. You've never known him to lie so blatantly to you. It's bizarre. It's offensive.

"Okay," Jason says. "The truth is that I interrupted you 'cause I figured this guy was a boss and I knew he was flirting with you, and I thought it was inappropriate and an abuse of power."

You snap your head to look at him. "Jason, that isn't your decision to make. I can decide that for myself."

He nods. "I know. You're right. Again, 'm sorry. It was dumb."

"Really dumb," you say. "Really, really dumb."

"Point taken." He reaches over the console to put his hand over yours. "You can take care of yourself. I know y'can."

"Yeah, I can. I know you see a lot of bad stuff, but I'm fine. If I need help, I'll ask for it. I know I can count on you."

"Always," Jason says quietly.

You pat his hand and let it sit on yours. "Alright. Let's go to your place."

"Yeah?"

"I wanna just collapse into bed right now. Ugh, but I don't have clothes, do I? I think I took the last set home with me."

"You can wear mine, I don't care."

"'Kay." You pull the lever to recline your seat back and close your eyes. "Wake me up when we're there. Or throw me over your shoulder and carry me in."

“Dr. Abbot?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”

“Will it be a while before handoff?”

Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”

“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”

“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”

Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”

Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.

“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”

“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”

Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.

“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”

Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”

You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.

He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.

“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”

Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.

Then he scoffs.

“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.

“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”

“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”

Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”

“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”

“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”

Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”

“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”

Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”

—

A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.

You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.

The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.

“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.

“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.

“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.

“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.

“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”

“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.

“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.

He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.

“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”

Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”

Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.

You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.

“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.

“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.

“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”

Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.

“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”

“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”

“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.

You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.

“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.

“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.

“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”

You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”

“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.

But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.

“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.

A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.

Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.

Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.

“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”

“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”

A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.

“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”

“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.

“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.

“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”

“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”

The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.

“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”

“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”

June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”

“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”

Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.

“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.

“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”

But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.

Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.

“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”

“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”

“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”

“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.

“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.

“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”

“S’there a problem here?”

Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.

Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”

Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”

“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”

That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.

“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.

“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”

But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”

“I didn’t consent to that.”

“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”

Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.

Jack nods at you.

“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”

“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”

You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”

—

After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.

Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.

Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.

Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.

“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”

When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.

“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”

“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”

He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”

“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”

But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”

You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.

You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.

Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.

Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.

That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.

That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.

That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.

That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.

And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.

And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.

“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”

“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”

—

Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.

“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.

He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”

“Penny?”

“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”

“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”

Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”

You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.

“You handled that really well earlier.”

Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.

“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”

“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”

Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.

It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.

“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”

“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”

“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”

You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.

But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”

He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.

But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”

“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.

“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”

“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.

You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.

“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.

But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.

“Oh, that was painful to watch.”

Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.

Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.

“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”

—

The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.

“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”

“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.

Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”

Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.

“Jack,” Robby says.

“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?

“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.

Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.

Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.

Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”

Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.

“We don’t have any of those here.”

“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”

Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?

Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.

Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.

Not Pittsburgh at all.

“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.

“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”

Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.

But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.

His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.

Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”

“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.

The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.

“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”

Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.

“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”

Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.

“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”

“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”

Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.

Jack breathes.

“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”

Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.

He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.

“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.

“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.

When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.

He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.

“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”

—

“You’ll definitely get in.”

“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.

You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.

“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”

You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”

“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.

“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”

“So not peds, then?” he presses.

“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”

“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.

“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”

“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.

“I learned that from you.”

“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.

You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.

“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”

You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”

“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.

There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.

You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.

“I would miss this place, too,” you say.

“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.

You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.

“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”

He winks.

“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”

You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”

Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.

“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”

You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.

You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.

“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”

The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.

His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.

“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”

Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”

“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.

“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.

Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”

“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”

You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.

It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.

“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”

If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”

Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.

—

Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.

He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.

“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.

Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.

“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”

Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”

Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.

“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”

“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”

“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”

Jack’s stomach sinks.

You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”

Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”

“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.

“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.

“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”

Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.

He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.

Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.

Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.

But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.

So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.

Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.

—

Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.

“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.

“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.

“Mhm.”

“Did it help?” you ask.

He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”

“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”

Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.

“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.

The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.

“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.

“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.

“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.

But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have eyes.”

His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”

You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”

“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.

“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”

He nods seriously. “Got it.”

“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”

You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”

Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.

You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.

“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”

“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”

“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”

Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”

“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”

But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.

“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”

“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”

“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”

“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.

—

You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.

It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.

When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”

You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”

“Dr. Abbot—”

“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”

You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”

“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”

“But I—”

“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”

It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.

“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”

He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.

“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”

He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”

“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.

“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”

“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.

You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.

“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”

You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.

“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”

Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.

But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.

“Y/n,” he says slowly.

“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”

“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”

“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”

“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”

“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”

He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.

“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”

His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.

“Please,” you say anyway.

Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.

And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.

“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”

“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”

—

“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”

Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.

“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.

He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”

“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.

“Talk me through it,” he says.

You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.

“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.

“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.

He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.

“What is that?”

“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“What? You said—”

“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”

He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”

“Go.”

You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”

“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”

“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”

“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.

“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.

Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”

You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”

A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.

“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”

“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”

Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”

He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”

“You mean me?”

You nod.

“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”

“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.

“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.

“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.

He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.

“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.

“No?”

You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.

“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”

—

A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.

The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.

And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.

The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.

You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.

You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.

Both in Pittsburgh.

But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.

“Is that something I need to know about?”

Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.

Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.

“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.

He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.

He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.

You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.

Because it’s still coming home to him.

Missed you this week.

You type back almost immediately. i missed you too

Briefly, you consider sending something a little stronger. I missed kissing you. I missed pressing your bruises. But you think that might be a little much, even for a guy who beats the shit out of people for half a living.

There's no response for almost an hour, which, admittedly, does make you spiral, to your shame. You should be studying for your medical exams on top of everything, so anxiously checking your phone is really at the bottom of your to-do list.

Then your phone dings. You nearly fall out of your chair to get it from the table.

Do you have exams soon?

You should wait to respond. Pretend you have dignity.

You make it ten minutes.

sorta, in about three months is the big one. but i have an in class exam next week :p

It's not nearly as long of a wait for Jason's next text.

Wow. Yeah, I don't miss college. I don't know if I could handle science exams.

He's still typing, so you wait.

Can I bring you anything to help? Food, maybe?

"I'd eat you," you mutter as you type back.

oh gosh no that's okay! you're working today right? i wouldn't wanna put you out

You aren't, comes the simple reply. And then, a minute later: I want to see you. I feel guilty about distracting you from becoming a super awesome doctor though. This is me trying to find a compromise. Lol.

i want you so bad, you type, then quickly delete, stunned by whatever spirit possessed you last Friday after the match.

What is it about Jason, really? It's not just the muscles or the height or the streak of gray in his hair that Connor calls him grandpa for. It's not just that Jason defended you or that he invited you to sit with him.

Maybe it's the fact that you feel comfortable enough to text first. You've never done that before.

you're really sweet, you type. i like that cuban place by city hall. their pernil is so good

A few minutes pass. You get a notification for thirty dollars sent to you from Jason's number. You quickly type.

was that an accident? lol

No, comes the reply. For the food. To order.

You're immediately disappointed. Didn't he say he wanted to see you? You scroll up to check. Yes, there it is.

i thought you said you wanted to see me

Bubbles. Gone. Bubbles again. Gone again. Bubbles for... a while.

You want me to come over?

"Duh," you say. well yeah that's what i thought you were angling for! lol

I would never angle for anything like that. That's presumptuous.

You have to take a few deep breaths before responding. Then you send your address.

I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Okay?

You let out a little squeal. sounds great! i'll send the money back

Don't worry about it.

Jason arrives in just under twenty minutes. You see him pull up outside your apartment building on his bike. He parks, a backpack slung over his shoulders containing what you assume is your food.

The buzzer rings. You force yourself to answer it at a leisurely pace.

"Hi," you say, pressing the call button.

"Hey, it's Jason. Can I come up?"

"Of course you can," you say, and press the button to let him in.

It isn't long before there's a knock at your door. You open it.

Jason takes up most of your doorway, but he hunches like he's hyper-aware of it. You step aside to let him in. He's in a black t-shirt that says Gotham Knights and light-wash jeans. You realize you've never seen him in jeans.

"I also got us some guava-cheese empanadas," he says. "I don't know if you eat those, but they're really good, I swear."

"I like them," you say.

You stand there, taking each other in—Jason at your door, you before him. You take a step towards him. He watches you, utterly still, like you're the only thing in the universe.

"Y'sure I'm not distracting you?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Not at all. You can help me study."

He nods. "I will."

You slink around him and close the door by leaning on it, looking at him. "Eat first?"

You'd rather kiss him first, but this is all so new. You don't send your address and ask for food in the name of studying. But you like Jason. A lot.

"Yeah, definitely," Jason says. "Plates?"

"Top right cabinet."

You watch him navigate your kitchen. He listens so easily.

"Jason," you say, light and almost musical, like you're singing his name. You follow him into the kitchen.

His head is hidden by the cabinet door. He peeks around. "Yup?"

You brace yourself against the counter. "Can you do something before you plate the food?"

"Sure, what's—" He cuts himself off as you approach. He swallows.

"Again," you say, and Jason knows.

This kiss isn't quite so desperate, but Jason holds you like he's been in agony since you parted last week. You sigh happily against his mouth.

When you pull back, he says, "Roy told me t'kiss you when I came over, but I didn't wanna assume."

"Roy?"

Jason nods. "Mmhm. Texted him the whole time you texted me. Didn't know what to say."

You're allowed to sit in the front since you're technically staff, although Leslie isn't here tonight; Don, the other doctor who works alternate nights, is here instead. You don't know Don well, but he seems nice enough. He greeted you when he came in, and offered for you to help tend to the fighters after the match. You agreed.

You can't help but worry. You've been chewing your thumb cuticle for minutes now, gory images of boxer injuries flashing through your brain. Everyone tells you that Jason's a good fighter, and you believe them, but there's always someone who's better. This is just a fact; you know that the boxing world is centered around finding the next big name. Who's hungrier, stronger, more ready to take a punch?

You join your hands and tuck them between your knees. The lights flash, signaling that the match is about to start. The referee comes out and introduces Teague first, who gets a fair amount of cheers. Teague soaks it in, glowing at the praise. He has several wins, according to the ref, but you're not totally listening, eyes keen for Jason.

"And directly from Gotham, a local favorite... Jason Todd!"

You stand up and clap when Jason jogs in, ducking under the ropes and climbing into the ring. He's modest, waving a little. You can tell he spots you, and he gives an extra wave. You wave back and give a thumbs up. He doesn't smile with his mouthguard in, but he nods, and you wonder if he's nervous about the match too. Teague sounds impressive, and he's nearly equal to Jason in build.

Jason has scars across his chest and back. Dark hair dusts his chest and forms a steady line down to his navel. He's not cut like the boxers on TV are shown; he's sturdy, a broad-shouldered mix of sinewy muscle and fat. When he lifts his gloves to tap Teague's, Jason's biceps flex, belying his strength.

Jason's gloves are red, like his shorts; Teague's gloves and shorts are blue. They wait as the ref announces the rules, and how long each round is. Three rounds. You sit, chewing the inside of your cheek. The bell rings. The ref waves them off.

Teague is aggressive; he advances first, throwing fists however he can. He lands a hit to Jason's jaw, and you wince. Jason turns his head for a moment, but his attention snaps back immediately. He defends himself cleanly after that. Jason punches Teague's cheek, and you know it'll leave a bruise. Teague hits Jason in his stomach, and you make a small sound. Were you right? Is Teague better?

And then it's like a switch flips. Jason's eyes narrow and turn cold, focused. He watches Teague like prey, and the change shoots a jolt up your spine. It's almost like he let Teague land hits so Jason could figure out his style.

Jason shows no mercy from then on. His punches are fluid, like he knows what Teague will do before he does it. Teague tries to sweep Jason's leg, and Jason viciously turns it around, getting Teague on the ground, trapping him with one leg. One can only dream to have the kind of body control Jason has. He moves with confidence, with comfort, trusting that his body will wield itself the way he wants it to. Sweat and blood gathers on his body. His mouth is bleeding, but it's nothing compared to the sight of Teague, whose face and upper body are covered in bruises.

The round ends. The ref blows the whistle, and Jason instantly lets go, letting Teague get up. They return to their corners. Jason tilts his neck, stretching it. The punch to his stomach has left a bruise that's already beginning to purple. He's exerted, but he's not tired. Jason looks wired, like the fight is pumping through his veins.

"Round two!" the ref announces, and you have to admire how Teague pushes through, even though you're pretty sure that you and everyone else in the crowd knows that it's a lost cause.

Teague's moves are slower now. Jason lets him throw some punches that don't land, like he's toying with him. On anyone else, the cockiness would be icky, but on Jason, it doesn't land as arrogance. He knows his capabilities. This is well within them. Jason doesn't look at the crowd, rile them up, make them scream his name, even though many yell Todd! Todd! Todd! But it's like none of it registers for him; Jason was put in the ring to do a job, be what he's good for, and that's what he's doing.

Briefly, you think about how he spoke to you in the cafeteria earlier in the week, the way he focused on you like nothing else mattered. It's how he approaches everything, you realize; whatever's important, Jason puts his all into accomplishing it. He's been figuring you out like he would another fighter. You imagine he'd touch you similarly; not to draw blood, never, but to figure out what you like, what'll make you squirm the way he wants.

You shift in your seat, your lips parted slightly as you watch Jason finish what he started. You know now that Jason was holding back that night in Leslie's office with Keith. He could've easily drawn blood, made sure that Keith went home with a physical reminder to leave you alone, but Jason truly didn't want to frighten you. He wanted to prove he was capable of gentleness.

Teague hits the mat. It's not halfway through the second round, but it's clear he's not getting back up. The ref slams the floor with his hand. One, two, three! Knock-out!

He grabs Jason's hand and lifts it, showing off Gotham's champion. Jason finds your gaze again. You smile, waving. He's breathing hard, and when the ref lets him go, Jason immediately goes to leave the ring.

Don taps your shoulder. "Wanna help me with Teague?"

You should. This is what you're training to learn.

"Is it okay if I check on Jason?" You hesitate, trying to think of a way to make it less obvious. "Leslie wants me to get comfortable with patching up fighters on my own."

Don nods. "Okay. Jason seems alright, anyway. If you find anything: irregular heart rhythm, hard abdomen, anything, come get me."

"I will," you say, already edging away.

Don lets you go, and you dart through the basement, weaving through the crowd. You follow the cluster of people who you assume is gathered around Jason. You get closer, eager to draw him away and back to Leslie's office.

"Hey, you made it!"

You turn around to face Roy. He smiles.

"Hi, Roy," you say, eyes darting to where Jason is. "That was some fight."

"Oh, yeah, all of Jason's are."

"I really thought, you know, at the beginning..." you trail off, suddenly embarrassed that you doubted Jason, but Roy's kind about it.

"That's his signature," he says. "Reel 'em in, then..." He drags a thumb across his neck. "The crowd eats it up every time."

"Yeah, it was good," you say, trying to sound cool and collected.

Roy looks like he can see right through you. "Were you going to check on him?"

"Oh, um, yes. Just in case he had any injuries. But he's mobbed."

Roy nods. "I can text him to meet you in Leslie's office. That'll probably work better than you trying to push through those execs and promoters."

"That would be great. Thank you."

"I'm surprised Jay hasn't asked you for your number. Then again, he's pretty shy." Roy smirks a little. "You wouldn't guess it, but he needs a push."

You don't say anything, but when Roy gives you Jason's number, you take it. Then you go to Leslie's office, afraid that if you stick around any longer, Roy will interrogate you about just how much you liked Jason's fight.

There's a soft knock on the door two minutes later. You open it and step aside to let Jason in. He lingers, just long enough for you to spot the bruise on his stomach, his eye, and blood around his lips. He's in a hoodie but it's unzipped.

"Hi," you say, swallowing hard. "Come sit."

"Thanks," he says, sitting where everyone sits to get a check-up. He's just a little higher than you like this, but you don't mind. Not at all.

You gingerly touch the bruise around his eye. Jason doesn't grimace, but he blinks quickly, and you can tell it stings. You break up a gel ice pack to activate it and give it to him to hold against his face. Then you get to work cleaning the cut near his lip.

"That was a really good fight," you say. "Best one I've ever seen."

"You're gonna make me blush."

You smile at him, and he smiles back, as much as he can with you tending to his cut. He doesn't hiss at the antiseptic. You wish he would; you want to know what it takes for him to make noise.

"I'm serious. I was telling Roy that in the beginning, when you got hit, I got worried because it seemed like maybe..."

"I would lose?"

You nod, still embarrassed. "Sorry I doubted you."

He laughs. "'S okay. Teague was trained by a coach I'm not familiar with, so I wanted to see how he fought first before getting into it."

"That's really smart," you say quietly. You step back and put the stethoscope in your ears. "I'm gonna just check your chest and stomach for the three B's."

"Three B's?" he asks.

"Breathing, broken bones, bleeding," you say, a little shy. "That's what Leslie calls them. The priorities for a boxer. Boxer's B's."

"Now that's smart. More deserving of kudos than my fight."

You shake your head, pressing the diaphragm to Jason's chest. "The way you move your body is unbelievable." Your ears go hot as you realize how that sounds. "When you fight, I mean. You were so confident. Inhale."

Jason takes a deep breath. You move the diaphragm. "Again."

He breathes again. You put the stethoscope back on the table. "Everything sounds fine. I'm just gonna gently press against your stomach to make sure you have no broken bones or internal bleeding."

"Sure," he says, watching you as you approach.

"My hands are kind of cold," you say. "Sorry in advance."

"'S okay."

You press against Jason's abs first, hard enough to feel the muscle beneath. He grunts, and it tapers into a short whine. You pull back.

"Hurts?" you ask, eyes wide.

"No," he says, voice strained. "Just... uh, cold."

"Sorry," you say, frowning. You rub your hands fast, trying to warm them. "It's just a few more, then I'm done."

"Take your time," Jason says, leaning his weight on his hands behind him.

You put one hand on his back and another on his stomach. His skin is very warm. It should scare you, having this big man so close to you, so capable of drawing blood, but it doesn't. Jason's face is flushed, which worries you slightly. But you press anyway to check for bleeding.

Jason grunts quieter this time, and he shifts on the table. You press around his stomach, feeling for injuries. You look at him; he's already looking at you, lids fluttering. You tilt your head.

"Are you okay?" you ask. "Does it hurt?"

"Mm, no. Everything's fine."

"Are you sure? Your face is red."

Jason swallows. "'M sure. Just... I don't really, uh, get touched—" He shakes his head. "Not like that. Any contact I get is from fights, so I'm—n-not in a weird way, just—"

"Oh." You nod. "Right. That's okay. As long as nothing hurts."

"No. Doesn't hurt. Promise."

You smile, even though your body's warm from Jason's admission. He sags when you take your hands away. You take out your mini flashlight.

"Just need to check for a concussion, then I promise we're done."

Jason nods. "'Course."

You check his pupils, which are fine. You tell him to follow your finger, which he does. Finally, you feel the sides of his skull, his jaw, and his neck. Jason is still like a statue, his pulse pounding against your palm as you feel his neck.

"Anything hurt?" you ask quietly.

"Nothing," he says, equally as quiet.

You glance at his lips, then back at his eyes. "Jason..."

"Yeah?" He sounds winded. "What d'you...?"

It sounds like a plea. Can I give you something? Please take what you want from me. I'll give you anything.

You lean in. "I want you to kiss me. Okay?"

He nods frantically. "Yes. Yeah."

Jason's mouth is hesitant against yours, and you have to go closer and push harder, hungry for more. He's solid under your hands, and you hold him where his ribs sit. Experimentally, you press down like you did before, and Jason's breath stutters out. He makes a tiny moan in his throat and you smile. He holds the small of your back and pulls you as close as you physically can be.

"I liked watching you fight," you say against his mouth, and you move to squeeze his thighs.

Jason groans. "I didn't think y'would—thought it was too much."

"You were so good," you say, and he kisses your jaw in response. "So, so good."

Footsteps outside the door make you leap apart like you're on fire. Jason fumbles with his hoodie, flustered as Don comes in. You hold your breath, but Don is oblivious.

"Just coming in to get more bandages!" He waves the roll. "Teague is fine, just needs rest. Todd, are you okay?"

Jason clears his throat, his voice coming out thick. "Yeah, um, fine. I got checked over. All good, right, Doc?" He looks at you.

"Yeah, fine! Nothing broken or bleeding. Breath sounds are good."

Don nods. "I trust you. Oh, Jason, Roy Harper is looking for you. Said he needs a ride home if you're not busy." Don shrugs. "I'm not really sure why you'd be busy, but..."

"Great," Jason says tightly. "I'll find him. Thanks, Doc."

Don gives him a thumbs-up, bids you both good night, and leaves. You glance at Jason, who is standing. He drifts toward the door, and you follow him.

"I should probably get going," you say, though you'd love to make out with Jason all night. But he needs to rest and you have an early shift tomorrow.

"Sure. D'you want a ride home?"

You shake your head. "That's okay. Leslie's coming by around eight. I'll go home with her."

"Okay. Thanks for comin'."

You grin. "Thank you for the show."

Jason laughs, rubbing his neck, cheeks pinkening again. "I, uh, didn't know you'd like it so much."

You hum. "I did. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I won't be here tomorrow, but I'll be here Sunday."

"I'll see you then," you say.

"Count on it."

And then before you lose your nerve, you kiss Jason again, softer, chaste. You don't recognize the person you are tonight at all. You do not just kiss cute guys and tell them you liked watching them fight and draw blood, like some kind of pervert. And you definitely don't get encouraged by said cute guy.

But this cute guy seems to like it a lot. He kisses you back, brushing your cheek with a knuckle. Then he steps back, like he has to or he won't ever go home. You understand.

"See you soon," Jason says.

"Goodnight, Jason."

She's been overprotective since the incident with Keith a few weeks ago. And maybe you've been skittish too, steering clear of most of the fighters, only speaking to them when you need to. The only fighter you say hi to is Jason, and that's mostly because he says hi to you first and thanks you for the salve you bought him every time he sees you.

"I can eat my lunch in the gym lounge," you say.

"Are you sure?" Leslie asks. "I know you prefer being alone..."

Yes, you do. But if it'll give Leslie peace of mind, you'll suffer through lunch surrounded by people for a little while.

"It's okay," you say.

"Alright. Most of the fighters go out for lunch or go home to eat and then return for fights. No one should bother you. But my phone is on if you need anything. Really, anything—"

You smile. "Leslie, I'm fine. You act like it's my first day of school."

"Alright, fair enough. Backing off. I'll return in an hour."

You go to the lounge as Leslie locks her office, your lunchbox in hand. You see some people clustered at one table on one side, and a couple men at another table, so you sit two tables away by yourself. It's quiet in the lounge. The loudest sound is the copyright-free workout music on the speakers. You take out your book and get comfortable on the bench seat.

"Hey."

You flinch, jolted from your book. Jason steps back, hands up.

"Whoa," he says. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya."

"It's okay," you say, tilting your head to look at him. Jason instantly crouches down next to you, so you're looking down at him. "Hi, Jason."

"Hi," he says warmly. He has a purpling bruise on his cheek. His sweatpants are pulled taut around his thighs while he crouches, and you can see now how big they are. "Didn't know y'ate in the lounge."

"I usually don't, but Leslie doesn't like me being alone in her office after..." You trail off, and Jason nods. "I came here while she does a house call."

"You can call me, in the future, or Leslie can. I'll stay with you while she's out."

You shake your head, suddenly shy. "Oh, no, that's okay. That wouldn't be fair. You're here to fight, not babysit."

"'S not babysitting. I like talkin' to ya. And you shouldn't have to eat lunch somewhere else 'cause of one bastard. 'Kay?"

"Okay. I understand."

"Good." Jason rubs the back of his neck. "But, um, anyway. I came over 'cause I was wondering if you wanted to sit with me and some others."

You look over Jason at the table that you noticed when you first came in. A few of them are not-so-subtly looking at you, but they look away when you see them.

"Are you sure that they want me there?" you ask. "I don't want to interrupt your dynamic."

"You won't," Jason says. "Promise. I'd never pull you into an environment that makes you uncomfortable. They're nice guys. Dummies at times, but who am I to judge? Someone's gotta be the clever one."

You laugh, and Jason smiles. You look at the other fighters again. He wouldn't invite you to sit with a bunch of Keiths.

"Sure," you say, and take your lunchbox and book, following Jason.

They've made room so that you're sitting between Jason and the wall. He leans back so you can see the others, but Jason's so big, it's like you're hiding behind him.

"Sorry," he says, leaning as far away as he can. "Can you see? Wanna switch seats?"

"I can see."

You like having him there. You like his warmth and size.

"Right, so." Jason points at each person at the table. "Roy, Cass, Vic, and this little shrimp is Connor." Jason ruffles a black-haired kid's hair.

"You're only three years older," Connor says petulantly. "And I'm not shrimpy. Not with my dad's genes."

"Only time will tell," Jason says, clearly delighting in the teasing.

Connor rolls his eyes and viciously eats half of a peanut butter sandwich. You wave at the group and offer your name.

"Oh, we know who you are," Roy says, smiling. "Jaybird here hasn't shut up about you."

You look at Jason, whose cheeks are pink. "That–that's an exaggeration," he says, glaring at Roy. "I just mentioned how good you are at wraps."

"Sure," Vic says, and winks at you. You duck your head, caught between flustered and pleased. Jason mumbles something that sounds like traitors and bites into half of what looks like an Italian sub.

You take out your own lunch, which isn't much: some melon cubes, a cheese stick, and a bag of Triscuits. You've been meaning to go grocery shopping; you've just been so swamped with work and studying. You come home exhausted most nights.

"'S that all you're having?" Jason asks. "That's not lunch."

"It's fine," you say. "Really. I'm gonna go home and eat later. I just haven't been able to get around to shopping and—"

You stop as Jason pushes the other half of his sub to you. "Eat," he says.

"Jason, no, I can't take your food."

"You're not," he says. "I'm giving it to you. Can't have ya passing out in the office. Leslie'll have my head."

"Jason—"

"Best not to argue," Cass says. "He's really hard-headed."

"Knock on his skull, it's hard but hollow," Roy says, grinning.

The others nod in agreement. Jason rolls his eyes and looks at you as if to say, can you believe them?

"You need food more than I do," you say quietly.

Jason leans in, a serious expression on his face. "That's not true. You need to eat enough just like everybody else. 'M going home in an hour anyway. You're staying here till six with Leslie. Eat."

You sigh, looking at the sandwich. You are pretty hungry. Jason's right, unfortunately. That's probably a common thing for him.

He watches you as you eat the sandwich, relaxing when you take a second bite. Jason returns to his food like nothing happened, like he shares food with you all the time.

The others happily include you in their lunch antics, cracking jokes about fighters and coaches. Roy shows you a picture of his daughter, Lian. Cass tells you the best place for workout gear. It all fills you with a new confidence, warming you up. Maybe your only place isn't by Leslie. Maybe you can carve a space for yourself here on your own.

Once or twice, you catch Jason quietly looking at you. He plays it off like he wasn't, but you can tell. It thrills you. The feeling is new but not unwanted.

"Ah, shit," Vic says, frowning at his phone. "Nate's back."

They all groan. You ask, "Who's Nate?"

"He's an event manager for fights, but they're all sensationalized. No skill, just lights and neon costumes," says Roy.

"He comes in like clockwork to poach fighters," Jason says. "We brace ourselves every time."

"He's unfortunately really good at it too," says Vic. "We've lost great fighters over the years to him."

Your phone buzzes. You see a text from Leslie.

Everything okay?

You text, Yes. With Jason.

You two seem to get on well, she says, which frazzles you so much that you shove your phone back into your pocket.

"I will stay tonight," Cass says. "In case Nate shows. For extra security."

"Same," Connor says. "Even though I'm sure Cass has it handled."

She nods. "Company is good."

"Speaking of..." Roy glances at you, smiling. "Are you coming to Jason's fight on Friday?"

Your eyebrows lift; you had no idea there was a fight on Friday, much less Jason's. Leslie never said a word.

"I... I don't know. I didn't know he was fighting."

Jason shrugs, honed in on his sandwich. "'S not a big deal. Not even a top-tier fight."

"Nah, Jason's fights are always good," Vic assures you. "He puts on a show. Gets the biggest crowds."

"For now," Connor says, puffing up with youthful confidence.

You look at Jason expectantly. Hurt pangs in your stomach at the idea that Jason purposely didn't invite you to his fight. Even if Leslie doesn't need you to work that night, you aren't banned from attending a match.

Jason doesn't look at you. You glumly eat a melon cube, hoping the others don't notice your soured mood.

"Oop." Vic checks his watch and starts to get up, wrapping up his garbage. "Roy and I have a class to teach. See you guys later. Nice to meet you."

You nod at him, smiling wanly. Roy waves at you. Cass and Connor soon leave too, and it's just you and Jason. You can't shake your soreness at not being invited.

"I think I'll go back to the office now," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Thanks for inviting me to lunch."

Jason looks at you and stands. "Sure. I'll walk you back."

"I can find my way," you say, sharpness bleeding in.

It shouldn't, not when there's nothing to feel so strongly about. You've known Jason for a total of three weeks. So what if he didn't invite you to his fight? He doesn't have to. If anything, you could've found out on your own, except that your only sources of communication are him and Leslie.

You throw away your trash, and Jason does the same. Then you both hover by the can. You're frustrated, feeling like you've been tricked into wanting something that isn't really there. You have half a mind to take out your wallet and dig for cash for the sandwich.

"How much was the sub? I'll pay for my half."

"Oh, c'mon," Jason says quietly. His eyebrows crook together. "Don't do that. Y'know I don't want you to pay me back."

You stop, hand in your wallet pocket. You sigh.

"Why didn't you tell me you were fighting?"

Jason leans against the vending machine, too casual. "Didn't think you'd be interested."

"Of course I am. I want to support you."

He looks away, focused on the window that faces the parking lot. "Didn't really want you seein' me like that. Fighting."

"Jason, I know you fight. In case you haven't noticed, I work here."

His mouth tips up in a half-smile.

"What?" you ask scornfully.

"Nothin', just... seems like you're a little more warmed up. I like when you mouth off. Do it more."

You retreat, suddenly embarrassed. "I wasn't trying to mouth off. I just... I thought we were sort of becoming friends."

"We are," he says. "We're friends."

"Then what's with the secrecy?"

He rubs his neck. "Fights are rough. I don't... I'm a good fighter. I'm really, really good, and you don't get good without drawing blood. Didn't want you to see that side of me. Didn't wanna freak you out like Keith did."

You put your hands on your hips. "Keith freaked me out because he was a creep. You're not a creep. Good fighters turn it off outside the ring, remember?"

Jason hums. "Wise words."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I thought so. Can't understand why you think they don't apply here."

He laughs, quietly pleased. "Sorry. 'M properly scolded now. Didja learn that from Leslie?"

Leslie is the queen of disapproving stares. "Yes, actually. So watch out."

Jason smiles, and you smile back. The weight in your stomach has dissolved.

"Of course, if you wanna come Friday, I'd be happy to see ya there," he says.

You nod. "I will."

He sighs. "It'll be gory."

"It's not my first fight." Leslie doesn't like you ringside all the time because you're still new, but you've helped her patch up a couple fighters before.

Jason shrugs. "I know. Just... wanted you to see a different side of me first."

That startles you. "I have. That night with Keith. I already know what kind of person you are, Jason."

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. How such a large man can make himself small, you don't know. The urge to touch him is strong, but you refrain. You're not that bold. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"May I walk you back now?" he asks.

You laugh. "You may."

The walk back is quiet but not awkward. A few people greet Jason as you go. Their eyes linger on you, and the thought that maybe they're making assumptions about who you are to Jason makes you a little jittery. Even more so because you're not sure you dislike it.

"So I'll see you Friday?" Jason says when you're in front of Leslie's office. She's already inside, waving at you both.

"Friday," you say. You tilt your head at his bruise. "I can put some topical on that."

You lightly touch his cheek, unable to help yourself. He doesn't even wince, lips parting.

"Know y'can," he says, breathy. "But, um..." He licks his lips, and it strikes you just how attached Jason has grown to you if this unravels him. "'M fine."

You pull away, showing mercy. "Okay." Your voice is hushed.

Jason nods clumsily, then darts down the hallway, disappearing in a moment. You go into the office.

"Was that Jason?" Leslie asks, like she can't see out the door's window four feet away.

"Yes. We ate lunch together. With some other fighters."

"Nice," she says. There's a pause. "Look, I don't want to assume anything, but fraternization policies between employees and fighters are—"

"What?" You flinch. "Leslie, we're just friends. He's the only fighter who's been nice to me."

"Of course," she says. "Fine. I only meant it as a precaution."

"Right." You look at the tube of Ivy's Salve and quickly return it to its drawer.

"You have to wait for Dr. Thompkins," you say, lifting your chin. You won't give in and risk losing this job. No way in hell. "I can't administer medications. I'm not licensed."

Keith rolls his eyes. He's a hothead, new to Gotham. Likes to fight. Likes to fight mean.

"Look, you're new. I'm just giving you a heads-up on how things work around here," he says, backing you up further. You're nearly against the wall.

Where the hell is Leslie?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dixon, but I can't prescribe painkillers without her supervision."

"Uh-huh. Know what I think? I think you're just not cut out for the ring," Keith says, cornering you against the cabinet. "Cute thing like you shouldn't be hiding in an office. The Doc ought to know better..."

"Is there a problem?"

The new voice makes you flinch, just a little. Keith pulls back, posture easy but guarded. The second guy holds himself similarly. He's also well-built, clad in a gray tee and black sweatpants. His hands are wrapped.

"J-man," Keith says, daggers in his teeth. "Man, I thought you were benched for the week. You meet our new assistant? They're still getting used to how things run around here."

The mystery man looks at you. His eyes are a lovely teal.

"Is he botherin' you?" he asks.

"I—" You swallow. "I was just explaining to Keith that I can't administer medicine without Dr. Thompkins."

Keith huffs. "Jason, tell 'em how this works."

Jason faces Keith. They nearly match each other in height and bulk. You hope to God they don't decide to brawl here and now.

"I think you're the one who needs a reminder, Dixon," Jason says coolly. "Seems pretty straightforward to me. You need to wait for the Doc. So was there something else you needed?"

Keith's mouth presses into a line. You can tell he's got about a hundred ugly thoughts on his tongue right now.

"Nope," he grits out.

"Mm. Then step off."

Keith obeys. You slip out of the corner.

"I'll come back," he says.

"When the Doc's here," Jason adds. It doesn't sound like a suggestion. "If y'need a reminder of her schedule, I don't mind giving you one."

Keith looks at you. You hold his gaze, heart pounding.

"Of course," he says, all false charm, and pushes past Jason. "See ya in the ring, J.T."

You can't relax even after Keith leaves. Jason remains in the doorway. You close your eyes at the thought of dealing with another fighter. It's not bad with Leslie here, but this is your first time alone. It's already a disaster.

Obviously, none of the fighters respect you like they respect Leslie, even after three weeks of you working here. You don't even know all of the fighters.

"Hey." Jason doesn't move from his spot as he asks. "Y'okay?"

"Yes," you say, keeping your back straight. "I'm fine. Do you need medical attention?"

"I just came to get some more wraps. But I can get 'em at home."

His voice is softer now that Keith's gone.

"No need," you say. "That's what I'm here for."

You get a roll of tape from the drawer. It takes you three tries to pull the edge out. You drop it twice.

You feel Jason's eyes on you. You keep pulling the tape, but it won't comply.

"I got it," he says. "I can wrap myself. Toss it here."

You pause, tape half unfurled. "Dr. Thompkins told me to do all wraps myself."

"Leslie's cool. I won't tell her, anyway."

You shake your head. "Why don't you want me to wrap your hands?"

Jason glances to the side. He leans against the doorframe, purposely casual.

"'Cause Keith's a big guy. And I'm a big guy. And your hands are still shaking."

You tighten your grip on the tape.

Jason gestures to the office. "This is your space. I won't come in if you don't want me to. That's not how this works."

"It's... it's the job," you say, startled. "I don't—I've heard that Keith's rough with everybody."

"Yeah, well, he's an asshole. You shouldn't have to be rough back. Good fighters turn it off outside of the ring. I don't want to make you feel small. Alright?"

Tension bleeds out of your spine. You no longer feel like prey.

"It's easier if I wrap them for you," you say, and turn your back on him to fetch the antiseptic.

The tiles behind you creak as Jason hesitates for a moment. Then he walks in and sits in a chair, so you're higher than him.

He looks up at you. He really does have beautiful eyes. His eyelashes are dark and delicate. There's a faded bruise on his cheek.

He's boyishly handsome, with a mouth that looks like it smiles a lot.

"Do you also fight here?"

He nods. "Since I was eighteen. Been here a while."

You take one of his hands in both of yours. Jason's already thrown out the old tape. His knuckles are cut up. They're covered in scars. His fingernails are short and neat.

His hands are big, far bigger than yours. Veins feed into each other from the backs of his hands up his forearms.

You take out the antiseptic spray.

"Might be cold," you warn.

"'S okay."

You spray his skin. Jason doesn't even flinch.

"Your hands are really soft," he says.

"Oh, thank you. I use Isley's Salve. Works great."

Why did you share that?

Jason's mouth quirks. "Yeah? Might have to try that. My hands have seen better days."

"I have some in my bag." You let go of the half-done wrap and dig through your backpack. You pull out the small tube of salve and squeeze some onto his hands.

Jason is quiet and still as you rub in the lotion. He's pliant as you finish the wraps, letting you turn his hands over. You pull the wraps tight.

"All done," you say, face suddenly warm like you've been caught doing something you weren't supposed to.

He flexes his hands a few times. "Thanks. You're good. I can see why Leslie chose you as her apprentice."

You shrug. "Anybody can wrap hands."

"Dunno. I've seen some pretty shit wraps in my time."

"Oh. Well, um, I'm here most of the time, so feel free to come by and get your wraps changed."

He hums. "Sure. Don't worry 'bout Keith. I'll take care of it."

Your eyes widen. "I don't want more trouble..."

"You won't get trouble, I promise. We don't tolerate that here. 'Sides, he's overstayed his welcome."

You nod. "Okay. Thank you, Jason."

"No need for thank you's. Y'alright getting home?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Leslie's dropping me."

Jason nods, then picks himself up. He pauses like he wants to say something else, but he strides out of the room like he's in a rush instead.

"Well, um. G'night," he says over his shoulder. "Take care."

It's about fifteen more minutes until Leslie returns.

"Everything alright?" she asks in a tone that tells you she already knows the answer. "I ran into Jason on my way in. He said Keith Dixon gave you some trouble. I'm sorry I took so long. Are you alright?"

"You ran into—I thought Jason went home for the night."

Leslie looks like you've just told her the sky is red. "He wanted to make sure you were okay. So he waited till I came back. Are you okay? Did Keith hurt you?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm alright. Just shaken up. He's a bully. Wanted painkillers."

Leslie frowns. "He won't bother you again. I'll make sure you're not alone."

"It's okay. I mean, Jason was there."

She nods. "Mm. He's a good boy. I know his father."

"Yeah, he, uh, was nice. I wrapped his hands."

Leslie raises an eyebrow. Your shoulders rise.

"What?" you ask. "You said to practice my wraps."

She shrugs. "Nothing, nothing. I did tell you that. I'm glad you got some practice in."

You follow her to her car. Soon, Leslie pulls out of the lot.

"Leslie, do you mind if we stop at CVS?"

"Sure. What for?"

You feel for the little tube in your pocket.

“Not underwater yet, but give it a few hours," Roy says. His breathing is labored. “At this rate, we’ll either be underwater or extinct. Your girlfriend is evil and she wants you.”

“‘Scuse me? I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Not officially, but when you said you'd let her leash you like a dog, I figured that was close enough.”

Heat floods Jason’s face, and he’s suddenly forty percent more awake. “I was drunk when I said that.”

“Yeah, well, in vino veritas and all that. Anyway, she's tearing up downtown Gotham. Says she’ll only talk to you. And that was after she threw bricks at me. I figured you'd wanna handle it before Batman sticks his big bat nose in it.” 

Jason is fully awake now, phone squished between his ear and shoulder as he rips the sheets back, cool air hitting his bare chest and thighs. He finds his tac pants and hops a couple steps when he nearly falls over while shoving his leg through the fabric. Roy's huffing in his ear. Jason hears a distant boom on the phone and the hiss of shattering glass. 

“Aw, shit,” Roy says. “I liked that diner.”

Jason moves faster. He sprints into the bathroom and almost knocks over his waterpik getting toothpaste on his toothbrush. “What the fuck do you mean, she's evil?” 

Yes, start there. That seems like the pressing question considering you're a civilian Jason met through a crochet social. He’d been brand new to crochet and not feeling like roadkill while doing normal people things and you’d taught him how to single crochet and double crochet and find things to smile at. You're perfect and lovely, only associated with him by chance. Evil is a laughable word to use. But Roy doesn't mess around when it comes to you, because Jason won't take it well if he does. 

“She's in full supervillain mode, Jay. She just threw some guy into a wall. He’s fine, but still.”

“Well, obviously, she's been hit with magic or something,” Jason says, voice garbled from toothpaste. 

“Yeah, duh. But until we figure out what, she needs to be contained. She almost leveled an entire block.”

Jason shoves his arms through his jacket, scowling. “Who would fucking do that to her? Fucking bastard.”

“Maybe it was an accident. Shit, I gotta go help evacuate. Hurry the hell up, man.”

“I'm on my way now,” Jason says, and hangs up. 

His mind races. You're hurting people, and while that's worrisome, Jason knows that the guilt you'll feel when you recover from whatever is controlling you will tear you apart.

He takes his bike and his helmet, just in case. Jason doesn’t like reminding you of the fact that you’re friends with the Red Hood. He knows that one day it’ll be too much for your psyche; you’ll ditch him like you should’ve all those months ago when he started spitting curses at your baby blue skein of yarn because it’d gotten tangled around his fingers. But you’d just pulled him free, unraveling the yarn and wrapping it up. Your hands were cold relief against his too warm skin. Ever since Jason returned, his blood has been too hot. It feels like there’s something fighting to get out of him, but he doesn’t feel like that with you. 

“Don’t worry,” you’d said, a smile kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been bested by yarn too. You just have to show it who’s boss.”

So, yeah. You? Evil? He’ll have to see it to believe it. And even then, Jason’s doubtful. 

He runs three lights to get to the location Roy sent him. It’s a block from your apartment and near a diner that he and Roy like. 

Said diner’s windows are gone. The street is a mess, littered with broken glass, debris from nearby buildings, and torn up asphalt. It’s a lot of damage from one person. From you, it’s unthinkable. Luckily, it seems to be contained to this block for now. 

Jason puts on his helmet because people listen a lot better when it’s the Red Hood barking directions at them. He evacuates anybody left behind and helps an old lady go into a coffee shop for safety. Jason finds Roy at the end of the block where the chaos seems to be centralized. He runs. 

“She’s up there!” Roy says when he sees Jason. His cheek has a nasty bruise and he’s got an arrow perched in his bow, ready to fire. Jason can’t see you but he hears you yelling on the roof of your apartment building. He can’t make out what you’re saying. 

“Don’t shoot her!” Jason snaps. 

“I’m not! But you don’t understand, H, she’s dangerous. I’ll cover you.”

“No, just keep evacuating. I’ll go talk to her. She asked for me, didn’t she?”

“Jay—”

“Go.”

Jason jogs into the apartment, running up five flights of stairs. He takes off his helmet as he goes, thinking it’s probably better if you see his face. 

You asked for him. 

That’s probably not the most appropriate thought right now, especially since you threw bricks at Roy. But it’s all Jason can think as he forces himself to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His knees ache by the time he gets to the roof access door. Well, the door is on the ground. Evidently busted open. By you?

You don’t look much different, your side facing him. Your eyes are tinged purple, confirming magic influence, and your clothes are dusty and torn. But if Jason saw you like this, he’d think maybe you’ve just had a busy day. 

Except that you have what looks to be your landlord hooked under your arm by his neck. The guy’s feet dangle in the air. 

“Hey!” Jason calls your name.

You turn and your eyes light up in delight. That makes Jason nervous. You've never looked at him like that. Like you could devour him. 

“Finally, you're here!” you say, jostling your landlord, who yelps. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason says. “‘M here. How ‘bout we put him down, yeah?”

“But I haven’t even held him over the railing,” you say. “He needs to be taught a lesson, Jason.”

And hey. Jason’s all for teaching people lessons. But he doesn’t want you to do the teaching. Doesn’t want that on your conscience when you inevitably snap out of whatever’s making you do this. 

“Lesson on what?” he asks, edging closer. 

Your arm tightens around the guy’s neck. It would actually be a comical sight if your landlord wasn’t turning purple. 

“He’s been overcharging me and every other tenant for the water bill,” you say. “So I’ve decided to throw him off the roof.”

The landlord wriggles with panic. 

“What made ya decide to do that today?” Jason asks. He wants to say, shit, I’d have solved your problem in a day if I’d known. But he doesn’t want to be an accessory as a civilian. He files it for later.

“This morning I woke up feeling different. I decided I wanted Gotham for myself. And I’d start with the people who have wronged me for so long. Now I can do something about it.”

Jason licks his lips. “You could do something about it before, honey. You know you got me.”

You sigh, leaning against the railing. You haven’t even broken a sweat holding the landlord. “I needed to match you, Jason. It won’t do if you’re the only one who does the dirty work when we take Gotham.”

You heave the landlord over the railing and he squawks, limbs flailing. Jason strikes while you’re distracted. He grabs the landlord first, hauling him to the door. He puts an arm out to block you from snatching the landlord back. It works, but you punch Jason in the process. And oh good Mary Shelley, you are strong. Jason’s molars rattle, his vision whiting out for a moment. It’s like getting punched by Artemis, something he has had the displeasure of experiencing. 

His saving grace is that while your strength rivals his, your skills do not. Jason’s not sure what he’d do if you’d woken up with Amazonian strength and Batman training. Probably call in the Outlaws. Or maybe propose. 

He manages to shove the landlord through and turns just in time to block your next punch. 

“You let him get away?” you screech.

“I’ll take care of him later. You shouldn’t—fuck.” You shove him and he stumbles. “Y’shouldn’t kill people.”

“You kill,” you say, frowning.

Jason winces. He’s never heard you say it out loud. You don’t seem to mind, but you also just tried to throw a guy off a roof. He takes a deep breath. 

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you should. C'mon, I don't wanna hurt you. And I’m not gonna. Just come with me, we'll figure this out.”

You bite your lip, eyes glittering. “I wouldn't worry about hurting me, Jason.”

You step forward, and Jason immediately plants his feet, raising his hands defensively. But you shake your head, reaching for his hands.

“I honestly don’t want to hurt you either, Jay,” you say softly. You slip your hands into his, thumbs rubbing his index fingers. 

“Wouldn’t we be unstoppable together?” you croon.

Jason shifts. You barely touch him, mostly because he won’t let you. A hug from you turns him upside down. 

“We can’t,” he says. He knows you’re not in your right mind. He knows that regular reasoning won’t work. “Too many eyes.”

You tilt your head. “Since when does that matter?”

And then you grab Jason's wrists, hard enough to bruise, and drive him backwards. He's caught off-guard, tripping over uneven pavement, and he goes down. You land on top, pinning his arms and legs. Jason squirms and finds that he can't move. 

“Jesus,” he says, the wind knocked out of him. “How’d you get so strong?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I woke up feeling powerful. Alive. The only reason I'm here is because I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” 

This is a problem. You're under some kind of influence but your eyes are bright and beautiful and you smell the same, like your hibiscus and eucalyptus conditioner, and you’re holding Jason down. He can't think of the last person who was able to do that in this new life of his. Brute strength is usually his forte. You wouldn't normally be able to hold him down (though Jason would let you, if you really wanted to), and it happening now is quite inconvenient. Jason should be diffusing the situation, but he can't stop thinking about your knee resting dangerously close to his crotch. 

“Yes.” You lean in, breath hot against his neck as you speak in his ear. “I know you've always wanted Gotham. It can be ours. I'll take it for you.”

Christ. This is not helping. 

“Sweetheart, you aren't yourself,” Jason says, squirming again. But you hold fast. Your brows furrow. 

“I'm more myself than I've ever been. Is this how it feels, Jason? To be so strong, unstoppable? I've always admired you for it.”

“I'm not unstoppable. I just fake it really well. And if you ever took over Gotham, I wouldn’t want it to happen like this.”

A lie. If you weren't under a spell and you'd suddenly gotten strong and evil and you held down Jason to persuade him to be your partner-in-crime, he'd agree in a heartbeat. If anyone deserves to be evil, it's you. 

Then again, if you were really evil, you'd be tactful about executing your plans. This is proof that you aren't yourself. You'd be a perfect villain. You're a perfect everything. 

You glare. “Where's all that fury and fire? You're always telling me to get mad, feel what I feel. Take what I want. Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm taking Gotham and I'm taking you.” 

Jason swallows so hard, it scrapes his throat. “Me?” The word comes out high. 

Your eyes slit and you grin. He's never seen you be seductive. Is his brain melting through his ears? Suddenly, he can’t remember why he came up to the roof. 

“Isn't it obvious?” you say, leaning in to brush his jaw with your nose. Jason shivers. “Why else do you think I let you come up here and give me your this isn't you speech? All I have to do is convince you. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

He wishes he had a free hand to pinch himself. This feels like one of his dreams. Not that he fantasizes about you being evil, because he doesn't. He adores you just as you are. But if you were evil, well… well.

“A real villain would just knock me out,” Jason says. 

“I could if I wanted to,” you say, and Jason thinks he could hold his own if you were anybody else, but you're his weakness, and Evil You seems to know that. 

“Yeah, you probably could,” he says, voice thin. You smile. 

“You're my favorite,” you say. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to hurt you. When I build my empire, you'll be my consort.” 

You get close enough to his mouth to kiss him and Jason almost swallows his tongue. His body feels like an overrun engine. At least you let the landlord go free, right? 

At what cost? My sanity?

“Um.”

You and Jason turn to see Roy on the edge of the roof, his grip on his bow steady. He has an arrow aimed at you. You scowl. 

“Roy,” you say, dripping with disdain. “I thought I knocked you out with the bricks. How disappointing.” 

“I'll try not to take that personally,” Roy says. He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I thought you had this under control.”

“I do have it under control,” Jason says irritably.

“She's got you pinned and you're not even trying to escape!”  

Jason grunts. “She's freakishly strong. I'm playing the long game.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.” 

“Jason is joining me,” you say happily. “He’s going to be my queen’s consort.”

“Oh my God.”

“I never said that!” Jason looks at you. “I never agreed to that.”

“You didn’t have to. I could see that you liked it,” you say, smirking at him. Apparently, Evil You is a lot more perceptive than Good You. It’s fucking annoying. 

“We need to plan,” he says. “No one ever took over a city without planning. I planned for months before even coming here.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Jason,” you say, voice rich like dusk. “You’re trying to protect me. It’s sweet. You know how sweet you are?”

Sweet hasn’t been used to describe Jason in a long time. But you call him sweet. You say he’s sweet when he bakes you baklava and changes the oil in your car. You say he’s sweet when he watches a movie with you or after you fix his hair. Evidently, he’s sweet enough for you. And right now, you sound so much like yourself, Jason suddenly feels desperate to change you back.

He looks at Roy, who nods. 

“You’re sweeter,” Jason says. 

You snort. “Old me was.”

“No. Just you.”

An arrow zings past you. Jason knows Roy missed on purpose. But you’re distracted, and it’s enough for Jason to roll you over and hold you long enough for Roy to stick a sedative into your neck. You thrash, and Jason’s stomach curls in protest at your screaming. But then you settle. 

“Fuck,” Roy says, sitting on his haunches.

Jason nods, your sleeping body in his lap. “You said it.”

****

For the record, Jason didn’t want to go to the Cave.

He would’ve barreled past Bruce had he not made the irritatingly good point that his tech would figure out what affected you a lot faster than Jason’s tech. He hates it when Bruce is right. 

Jason doesn’t let go of you in the car. Roy’s agreed to drive Jason’s bike there. Jason can feel Bruce’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He ignores them in favor of propping your head so your neck won’t hurt tomorrow. 

“Do you know her?” Bruce asks.

“Yes,” Jason says, clipped.

And that’s all either one says. Alfred helps you into one of the medbay cots. Zatanna is already there and she does some tests. Jason holds your hand the whole time. He doesn’t know if you can feel what’s happening, but he doesn’t want your brain to be scared if you do. 

“She’ll be fine,” Zatanna says. “It seems that this was an accident. Probably the result of a cursed object. I do not know if there will be extended effects, however. Perhaps you’d like to take precautions in case she wakes up and the magic hasn’t worn off.”

Bruce nods. “We’ll restrain her.”

“Fucking absolutely not,” Jason snaps. 

“Jason—”

“No! You’re not cuffing her or tying her or whatever. She’s not gonna wake up like that. I’ll be here the whole time. If she needs restraining, I’ll handle it. I’ll sedate her again if I have to, but no restraints.”

Bruce’s mouth is a line, but he nods. And that’s that.

Jason settles into a chair that Alfred drags over for him. You don’t sleep for long, maybe three hours. Roy calls after dropping off Jason’s bike. 

“You need me there?” he asks.

“No, ‘m fine. She’s gonna be fine.”

“She’s lucky to have you, Jason.”

Jason looks at your sleeping face. “Hm. Other way around.”

****

You wake up frightened. Reality and nightmare blur together and it causes you to sit up, heart racing. There’s immediately an arm around you. You blink, turning to see Jason. He gingerly touches your back.

“Hey,” he says, searching your eyes. No sign of purple. “Y’okay?”

“Jason,” you say, full of relief, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He hugs you back after a moment, squeezing your arm.

“Hey, what’s ‘a matter?” he murmurs, petting you. “‘S okay, ‘m here.”

“I had this awful dream that I… that you…”

You pull back and stop short at the sight of Jason’s swollen eye. You look and sure enough, his wrists are bruised. 

“It was real,” you say, looking like you're about to burst into tears. “I hurt you. Oh, Jay—”

“Hey, c'mon, ‘s just some bruises. I'll heal up in no time. You weren't tryna hurt me.”

You shake your head. “No, I remember everything. I hurt you and that man and my landlord! Oh God, I’m gonna get evicted…”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re not gonna get evicted. And that guy was perfectly fine. Full recovery.”

“Don’t act like it was nothing,” you say. “It was terrible what I did. I punched you, I kicked you, I…”

Jason shrugs. “Just a scratch. You were mostly trying to persuade me.”

You look green at the memory. “I can't believe I did that. Holding you down, forcing you to go along with my plan. I… I understand if you want some distance. I don’t know how you could forgive me.”

Nothing to forgive, Jason wants to say, except a normal person wouldn't say that. A normal person would probably have to work through this in therapy. For Batman, today would've been a typical Thursday. For Jason, well… therapy wouldn’t help here. Maybe a confessional. Or a cold shower. 

But you’re looking at him with such heartbreak, like you think you’re the ugliest, evilest creature in the world, and Jason can’t bear to see it. He gets bold, sitting on the edge of your cot and sliding a hand onto your waist. 

“You were forgiven before you woke up,” he says. “It was magic. A cursed tea set, from what Zatanna found. Maybe don’t go thrifting alone anymore, yeah?”

Your pout is watery. “I was just terrible. I hurt you.”

“You were very strong. But it’s nothing I haven’t faced before. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I threw bricks at Roy!” you wail. “Oh, God. He hates me.”

You bury your face in your hands. Jason frowns, coaxing you forward. 

“Hey, c’mon. He doesn’t hate you. He knows it wasn’t your fault. He’s more impressed by your aim, honestly.”

But that doesn’t soothe you, and Jason gets truly worried. He gently pulls your hands away. Your face is tear-stained, lashes thick with water. 

“Honey, why’re you cryin’? Wasn’t your fault. Everything can be fixed.”

You shake your head. “Not everything. Not me.”

“Not you?”

You sniff. “I have real evil inside of me, Jason. I must. I really meant what I said.”

“What? I seriously doubt that. How do you know you meant it?”

“I meant other things, so I must’ve meant the evil stuff too!”

Jason freezes. He remembers the other things quite well. 

“Other things?” he asks carefully.

You seem to catch yourself then, your eyes wide. “I-I don’t… know.”

And it’s still, fraught with the possibility of maybe. Hope swells so fast, Jason chokes on it. He removes his hand from your waist, for his sake. But he doesn’t stray far, fingers holding the hem of your shirt. 

“Well,” he says. “Just ‘cause you meant some stuff doesn’t mean you meant the evil stuff.”

You look at him. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Sure. ‘Course, even if you did mean the evil stuff… it’d be okay. I mean, if you were really evil, which I don’t think you are, I’d still be your friend. Or…”

Something inside Jason screams Danger! Danger! Do not go down this road. She doesn’t want you like that. You’re lucky to have this.

“Or?” you ask. You don’t look disgusted. In fact, something about your gaze reminds him of earlier. The way you wanted to eat him alive.

“Or… something more,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Well, for the record, I didn’t want to hurt you. I remember that.”

Jason’s mouth quirks. “Good to know. You were kinda kicking my ass.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

You lean in, breath on his neck again. He follows. 

“Nah, don’t be.”

Jason sees your eyes close. Your face is like a lily, blooming for him. He seals the distance. 

"Yoo-hoo," the goon sing-songs. "Where are ya, birdie?"

You unlock your phone and duck into the laundry room. Quickly, you pull out your phone and tap on your first contact.

"Todd."

"Jason," you whisper. The phone shakes in your grip.

"What's wrong?" he asks, instantly on alert.

"There's a—I was—I'm at home. I-I didn't know where else to go. Two Face's guy saw me, he chased me—"

"I'm on my way. Are you inside?"

"In... in the laundry room... Jay, I'm so scared."

"I know, I know, it's okay. I'll be there in two minutes. Go to your apartment and lock it. There's a gun taped behind the pantry cabinet. Don't hang up."

"I don't remember buying a—"

"I put it there. Go."

You don't even have the thought to be mad; Jason has always been protective of you, and right now, it might be the only thing that'll keep you alive.

"You there?" he asks as you stumble on your feet to your apartment.

"Al-almost—"

"I know you're up here, snitch!" the goon shouts from two floors below.

You gasp and nearly break your key in the lock. But you manage to get it open and lock it behind you, just how Jason ingrained in you to do. You find the gun exactly where he said it is.

"Okay. I have it. Jason, I've never—"

"I know. Listen to me—shit—okay, you see the safety? You remember what I taught you about taking the safety off?"

"Yeah, y-yeah." You take the safety off. The gun is heavy, way heavier than you remember it being when Jason had shown you how to fire it in a field outside of town.

"Alright. Now take the gun and hide. Hide now."

"Where? Jason, he's coming—" You're crying now, face slick with sweat and tears.

"Listen to me. I'm three blocks away. I will be there, okay? I won't let him do shit to you. Go to the bathroom and lock it. Be careful with the gun. Finger off the trigger."

You walk on jellied legs, half-stumbling to the bathroom. You do what he says and press yourself against the tub, gun under your palm. Your phone is on your other side.

"You still there?" he asks. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

"I'm here. I think he's—"

You flinch hard as your apartment door splinters. You cover your mouth to hide your cries. The light is off, but you doubt this is the first time this guy's hunted someone in their apartment.

You hear the squeal of tires through the phone. Jason's close; he'll be here soon, he'll—

The bathroom door tears from its hinges. The doorknob makes a hole in the wall.

You don't think.

The shot is louder than you expect, and your ears ring from the sound. Blood splatters on your bathroom tiles. The goon hits the floor with a shout.

"Oh my God, oh my God," you babble, still squished against the tub.

"You bitch!" the goon shouts, blood bubbling from his mouth.

Jason runs in then. He quickly kicks the goon's gun away and steps on his chest when the goon tries to get up. Jason cocks his gun in warning.

"Stay down, shithead," he snarls.

"I killed him," you say, tears flooding your eyes. "I didn't mean to—I didn't—"

Jason kneels in front of you and gently takes the gun from you. You look at him, stomach rolling.

"I killed him," you say again, cringing as the goon yells in pain.

Jason shakes his head. "No. Hey, you didn't kill him. You defended yourself. You just shot him, okay? See, look—"

He fires a single bullet without looking. The goon is instantly silent. You wince.

"Okay? You didn't kill him. I killed him. Me. Not you."

You whimper, face falling into Jason's chest. He holds you tightly.

"I was so scared, but I didn't want to—I thought he was gonna—"

"Shh, shh. You didn't do anything wrong. Okay? I got you. You did good. You defended yourself. It was you or him and you made the right choice."

"Don't leave," you cry, clinging to Jason's tactical vest.

He squeezes you tighter, shielding you from the body.

"I'm not going anywhere. I got you, sweetheart. Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen to you."

You sit like that for a long time, Jason whispering gentle reassurances in your ear as you cry into his chest.

“Not underwater yet, but give it a few hours," Roy says. His breathing is labored. “At this rate, we’ll either be underwater or extinct. Your girlfriend is evil and she wants you.”

“‘Scuse me? I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Not officially, but when you said you'd let her leash you like a dog, I figured that was close enough.”

Heat floods Jason’s face, and he’s suddenly forty percent more awake. “I was drunk when I said that.”

“Yeah, well, in vino veritas and all that. Anyway, she's tearing up downtown Gotham. Says she’ll only talk to you. And that was after she threw bricks at me. I figured you'd wanna handle it before Batman sticks his big bat nose in it.” 

Jason is fully awake now, phone squished between his ear and shoulder as he rips the sheets back, cool air hitting his bare chest and thighs. He finds his tac pants and hops a couple steps when he nearly falls over while shoving his leg through the fabric. Roy's huffing in his ear. Jason hears a distant boom on the phone and the hiss of shattering glass. 

“Aw, shit,” Roy says. “I liked that diner.”

Jason moves faster. He sprints into the bathroom and almost knocks over his waterpik getting toothpaste on his toothbrush. “What the fuck do you mean, she's evil?” 

Yes, start there. That seems like the pressing question considering you're a civilian Jason met through a crochet social. He’d been brand new to crochet and not feeling like roadkill while doing normal people things and you’d taught him how to single crochet and double crochet and find things to smile at. You're perfect and lovely, only associated with him by chance. Evil is a laughable word to use. But Roy doesn't mess around when it comes to you, because Jason won't take it well if he does. 

“She's in full supervillain mode, Jay. She just threw some guy into a wall. He’s fine, but still.”

“Well, obviously, she's been hit with magic or something,” Jason says, voice garbled from toothpaste. 

“Yeah, duh. But until we figure out what, she needs to be contained. She almost leveled an entire block.”

Jason shoves his arms through his jacket, scowling. “Who would fucking do that to her? Fucking bastard.”

“Maybe it was an accident. Shit, I gotta go help evacuate. Hurry the hell up, man.”

“I'm on my way now,” Jason says, and hangs up. 

His mind races. You're hurting people, and while that's worrisome, Jason knows that the guilt you'll feel when you recover from whatever is controlling you will tear you apart.

He takes his bike and his helmet, just in case. Jason doesn’t like reminding you of the fact that you’re friends with the Red Hood. He knows that one day it’ll be too much for your psyche; you’ll ditch him like you should’ve all those months ago when he started spitting curses at your baby blue skein of yarn because it’d gotten tangled around his fingers. But you’d just pulled him free, unraveling the yarn and wrapping it up. Your hands were cold relief against his too warm skin. Ever since Jason returned, his blood has been too hot. It feels like there’s something fighting to get out of him, but he doesn’t feel like that with you. 

“Don’t worry,” you’d said, a smile kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been bested by yarn too. You just have to show it who’s boss.”

So, yeah. You? Evil? He’ll have to see it to believe it. And even then, Jason’s doubtful. 

He runs three lights to get to the location Roy sent him. It’s a block from your apartment and near a diner that he and Roy like. 

Said diner’s windows are gone. The street is a mess, littered with broken glass, debris from nearby buildings, and torn up asphalt. It’s a lot of damage from one person. From you, it’s unthinkable. Luckily, it seems to be contained to this block for now. 

Jason puts on his helmet because people listen a lot better when it’s the Red Hood barking directions at them. He evacuates anybody left behind and helps an old lady go into a coffee shop for safety. Jason finds Roy at the end of the block where the chaos seems to be centralized. He runs. 

“She’s up there!” Roy says when he sees Jason. His cheek has a nasty bruise and he’s got an arrow perched in his bow, ready to fire. Jason can’t see you but he hears you yelling on the roof of your apartment building. He can’t make out what you’re saying. 

“Don’t shoot her!” Jason snaps. 

“I’m not! But you don’t understand, H, she’s dangerous. I’ll cover you.”

“No, just keep evacuating. I’ll go talk to her. She asked for me, didn’t she?”

“Jay—”

“Go.”

Jason jogs into the apartment, running up five flights of stairs. He takes off his helmet as he goes, thinking it’s probably better if you see his face. 

You asked for him. 

That’s probably not the most appropriate thought right now, especially since you threw bricks at Roy. But it’s all Jason can think as he forces himself to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His knees ache by the time he gets to the roof access door. Well, the door is on the ground. Evidently busted open. By you?

You don’t look much different, your side facing him. Your eyes are tinged purple, confirming magic influence, and your clothes are dusty and torn. But if Jason saw you like this, he’d think maybe you’ve just had a busy day. 

Except that you have what looks to be your landlord hooked under your arm by his neck. The guy’s feet dangle in the air. 

“Hey!” Jason calls your name.

You turn and your eyes light up in delight. That makes Jason nervous. You've never looked at him like that. Like you could devour him. 

“Finally, you're here!” you say, jostling your landlord, who yelps. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason says. “‘M here. How ‘bout we put him down, yeah?”

“But I haven’t even held him over the railing,” you say. “He needs to be taught a lesson, Jason.”

And hey. Jason’s all for teaching people lessons. But he doesn’t want you to do the teaching. Doesn’t want that on your conscience when you inevitably snap out of whatever’s making you do this. 

“Lesson on what?” he asks, edging closer. 

Your arm tightens around the guy’s neck. It would actually be a comical sight if your landlord wasn’t turning purple. 

“He’s been overcharging me and every other tenant for the water bill,” you say. “So I’ve decided to throw him off the roof.”

The landlord wriggles with panic. 

“What made ya decide to do that today?” Jason asks. He wants to say, shit, I’d have solved your problem in a day if I’d known. But he doesn’t want to be an accessory as a civilian. He files it for later.

“This morning I woke up feeling different. I decided I wanted Gotham for myself. And I’d start with the people who have wronged me for so long. Now I can do something about it.”

Jason licks his lips. “You could do something about it before, honey. You know you got me.”

You sigh, leaning against the railing. You haven’t even broken a sweat holding the landlord. “I needed to match you, Jason. It won’t do if you’re the only one who does the dirty work when we take Gotham.”

You heave the landlord over the railing and he squawks, limbs flailing. Jason strikes while you’re distracted. He grabs the landlord first, hauling him to the door. He puts an arm out to block you from snatching the landlord back. It works, but you punch Jason in the process. And oh good Mary Shelley, you are strong. Jason’s molars rattle, his vision whiting out for a moment. It’s like getting punched by Artemis, something he has had the displeasure of experiencing. 

His saving grace is that while your strength rivals his, your skills do not. Jason’s not sure what he’d do if you’d woken up with Amazonian strength and Batman training. Probably call in the Outlaws. Or maybe propose. 

He manages to shove the landlord through and turns just in time to block your next punch. 

“You let him get away?” you screech.

“I’ll take care of him later. You shouldn’t—fuck.” You shove him and he stumbles. “Y’shouldn’t kill people.”

“You kill,” you say, frowning.

Jason winces. He’s never heard you say it out loud. You don’t seem to mind, but you also just tried to throw a guy off a roof. He takes a deep breath. 

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you should. C'mon, I don't wanna hurt you. And I’m not gonna. Just come with me, we'll figure this out.”

You bite your lip, eyes glittering. “I wouldn't worry about hurting me, Jason.”

You step forward, and Jason immediately plants his feet, raising his hands defensively. But you shake your head, reaching for his hands.

“I honestly don’t want to hurt you either, Jay,” you say softly. You slip your hands into his, thumbs rubbing his index fingers. 

“Wouldn’t we be unstoppable together?” you croon.

Jason shifts. You barely touch him, mostly because he won’t let you. A hug from you turns him upside down. 

“We can’t,” he says. He knows you’re not in your right mind. He knows that regular reasoning won’t work. “Too many eyes.”

You tilt your head. “Since when does that matter?”

And then you grab Jason's wrists, hard enough to bruise, and drive him backwards. He's caught off-guard, tripping over uneven pavement, and he goes down. You land on top, pinning his arms and legs. Jason squirms and finds that he can't move. 

“Jesus,” he says, the wind knocked out of him. “How’d you get so strong?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I woke up feeling powerful. Alive. The only reason I'm here is because I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” 

This is a problem. You're under some kind of influence but your eyes are bright and beautiful and you smell the same, like your hibiscus and eucalyptus conditioner, and you’re holding Jason down. He can't think of the last person who was able to do that in this new life of his. Brute strength is usually his forte. You wouldn't normally be able to hold him down (though Jason would let you, if you really wanted to), and it happening now is quite inconvenient. Jason should be diffusing the situation, but he can't stop thinking about your knee resting dangerously close to his crotch. 

“Yes.” You lean in, breath hot against his neck as you speak in his ear. “I know you've always wanted Gotham. It can be ours. I'll take it for you.”

Christ. This is not helping. 

“Sweetheart, you aren't yourself,” Jason says, squirming again. But you hold fast. Your brows furrow. 

“I'm more myself than I've ever been. Is this how it feels, Jason? To be so strong, unstoppable? I've always admired you for it.”

“I'm not unstoppable. I just fake it really well. And if you ever took over Gotham, I wouldn’t want it to happen like this.”

A lie. If you weren't under a spell and you'd suddenly gotten strong and evil and you held down Jason to persuade him to be your partner-in-crime, he'd agree in a heartbeat. If anyone deserves to be evil, it's you. 

Then again, if you were really evil, you'd be tactful about executing your plans. This is proof that you aren't yourself. You'd be a perfect villain. You're a perfect everything. 

You glare. “Where's all that fury and fire? You're always telling me to get mad, feel what I feel. Take what I want. Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm taking Gotham and I'm taking you.” 

Jason swallows so hard, it scrapes his throat. “Me?” The word comes out high. 

Your eyes slit and you grin. He's never seen you be seductive. Is his brain melting through his ears? Suddenly, he can’t remember why he came up to the roof. 

“Isn't it obvious?” you say, leaning in to brush his jaw with your nose. Jason shivers. “Why else do you think I let you come up here and give me your this isn't you speech? All I have to do is convince you. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

He wishes he had a free hand to pinch himself. This feels like one of his dreams. Not that he fantasizes about you being evil, because he doesn't. He adores you just as you are. But if you were evil, well… well.

“A real villain would just knock me out,” Jason says. 

“I could if I wanted to,” you say, and Jason thinks he could hold his own if you were anybody else, but you're his weakness, and Evil You seems to know that. 

“Yeah, you probably could,” he says, voice thin. You smile. 

“You're my favorite,” you say. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to hurt you. When I build my empire, you'll be my consort.” 

You get close enough to his mouth to kiss him and Jason almost swallows his tongue. His body feels like an overrun engine. At least you let the landlord go free, right? 

At what cost? My sanity?

“Um.”

You and Jason turn to see Roy on the edge of the roof, his grip on his bow steady. He has an arrow aimed at you. You scowl. 

“Roy,” you say, dripping with disdain. “I thought I knocked you out with the bricks. How disappointing.” 

“I'll try not to take that personally,” Roy says. He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I thought you had this under control.”

“I do have it under control,” Jason says irritably.

“She's got you pinned and you're not even trying to escape!”  

Jason grunts. “She's freakishly strong. I'm playing the long game.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.” 

“Jason is joining me,” you say happily. “He’s going to be my queen’s consort.”

“Oh my God.”

“I never said that!” Jason looks at you. “I never agreed to that.”

“You didn’t have to. I could see that you liked it,” you say, smirking at him. Apparently, Evil You is a lot more perceptive than Good You. It’s fucking annoying. 

“We need to plan,” he says. “No one ever took over a city without planning. I planned for months before even coming here.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Jason,” you say, voice rich like dusk. “You’re trying to protect me. It’s sweet. You know how sweet you are?”

Sweet hasn’t been used to describe Jason in a long time. But you call him sweet. You say he’s sweet when he bakes you baklava and changes the oil in your car. You say he’s sweet when he watches a movie with you or after you fix his hair. Evidently, he’s sweet enough for you. And right now, you sound so much like yourself, Jason suddenly feels desperate to change you back.

He looks at Roy, who nods. 

“You’re sweeter,” Jason says. 

You snort. “Old me was.”

“No. Just you.”

An arrow zings past you. Jason knows Roy missed on purpose. But you’re distracted, and it’s enough for Jason to roll you over and hold you long enough for Roy to stick a sedative into your neck. You thrash, and Jason’s stomach curls in protest at your screaming. But then you settle. 

“Fuck,” Roy says, sitting on his haunches.

Jason nods, your sleeping body in his lap. “You said it.”

****

For the record, Jason didn’t want to go to the Cave.

He would’ve barreled past Bruce had he not made the irritatingly good point that his tech would figure out what affected you a lot faster than Jason’s tech. He hates it when Bruce is right. 

Jason doesn’t let go of you in the car. Roy’s agreed to drive Jason’s bike there. Jason can feel Bruce’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He ignores them in favor of propping your head so your neck won’t hurt tomorrow. 

“Do you know her?” Bruce asks.

“Yes,” Jason says, clipped.

And that’s all either one says. Alfred helps you into one of the medbay cots. Zatanna is already there and she does some tests. Jason holds your hand the whole time. He doesn’t know if you can feel what’s happening, but he doesn’t want your brain to be scared if you do. 

“She’ll be fine,” Zatanna says. “It seems that this was an accident. Probably the result of a cursed object. I do not know if there will be extended effects, however. Perhaps you’d like to take precautions in case she wakes up and the magic hasn’t worn off.”

Bruce nods. “We’ll restrain her.”

“Fucking absolutely not,” Jason snaps. 

“Jason—”

“No! You’re not cuffing her or tying her or whatever. She’s not gonna wake up like that. I’ll be here the whole time. If she needs restraining, I’ll handle it. I’ll sedate her again if I have to, but no restraints.”

Bruce’s mouth is a line, but he nods. And that’s that.

Jason settles into a chair that Alfred drags over for him. You don’t sleep for long, maybe three hours. Roy calls after dropping off Jason’s bike. 

“You need me there?” he asks.

“No, ‘m fine. She’s gonna be fine.”

“She’s lucky to have you, Jason.”

Jason looks at your sleeping face. “Hm. Other way around.”

****

You wake up frightened. Reality and nightmare blur together and it causes you to sit up, heart racing. There’s immediately an arm around you. You blink, turning to see Jason. He gingerly touches your back.

“Hey,” he says, searching your eyes. No sign of purple. “Y’okay?”

“Jason,” you say, full of relief, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He hugs you back after a moment, squeezing your arm.

“Hey, what’s ‘a matter?” he murmurs, petting you. “‘S okay, ‘m here.”

“I had this awful dream that I… that you…”

You pull back and stop short at the sight of Jason’s swollen eye. You look and sure enough, his wrists are bruised. 

“It was real,” you say, looking like you're about to burst into tears. “I hurt you. Oh, Jay—”

“Hey, c'mon, ‘s just some bruises. I'll heal up in no time. You weren't tryna hurt me.”

You shake your head. “No, I remember everything. I hurt you and that man and my landlord! Oh God, I’m gonna get evicted…”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re not gonna get evicted. And that guy was perfectly fine. Full recovery.”

“Don’t act like it was nothing,” you say. “It was terrible what I did. I punched you, I kicked you, I…”

Jason shrugs. “Just a scratch. You were mostly trying to persuade me.”

You look green at the memory. “I can't believe I did that. Holding you down, forcing you to go along with my plan. I… I understand if you want some distance. I don’t know how you could forgive me.”

Nothing to forgive, Jason wants to say, except a normal person wouldn't say that. A normal person would probably have to work through this in therapy. For Batman, today would've been a typical Thursday. For Jason, well… therapy wouldn’t help here. Maybe a confessional. Or a cold shower. 

But you’re looking at him with such heartbreak, like you think you’re the ugliest, evilest creature in the world, and Jason can’t bear to see it. He gets bold, sitting on the edge of your cot and sliding a hand onto your waist. 

“You were forgiven before you woke up,” he says. “It was magic. A cursed tea set, from what Zatanna found. Maybe don’t go thrifting alone anymore, yeah?”

Your pout is watery. “I was just terrible. I hurt you.”

“You were very strong. But it’s nothing I haven’t faced before. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I threw bricks at Roy!” you wail. “Oh, God. He hates me.”

You bury your face in your hands. Jason frowns, coaxing you forward. 

“Hey, c’mon. He doesn’t hate you. He knows it wasn’t your fault. He’s more impressed by your aim, honestly.”

But that doesn’t soothe you, and Jason gets truly worried. He gently pulls your hands away. Your face is tear-stained, lashes thick with water. 

“Honey, why’re you cryin’? Wasn’t your fault. Everything can be fixed.”

You shake your head. “Not everything. Not me.”

“Not you?”

You sniff. “I have real evil inside of me, Jason. I must. I really meant what I said.”

“What? I seriously doubt that. How do you know you meant it?”

“I meant other things, so I must’ve meant the evil stuff too!”

Jason freezes. He remembers the other things quite well. 

“Other things?” he asks carefully.

You seem to catch yourself then, your eyes wide. “I-I don’t… know.”

And it’s still, fraught with the possibility of maybe. Hope swells so fast, Jason chokes on it. He removes his hand from your waist, for his sake. But he doesn’t stray far, fingers holding the hem of your shirt. 

“Well,” he says. “Just ‘cause you meant some stuff doesn’t mean you meant the evil stuff.”

You look at him. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Sure. ‘Course, even if you did mean the evil stuff… it’d be okay. I mean, if you were really evil, which I don’t think you are, I’d still be your friend. Or…”

Something inside Jason screams Danger! Danger! Do not go down this road. She doesn’t want you like that. You’re lucky to have this.

“Or?” you ask. You don’t look disgusted. In fact, something about your gaze reminds him of earlier. The way you wanted to eat him alive.

“Or… something more,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Well, for the record, I didn’t want to hurt you. I remember that.”

Jason’s mouth quirks. “Good to know. You were kinda kicking my ass.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

You lean in, breath on his neck again. He follows. 

“Nah, don’t be.”

Jason sees your eyes close. Your face is like a lily, blooming for him. He seals the distance. 

He mouths something, or calls something to you, you think, because it doesn’t seem like he’s talking to Chris. You can’t tell what it is, though; you’re too far away to make it out clearly.

Whatever it is, it makes Chris turn to look at you, too. You frown, starting to mouth back, “What?”, but then the guys behind you actually address you.

“Hey,” one of them says. “Move up. You’re next.”

The tone of his voice makes your skin break out in goosebumps, despite the actual baking heat and the sunlight beating down on you. You say, “Sorry,” turning away from Adrian and Chris so you can step forward. You’re next after the person at the cart, and you just try to— keep your eyes forward, not thinking about anything, not listening to anything.

“You’re welcome,” the same guy behind you says. You ignore him, not paying attention, ignoring him, ignoring the bitter feeling he gives you in the back of your throat. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

You keep ignoring him, even as your heart picks up a bit. You’re not— playing dumb, so much, as you hope this will just be over soon and you can walk away.

You’re expecting this will be over in a second, as much as you hate this. The comments they’d been making about your body and the things— the things they wanted to do to you, those were bad enough, but now they’re talking to you, not just to each other, and it’s got your heart kicking up a notch. You remind yourself it’s broad daylight, and your friends are just down the beach, and these guys can’t— they can’t actually do anything.

You’re trying to resolve yourself to turn around and actually firmly say something to them, to tell them to stop just as your turn comes up so you can go right up, make your order, and leave right away, but—

Before you can say anything to them, one of them reaches out and grabs your wrist. You jerk it away, already stumbling and twisting to turn your front to them instead of your back, snapping out, “Don’t fucking touch me—”

“Hey!” you hear a roaring shout from down the beach.

You recognize that voice, and you look up quickly to find Adrian already sprinting towards you through the sand. He moves— impossibly quickly, even with sand flying out from under him. Sometimes you forget, with how fun and sweet and light-hearted and ridiculous he can be, that he also keeps his body in peak physical condition for murdering people at any given moment.

That much is obvious as he rushes to you now, moving faster than you think you’ve ever seen anyone run on sand.

You back up even further from the guys who’d been standing behind you, trying to get closer to the cart. The guy running the stand and the woman he’s been serving have noticed, now, and the woman’s inched closer to you. You throw her a grateful glance before turning your attention back to Adrian.

“What the fuck?” one of the guys says.

Another one turns to you. You look back at him, surprised, though you’re not sure he can tell that through your sunglasses, even if your chin does move.

“Who’s that?” he asks sharply.

You’re a little breathless when you reply, “That’s my boyfriend.”

There’s maybe four guys that have been standing behind you, and three of them are bigger than Adrian; the last one is maybe about the same size as him, if not a tiny bit smaller. They don’t seem overly intimidated by him; more surprised, maybe, at his volume and his speed.

Adrian doesn’t stop until he reaches you, blowing right past the guys to get to you. He takes your hand in his, drawing the wrist that had been grabbed up immediately. They hadn’t grabbed you that hard, and there’s nothing more than the ache that comes with being touched in a way you did not fucking want, but— Adrian’s handling you as gingerly as if your wrist had been snapped.

“Does it hurt?” he asks you, concerned, his voice low, his brow creased. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill them— Hey! Motherfucker!”

He’s already turning, not letting go of his gentle hold on your wrist as he whirls on the guys who’d been bothering you, shouting. Your heart is pounding; you only take your eyes off him briefly to evaluate the situation, but everybody’s just looking at him, not moving yet. Your eyes flicker back to Adrian when he starts speaking again.

“What, you like touching strangers?” Adrian asks. “You like freaking people out, hm? You like being fucking creeps, is that it?”

You almost say his name, almost stop him, but you— You don’t really want to, actually. These guys made you fucking uncomfortable, and they talked about your fucking body, and they put their fucking hands on you. They should be lashed out at by him. They deserve everything he wants to bring on them and more, actually.

“Why don’t you touch me, if you like touching people so much?” Adrian demands. He lets you go, stepping in front of you. He’s only got his bathing suit on, just like you do. His is— actually really cute, and you like it, short bathing shorts in bright teal that he’d fallen in love with as soon as he found them— and they show off most of the strong, roping muscles in his legs. Being shorts, they do absolutely nothing to conceal the broad expanse of his bare chest, the spread of his wide shoulders, the slim dip of his waist into the cut of strong muscle across and tugging down his abdomen.

You can see, with all this skin he has on display, that he’s flushed with heat. Not just the heat from the sun above that has sweat prickling at his temples and making his dark hair curl up even more than usual, but the angry splotches of heat he gets when he’s mad, when he’s actually pissed off. The red glare of his sunglasses conceals his eyes completely; the deep, angry furrow of his brow says enough, and the whole picture is of a very pissed-off, very strong, very confident, mostly-naked vacationer.

You wonder if these men can tell just how dangerous he really is. He might look like just some guy on a beach— some… impossibly, impossibly handsome guy, but still, a regular beach-goer— but you know he’s a murderer.

You know that, but these guys don’t.

Standing in front of you, Adrian spreads his arms, says, “Go right the fuck ahead, dickfucks. You want to touch a stranger, you can touch me.”

None of them move. A couple of them even look more confused, just staring at him.

Then, the one who’d grabbed you says, “You… want us to touch you, weirdo?”

“No,” Adrian replies, laughing. “I don’t want you to fucking touch me, you horrible, low-life sack of shit. Just— Look at you, right? Eugh, who— Who the fuck would want you touching them, you disgusting fucking Lord Farquaad-looking-ass motherfucker?”

The guy stares at him for a second before he steps forward, snapping out, “Hey, fucke—”

He doesn’t get any further than that. The second his hand lands on Adrian’s shoulder to reel him back, Adrian reaches out without hesitation, grabbing the man’s arm in two places, upper and lower— and snapping it with a harsh crack, right at the elbow.

The man cries out with a scream, falling to his knees in the sand, but Adrian doesn’t release his arm yet. Instead, he pushes the two broken pieces further apart, twisting his hold slightly until the man starts actually crying. He uses the pressure to push the man further into a hunch, pressing his knee into the center of his back. The man shouts out wordlessly again when Adrian kneels over him, forcing him to bend double, his arm held in jagged pieces between Adrian’s strong hands.

Adrian ducks down and says something you don’t hear into the man’s ear with a low growl and a snarl on his face. Whatever he’s saying, it’s long, and colorful, and passionate; his sunglasses slide a bit, but not enough to reveal the blazing heat in his green eyes. You can’t see them, but he’s blistering with rage behind them, doing everything he can not to snap this man’s neck on the beach right now.

When Adrian’s done with his chain of what you assume are threats, he shoves the man forward, flat on his face in the sand, and looks back up to the other three guys he was with.

Your heart is racing, watching them. Your eyes snap from Adrian to the motion you see in the distance, which is— you realize now, it’s Chris and Emilia sprinting towards you both across the sand, as well. They’re not quite as fast as Adrian was.

You only look at them for a second before you’re looking back at Adrian, your chest heaving, pulse pounding, hands numb, gut pulsing. It’s— intense, and erotic, and protective, and insane, and just— You can’t even begin to understand how you’re feeling, right now.

Adrian spits onto the sand at the three guys’ feet, then turns away from them back to you, dismissing them— fucking completely. They don’t even seem to know what to do; one of them is halfway backed-up, another one is leaning forwards as if he wants to help his friend up, and the last is just staring at Adrian, apparently deciding what he wants to do, still.

For his part, Adrian is taking your face between his hands, then looking back down to your wrist again. Attention refocusing, he picks your wrist up between his hands, gently moving it, testing the joint.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your wrist, except that somebody fucking touched it.

Adrian brings your wrist up to his mouth, kissing the back of it before turning it over. He kisses, too, the thin skin there, your veins just beneath; your pulse gallops beneath his lips. After a beat, he reaches back up to take your face in his hands again, kissing you hard, biting. It’s a claiming, possessive, shoving sort of kiss, turning from gentle and tender to hot-blooded and intense in a heartbeat.

You need this as badly as he does, and you fall into him, letting the anxiety and anger and frustration and discomfort and— and everything else, all those horrible feelings that’d been growing inside you, you let them just— spill away, for a second, when you’re consumed all by him, instead.

Adrian kisses you like he wants everybody on the entire fucking beach to know you’re his. You reach up weakly, hands grasping at his chest where usually he’d have a shirt, or his Vigilante armor. This time, you’re instead met with the bare skin of his chest, hard and broad under your hands. Your fingers clench into his warm skin, and you push up into your kiss, desperate for more of him.

When you separate, you see Emilia already kneeling beside the man whose arm Adrian broke, talking to him in a rapid, low voice while the man nods quickly, tears streaming down his face. Behind her, Chris is talking to the other three men in much the same way.

Chris glances up at the both of you, then. Though he doesn’t stop talking with the three men, he does make eye contact with Adrian and wink.

It’s not a subtle move, and one of the men actually asks, “Did you just wink at me?”

“No, I fucking didn’t, you creep,” Chris snaps at him before launching back into whatever threat Emilia told him to give these men.

Adrian refocuses your energy on him, guiding your chin up with his hand to tell you, “Hey. If you want, I can find out where these guys’re staying and kill them tonight for you.”

It’s not a question, or even really an offer. It’s more just a statement of fact that Adrian’s looking for your approval on.

You’re not decided yet, so you tell him, voice soft, “I don’t know,” then glance backwards.

You see the man behind the stand backed up and staring at the group of you with confusion; the woman who had been ordering her drink is long gone, and you think you see her far down the beach, still watching the altercation from the safety of her fold-out plastic chair near the water.

“Oh, right,” you say. “The drinks. Fuck.” You glance back to Adrian. “I’m sorry.”

He frowns, then asks, “Wh— You’re sorry? How about, hey, why the fuck didn’t anybody else say anything to these fucking jackholes, huh?” Adrian’s demands are getting pointed to the guy behind the stand, but then he takes a breath and says, “Sorry, dude. It’s not you. You’re having a bad enough day. Uhh— Can we get— Lemonades? Wait, what did Emilia—”

“I’ll do it,” you say, heart still racing. Emilia and Chris might be handling everything, and this might be their job, most times, but— you still feel— strange, and impassioned, and feverish with heat.

Adrian presses in closer to you from behind as you look over at the cart. His warm skin is pressed all over yours, flushing you impossibly hotter. His hands come up to grasp your hips in his; you can feel the hard press of his cock against you, and you wonder when the fuck that happened.

You also realize that— Well, if any of the 11th Street Kids somehow just missed him licking into the back of your throat, they probably aren’t missing the way he’s now covering you with his mostly-bare body, here, on a public beach, in front of God and everyone.

Your heart jumps into your throat. I love you, you think wildly. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I’ll kill ‘em for you,” Adrian murmurs near the shell of your ear, as if he can hear your thoughts. He kisses your temple, then makes his way down to kiss behind your ear, the hinge of your jaw, the soft press of your throat, the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His arms wrap around you, then, tight around your chest and shoulders. “You say the word, I’ll kill ‘em—”

“Quieter, please, Chase,” Emilia calls over to him.

“Can I start with a large pink lemonade,” you start listing to the man behind the stand, trying to remember everyone’s drink orders while Chris and Emilia clean up Adrian’s mess, and Adrian creates a new mess by draping himself all over you, and Leota and John stare at you with we’re talking about this excited looks on their faces from a distance, and you—

You just try so, so desperately to hold it together long enough to tell this poor man what drinks you wanted in the first place. Adrian kisses your throat again, and you sigh, starting the order over, skin flushing hot under your bathing suit, comfortable in yourself again.

-

request used:

"I have an idea about the 11th street kids and reader going to the beacgh for vacation, and adrian and the reader are dating (but what if the rest dont really know but they kinda guessed it?) and reader gets hit on from stranges bc like you know theyre wearing a swimsuit and men gret creepy, and adrian just gets super protective. Bc i adore protective adrian sm. If ur not comfy writing this its its ok!" (anonymous)

-

adrian chase taglist:

It was Kerry Weaver who'd accidentally given you the bright idea to match with Carter for tutoring help on your USMREs. They've been on your mind, obviously, since you're an MS4 and you don't want to have to repeat anything after July. Not only must you pass—you have to do well.

You've fretted for months this year, wishing you had an edge on the other students whose parents seemed to give countless resources to pass exams and classes. And then Kerry mentioned a tutor program set up between your college and several hospitals in the area. A nationwide program, actually: the idea was that med students would be matched with interns who could help them with their exams and, potentially, transition into a residency.

Kerry had gone on about it, being the liaison for the program at County General, and you'd zoned out until you heard Carter listed as one of the tutors. An idea had struck you then.

That was a month ago. You've since had four tutoring sessions with one John Carter. Once a week, you get him to yourself for one, sometimes two hours. You try to make the most of it, especially since your exams are less than a month away.

You don’t even know if you'll be accepted to do your residency at County General. If you'll see Carter again.

Carter rubs his hands, trying to bring warmth into them. "Okay, so, what are we working on today?"

You push your printout of test questions towards him. "I thought we could work on pharmacology this week. I've been going over the questions, but I'd like extra help."

Carter nods, hunching over to read the questions. "Sure, of course. Start on the first one?"

"Uh-huh." You haven't checked the answer key because then there's no point. "I think it's A."

As he reads the problem, you stare at his side profile. He got a haircut recently, so his wispy bangs aren't in his eyes anymore. His suspenders are brown with little tan hearts. No one would notice the hearts unless they were close to him. His big hand rests on his mouth as he reads, and his silver pinky ring gleams in the fluorescent library light.

You follow the line of his chest, his flat stomach. Carter’s thin but wiry. A few weeks ago, he was spattered with blood in the ER during an emergency surgery, and he had to change scrubs. You'd managed to turn the corner right as he pushed his suspender straps off and pulled his scrub top over his head, revealing a defined back and lean hips.

You had ducked into a patient's room before he could turn around and spot you leering at him like a creep. It's been seared into your brain ever since.

Carter hums. "Nope. Pretty sure it's B."

There's no way it's B, you want to say, but you hold your tongue because Carter’s technically the expert, having already taken and passed his exams.

"Oh, really? How so? I thought it was A since the patient has an absence of enteropeptidase activity in the proximal intestinal villi. Wouldn't that imply an inactivation of trypsin?"

Carter nods slowly and sits up. "You're right. Damn." He smiles at you. "Which one of us is the tutor?"

"You keep my brain sharp," you say quickly.

He laughs. "As long as it’s helpful. They aren't paying me for nothing."

"It is helpful." Your arm is almost touching his. If you just scooted an inch to your right...

It goes on like that for an hour. You get almost every problem right, except one, which you and Carter work out. You're pleased to find a problem you genuinely don't understand that Carter can explain. He obviously likes being able to actually tutor you.

At the end of the hour, he checks his watch and stretches. You watch the length of him, the way his long arms and legs pull into a line, his body arching off the chair before relaxing again. Your heart beats a little faster.

"Mm. Okay. Are you on tonight?" Carter rubs his neck like it's sore.

"No," you say. "I'm on in the afternoon. I have a morning class. Are you on?"

"Yeah, in the morning." He groans, resting his hands over his eyes. "Aw man, I have no food at home."

"Oh, well, there's lots of places to eat around here." You count off on your fingers. "There's wings, pizza, shawarma, tacos..."

Carter drops his hands. "That wings place down the street is still open?"

You nod. "Yeah, some of my friends go there a lot."

They're not really your friends—just classmates. You don't go to many places besides the campus library, your dorm, and the hospital. But Carter doesn't need to know that. He's friendly with everyone and well-liked at the hospital. He can strike up a conversation with anyone, talks to patients like they're friends. You're admiring and a little jealous.

He stands, pushing his chair out as he goes. You do the same, frozen between the table and the chair. Carter starts to put on his coat.

"I think I'll go there. That place was a godsend when I was in med school."

"Okay," you say, pleased that he took your suggestion. "So... we're done for tonight?"

"Yeah," he says, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Is that okay?"

You swallow your disappointment. "Yeah! Of course. Well, um, enjoy your wings. I guess I'll see you tomorrow, maybe?"

Carter pauses. "You're not coming with?"

"Huh?"

He juts a thumb behind him. "For wings. Unless you aren't hungry..."

"Oh. Oh! No, yeah, I'd love to. I didn't know I was invited." You wince at how earnestly pathetic that sounds, but Carter doesn't seem to notice.

He smiles one of those smiles where he purses his lips and looks incredibly boyish. Sometimes it makes you jittery, thinking about how a really cute boy is helping you with your homework. Tenth grade you would've passed out.

"Well, who else am I gonna eat wings with? Benton?"

You grin. "I can't even picture it."

"Me neither. He's a vegetarian anyway."

"Is there a such thing as tofu wings?"

Carter steps away and waits as you put on your coat. "Probably. He knows all the vegetarian alternatives. I tried some of his tofurky jerky. Wasn't bad, honestly."

You squeeze through the chairs, and your foot gets caught behind the leg. You stumble. Carter catches your elbow so you don't faceplant into the carpet.

"Whoa, careful. You okay?" His fingers are warm.

"Fine! Thanks." You're breathless.

"No problem. As a professional klutz, I'm good at breaking a fall."

Carter matches your stride as you walk out of the library and off campus. It's colder now that the sun has gone down. But the wings place isn't far, and you make it there in no time. Carter opens the door for you. You thank him quietly and go in, peering at the menu. You've only been here once.

"Order whatever you want."

Carter’s voice in your ear makes you jump. He laughs, resting a hand on your back for a second. Then it falls away.

"Sorry," he says.

"'S okay." His eyes are so big and brown. You look back at the menu; you can’t look at Carter for too long. "You don't have to pay for me, though. I can—"

"C'mon, what kind of tutor would I be if I didn't treat you to wings at least once? That's why they pay me the big bucks."

You suddenly feel as shy as you did when you first met Carter. Awful.

"Okay." You can smell his detergent and shampoo when he's this close. Something floral. And there's another scent, like spiced oranges. The remnants of his cologne. It's hard to protest when Carter’s warm and smells nice and is in your space.

He nods like that settles everything. "Good. You wanna order first?"

So you do. You get parmesan wings, conscious not to order much else. But Carter darts next to you, like he knows what you're doing.

"We'll have two Cokes as well," he says, pointing to the fridge with the nice glass bottles of soda. "And a side of mozzarella sticks."

"Carter—"

"Tch, c'mon. I know you're living off of hopes and dreams and the vending machine. A Coke and a cheese pull won't kill me or you."

He orders his wings, pays, and that's that. Carter grabs the Cokes. You sit at a booth while you wait. It's a little drafty, so you keep your coats on.

"I'm gonna wash my hands," you say.

Carter gives you a thumbs up. "I'll man the table."

You go and return. The food is there when you get back. Carter goes to wash his hands and you wait to eat, hands clasped together. He returns quickly.

"Should probably open the bottles before we eat the messiest food ever," he says, reaching for his Coke.

You do the same, but where Carter easily pops the bottlecap, you can't. It's such a silly thing, but you're embarrassed; you've always had trouble with what everyone else deems simple motor skills. Sometimes it makes you clumsy, sometimes it prevents you from opening a bottle or unlocking a door.

You huff, frustrated, but before you can say anything, Carter gently takes the bottle and opens it, then hands it back.

"Thanks," you say, ears hot.

"Don't mention it."

You eat. Carter got barbecue wings, and the sauce smears all over his mouth. You cover your laugh with your hand but he sees it anyway.

"Something on my face?" He reaches for the napkin dispenser.

"Just a bit," you say, giggling.

He wipes his mouth. "I get it all?"

"There's some on your chin."

He tries again and misses it. "Now?"

You reach for the dispenser. "Can I...?"

Carter hums, and you take a fresh napkin and lean over the table, wiping his chin clean. He smiles at you. You smile back.

"All good, Carter." You sit back.

"Thanks. You know you can call me John, right?"

"Oh." You pick some breading off the tip of your mozzarella stick. "Right. I sort of forgot your first name isn't Carter. Everyone calls you that."

"Yeah, I actually tried to get people to call me John my first year here. Didn't stick. I don't mind it, but, uh..." He looks at you through his lashes. "I'd really like it if you called me John. Even if it's just outside the hospital."

"Because we're friends?" you blurt before you can think about it.

Carter's answering look is gentle with surprise. "Yeah, of course we are."

And even though you'd rather be much more than that, it's enough. You like having Carter as a friend.

"You can call me by my first name too," you say.

He nods. "Cool." He says your name like he's seeing how it feels on his tongue. It's perfect.

"So how are you feeling about the exam? It's in three weeks, right?"

You dredge a celery stick in ranch. "Yeah, the twenty-third. Nervous, honestly. I'm okay taking tests, but I worry about everything."

"You're handling it way better than I am. I must've gone through fifty emesis basins in the weeks leading up to my exam. Benton sent me home the day before 'cause I was so sick and he was irritated I couldn't stay out of the bathroom long enough to see patients." He snorts at the memory.

"Really? You?"

"Mmhm. Surprised?"

"Yes," you say honestly. "You seem so confident, so sure of what you do. I kind of... envy you, John."

Carter leans on his elbows, his shirt bunching around his shoulders. He's close; if you leaned in to meet him, you'd bump noses. Or lips. He tucks his hands under his arms. He looks sweet. He looks like a boy who'd open all of your Coke bottles forever.

"I honestly don't. I mean, I know how to do medical stuff and prep for surgery and all that. But... I've actually been considering switching my specialty to emergency medicine."

Your eyes widen. "You can do that?"

He laughs. "I have no clue. It's probably not recommended. I've been thinking about it for a while though. I want to spend more time with patients. I'm good at that, y'know?"

You do know. Carter's the only surgery intern who actually spends time with his patients. Most of the surgeons don't do that either. It makes sense he'd want to focus on that.

"You are," you say. "I hope you can switch. You'd be a great ER doctor. I mean, you are a great one."

He smiles wryly. "I don't know if I can. But if I do switch, we'd be working together more often."

"We would," you say, like you haven't already thought about it and internally jumped for joy. "I mean, if I get placed there for my residency."

Carter leans back, wearing an expression like what you're saying is ridiculous. "Of course you will. You're a great addition. Kerry would be crazy not to take you."

You finish your food in somewhat comfortable silence. Carter makes conversation here and there, about your classes, why you chose Chicago for school, and so on. It feels good to be with him like this. You hope it stays this way.

****

You almost called out today.

It's been a full week after your exam. Today, the results come out. You're understanding Carter and his emesis basins more and more.

"Hey, Kerry needs to speak to you immediately, in the lounge," says Chuny.

Your heart pounds. Are you in trouble? You can't think of anything except—oh no. Your exam results. Shit, what if you did so poorly, Kerry has to kick you out personally? You're a disgrace. You'll never work in medicine again. You—

"Surprise!"

As you push the lounge door open, streamers are thrown inches from your nose. Nearly all the ER staff are in the lounge, blowing noisemakers and cheering. Above is a banner that says You're A Doctor!

"It's official," Kerry says, handing you a cup of apple cider, which is about as fancy as the ER gets without alcohol. "You're a resident, and with flying colors. Congratulations."

"Wait, but I didn't open my envelope yet, how did you—"

"I get updated since I'm overseeing your rotation. I didn't tell anyone your score, but they know you passed. Otherwise this party would've been extremely awkward."

You nod. "Thank you, Dr. Weaver."

"You did it all on your own. I never had a shadow of a doubt that you'd do less than well. Keep going."

Carol gives you a hug. Mark and Doug offer their congratulations. Lydia puts a plastic crown on your head. You're afforded a quick mini cupcake before everyone has to get back to work. It's brief but it's lovely. You never knew people actually paid attention or cared that you were down here. You barely interact with anyone besides Kerry and Carter.

Speaking of...

"Dr. Greene, do you know where Carter is?" you ask as you file out of the lounge.

He glances at Doug, who winks at you. You have no idea what that means.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're looking for him," Mark says, smiling a little. "Benton called him into surgery an hour ago. He said he'd find you later—he's really sorry he missed the surprise."

It's not the worst thing in the world. Surgery takes priority, obviously, and it's not like you won't see Carter later.

Two car accident victims are wheeled in then, and you forget about everything except tending to them in Trauma One and Two. Kerry keeps you close as you follow her lead. The victims pull through, and your good mood is bolstered.

In a quiet moment, you open your envelope, curious about what your actual score was. 96.42. It's an excellent score. You had no reason to worry, which is what people are always telling you, but you rarely listen. It's better to be overprepared than under.

You want to tell Carter, thank him for his tutoring, let him know that he helped you get here. But he's nowhere to be found. When he's paged to the ER, you miss him by seconds. The elevator door closed before you can get a word in. It goes on like that for the entire shift.

But you find him at the end of the day. Or, well, you happen to spot him in the lounge, helping himself to a leftover cupcake. You slip inside, unable to contain your excitement at seeing him.

"Hi," you say, smile splitting your face. "I haven't seen you all day."

Carter’s smile is tired, a little short. "Yeah, sorry. Surgery was busy as hell."

"It's okay. I'm glad to see you now." You gesture at the leftovers of the surprise, a little embarrassed. "They congratulated me."

"Yeah, I heard." He sighs, putting his hands on his hips. "Why'd you lie to me?"

You blink, immediately confused. "Lie? About what?"

Carter frowns. He pulls a folded paper from his back pocket and smoothes it out for you to see. It's your picture from last year; your school paper had written an article about you and the two other students who'd gotten a study published in a med journal, which was unheard of for med students. Their words, not yours.

"And I asked Kerry about it," Carter continues. "And she told me that you've been ranked in the top twenty students all four years. Your grades have never been less than perfect, which is what she said when I approached her about you doing your residency here, thinking you might need a recommendation." He looks at you flatly. "You clearly don't. And you didn't need a tutor either. Certainly not a dummy like me."

"I did," you say quickly, heart ratcheting. "Cart—John, I did need a tutor. Everyone needs one. You helped me do well."

He leans against his locker. "Yeah, sure. God, and I should've known from the start! You corrected me on nearly every question."

"I don't understand why you're upset," you say helplessly. "I liked you being my tutor. It wasn't bad."

Carter shakes his head. "I'm upset because... I don't know, it's stupid, but it feels like you were faking for two months. Why go to the lengths to let me believe I was actually helping you as a tutor?"

"You did help!"

Carter’s face shutters. He doesn't believe you, and why would he? Tutoring wasn't really your main reason for requesting him specifically. He thinks you chose him to feel better about yourself.

"I gotta go," he says, pulling his bag strap over his shoulder. "I am really happy for you, and I'm glad you did well. I hope you can do your residency here."

You dart in front of him before he can leave. He could probably take giant steps around you and escape, but he doesn't. You hold up your hands.

"Okay, wait! I did like you tutoring me. I did. But, um, it wasn't the reason I specifically requested you..." You take a deep breath. "I requested you because I really like you, and we haven't been able to get to know each other, and I thought maybe you'd like getting to know me more if it was in a situation where you were getting paid and we had something to focus on, like school. And I liked getting food, and joking around, and just... being with you."

You step aside, still feeling defeated. "Now you can leave if you want. I didn't sign up with you to confirm I was a good student. And I wouldn't have done it at all if you weren't getting paid. I didn't want to waste your time."

Carter's eyebrows have climbed up his forehead. He sets down his bag.

"That's really..."

"Sad?" you finish for him, staring at the peeling, green paint of the lounge. "I know. It's weird and sad."

You've heard it plenty of times before, people finding you strange for thinking so much, for not going about things 'normally.' You don't know how. You would if you could. You'd love nothing more.

"Sweet." Carter laughs, but it's not mean. "Wow. No one's ever gone to such great lengths to know me."

You nod, feeling queasy. "I know, it's bad. I thought I could hide it and then we'd just become friends—"

"It's really clever. It's what I'd expect from a smartypants like you. I'm flattered, honestly." He shrugs, his smile never dimming. "Most people just ask me out for a beer, y'know?"

"I didn't know if you wanted to hang out," you say.

Carter steps forward. "Yeah, well, I actually wanted to do more than hang out."

You finally look at him. "Like what?"

"Uh..." He grins like he's trying (and failing) to be shy. "Ha. Well, I wanted to kiss you that night we went out. I thought it was obvious."

"It was a date?" You're doubly mortified at the idea that you've completely missed that signal.

"No, it—well, it could be, if you wanted, but no, I never explicitly called it a date. It was two friends hanging out. And, uh, one friend wanted to kiss the other friend."

"Okay." You rock on your heels, thinking. "Right. So do you... still want to kiss me?"

"If you want me to," he says quietly.

"Oh, yes," you say with so much assurance, it makes Carter chuckle. "Please do."

He sighs, grimacing slightly. "You're technically a med student for..." He checks his watch. "Three more hours. Can you wait?"

"I can wait," you say, delighted by it all, even if three hours feels like a century.

"Okay." Carter nods, snapping his fingers and backing towards the door. "Alright. Then I'll, um, see you tomorrow? Kiss you first thing in the morning?"

"I'll be waiting."

"Great! That's..." He bumps into the garbage can and curses, wincing. It nearly tips over and Carter quickly grabs and rights it. "...I'm fine. Fine." He looks at you, awkwardly saluting. "Okay. Good night. Bye."

You watch, utterly charmed. "Good night, John."

The lounge door shuts behind him. You stare at it for a solid ten seconds, processing what just happened. Wow. You are really good at getting tutored.

Then you spot Carter's bag on the table. You grab it and reach for the handle. The door swings open.

You blink. "Hi. You forgot your bag."

Carter's a little out of breath. "I can't wait."

"What?"

He takes his bag and drops it on the floor, stepping in so the door shuts behind him. There's two splotches of pink on his cheeks. "To kiss you. I can't wait until tomorrow. Is that okay?"

The sound of the lock clicking brings a smile to his face—force of habit—but the sight before him has the smile plummeting straight to a confused frown. Wide, worried, blue eyes meet his, but what really brings the frown is the reddish-purple mark on delicate skin. There on his girlfriend’s neck is a hickey—clear as day. 

Now, Eddie’s never been known to be a particularly gentle lover—often getting too excited and sometimes teeth and suction comes with the territory. But Chrissy used to reprimand him any time he’d try to give the girl a hickey. ‘Eddieeee, stop. I have a game tonight, the makeup will sweat off and everybody will see,’ she’d whine. The good and respectful boyfriend that he is—he abided by her instructions, appreciating the boundaries she set. 

However, it seems those boundaries are nonexistent for her ex. 

No need to see any more proof, no desire to hear apologies and excuses—Eddie throws a look of disgust at his girlfriend. “Fuck this.” Shaking his head at the nerve of the girl, her blue eyes fill with tears—pretending like she gives a shit now. Promptly whipping around, he takes long, angry strides back to his van, ignoring the soft calls of his name. Fuck this.

The world is dangerously blurry as he drives back to his trailer, hot tears spill down his cheeks as he replays every moment he spent with her in his mind. Surely there is something he missed. One doesn’t just go cheat on a good thing. He must’ve done something. Was he not good enough? He satisfied her, he knew that. But was he not a good partner? He’d buy her things, take her places, listen to her complain about class, her friends, practice. He did so much for her. 

Tires skid on gravel as he slams the brakes. He’s thanking every lucky star in the sky that Wayne is working tonight. Eddie would very much like to break down in peace. Muttering curses, he throws the car door shut, harder than he ever has before. Of course, the piece of shit that it is, the door clicks shut and then unclicks with the force he used on it, swinging open again—only pissing him off more. “FUCK,” he roars, shoving all his force and body weight behind his palm, the door finally bangs shut. 

If he had half a logical mind, he would have noticed the lamp in his bedroom was on. Normally, he’s meticulous about turning off all the lights when he leaves. That one summer Wayne made him pay the electricity bill to teach him a lesson for constantly leaving them on around the trailer really scarred him. But Eddie isn’t thinking logically right now. All he feels is rage, and all he can think about is punching a hole in the universe—everyone should feel lucky he doesn’t have superpowers. He’s pretty sure this would be his villain origin story.

The girl he loves doesn’t love him back, then the girl he gets with to get over her cheats on him. Life is going perfectly for him. 

Fumbling with the keys to the front door, he kicks the wall of the mobile home when they fall from his shaky grip. He crouches down to pick them up, but instead of standing back up and trying again, he just stays down, hunched over with his wet face in his hands. Trying to stop the hyperventilating breaths, he forces himself to hold air in for ten seconds before blowing it out. After about thirty seconds on the ground, he vigorously scrubs the tears from his face, swiping the keys off the ground and successfully unlocking the door. 

As if the crying on the drive over wasn’t enough, even more tears fall once he’s safely inside his home. Looking around at the clutter, he starts throwing shit around. Everything is a mess, everything is bullshit. His D&D character sheets are bullshit, the empty beer cans on the edge of the counter bound for the recycling are bullshit. The heap of homemade Hellfire shirts on the couch are extra bullshit. Picking up the pile of useless t-shirts, he sniffles as he marches into his room, heading straight for his closet and throwing them messily down on the floor in there before slamming the door shut. 

“Are you cleaning up for your date tonight?” 

Eddie’s back goes rigid at the sound of your voice. He had no idea he wasn’t alone. If he knew he had company, he would’ve delayed his breakdown at least long enough to tell you to get lost. But he wouldn’t do that. Not really. Because unfortunately, you’re exactly what he needs right now and he can’t tell you that. 

A fresh wave of tears stream down his wet cheeks, already feeling light headed from all the dehydration. It’s your genuinely excited voice that sends him into another spiral. You knew he was supposed to celebrate eight months with Chrissy tonight, but it appears you had no idea the time he was going to go over there. The insinuation that he’d bring the cheerleader back here makes him bristle, the way you’re so blasé with the comment—you really couldn’t give less of a shit that he’s with another girl, huh? 

“You must be excited,” you try again.

Slowly turning around, he gives you a deadpan look. No need to dismiss your comment—his appearance will do it just fine. Weirdly, he feels vindicated when the light in your eyes dims and your smile falls as you take in his swollen, red eyes and runny nose. 

“In that really awful suicidal way,” you finish slowly, standing up from your place on his unmade bed. “I’m sorry, I just let myself in. I figured you’d be back eventually.”

He watches with a sniffle as you jerk your thumb to the window he keeps cracked specifically for you. You’ve come knocking at his window late at night enough times for him to just permanently leave it open for you—like a cat that comes and goes as she pleases.

At his heavy silence, you continue, nervously fiddling with your fingers, “I didn’t know if you’d already gone over or–” It’s pretty clear now where he was, he can see it in your face. You’re sad for him and you don’t even know any details yet. You’ve always been like this, though. You feel what he feels. Sharing in his joy, his sadness, his fear, his pain. How could he not love someone who loves him so completely—but not the way he needs it, that’s the caveat. 

“Did something happen–” Okay, that was a stupid question, you’ll admit. But how else do you broach the radioactive emotions of your best friend when you don’t even know what went down? 

A humorless, wet chuckle leaves his throat as he shakes his head at the question. Did something happen? No, not really. Just the past eight months of his life blew up in his face tonight. What’s new in Eddie’s world? Nothing much, what’s new with you? 

Deciding he needs something to do, he starts fluttering around his bedroom, throwing any garbage he finds onto the floor. The mixtapes of pop songs Chrissy swore were good—floor. Food wrappers from late night ventures into the kitchen while staying up on the phone with her—floor. The goblin PEZ dispenser she got him for their five month anniversary—floor. 

Wide eyes watch him with shock and worry as he doesn’t show signs of stopping his rampage, you don’t know how to help him if he doesn’t tell you what happened. “Eds, what’s going on? Is she not well?” You’re shooting in the dark here—it could be anything for all you know. 

Another humorless chuckle escapes him as he swipes a stack of D&D papers off his dresser. He watches as the papers drift peacefully to the ground—a stark contrast to the raging tornado of emotions inside him—shaking his head at the idea that Chrissy Cunningham could be unwell. She had two boyfriends, after all!

“Oh no, she’s well, alright. She’s fucking fantastic. Got her boyfriend back and everything.” 

Missing the indignation in his form, you frown as you pick up the papers he threw. You know he’s on a whole other level right now because he’d never treat his precious D&D stuff like this. That’s the one place in his life he’s the most organized. Compiling the looseleaf notes, press them into a neat stack again. “I didn’t know you guys were having problems.”

“Her old boyfriend,” he specifies, sending another trinket she bought him flying to his carpet. 

You stand up, placing the papers back on his dresser now that he’s moved on to the pictures on the mirror. A look of shock and horror crosses your face at his revelation. All you manage to string together in response is a somber, “Oh, shit.”

Choosing once more not to look at you, he rips up a photo of himself and Chrissy from the day they went to Indianapolis together. “Yeah, my sentiments exactly.” 

Unsure of what to do with yourself, you cross your arms, squeezing the skin on your biceps anxiously. “Well, it’s okay,” you try, taking on a soft, consoling tone. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” 

It’s a classic for a reason—there’s so many more people out there and it’s not over because Chrissy Cunningham cheated on him. You never really understood their whole thing anyway. It was weird to see him crossing the social stratification, especially in a town like Hawkins—that was practically unheard of. 

Making sure there are no pictures of Chrissy left on his mirror, he pauses at the one of you and him. It’s from last summer, when you dragged him to the Hawkins pool, even convincing Wayne to come along since it was his day off. He grumbled the whole time and refused to dip more than a toe into the water, but it gave the old man the perfect opportunity to capture the moment.

The picture shows Eddie holding you bridal style in the water, while you’re very clearly pushing his head away, trying to get him to put you down because he wouldn’t stop dunking you. Both of you are mid-laugh, with wet hair and squinting eyes. 

The sunny memory drives an icicle into his heart—followed by fifty more—only making him feel worse. He can’t have you, but he can have you just enough to hold you in a joking manner. He can’t feel you, but he can feel you just enough to know the heat of your skin from a thousand half-hugs. You’re not his, but you’re his just enough to take up precious space in his small room.

Snorting at your pitiful attempt to help him, he smooths his thumb over the image of your smiling face. “There’s only one fish I want and she’s not interested.”

Your scoff draws his attention, placing the photo back onto the mirror, he turns to gauge your reaction. “Well, that fish is stupid!” 

His eyebrows raise, unimpressed by your defense of your own argument. Also, you clearly don’t understand what he’s talking about—you must think he means Chrissy, judging by the way your reaction shows unbridled anger.

“Eddie, seriously, fuck her. She didn’t know what she had when she had it, dude. You deserve so much better! Any girl would be so lucky to call you hers,” you declare, pissed at your own sex for neglecting such a gem of a man. You’ll never admit it, but a small, selfish part of you is secretly glad he doesn’t exactly have girls knocking down his door for a date. However gnawing that feeling is, you won’t rejoice in his sorrow.

Bristling at your constant friend-zoning, he huffs out. You never fail to slip a ‘dude’ into your sentences when you speak to him, it makes him even more upset. He’d die just to hear you use at least one endearment. If Hades himself came to drag him down to the Underworld, he’d barter for one ‘baby’ in that sweet tone you only use when he’s upset or you’re talking to animals. 

You mistake his huff of annoyance for rejection of your assertion and march over to him, doubling down. “I’m not just saying that! You’re kind, you’re handsome, you have interesting hobbies, you’re fucking funny,” you list out each description on your fingers, looking at him wildly, imploring him to believe you. “Seriously, I’m jealous of any girl who gets to be with you because I know she’s got the best man in Hawkins—no, the universe! Just because Chrissy fucking Cunningham was too much of an airhead to see it doesn’t make it any less true.” 

Slowly, his frown melts into a look of quiet shock. Did you just say you’re jealous? Not to mention, this is the first time he’s hearing you say something bad about the girl he’s been dating for the past eight months. You always seemed so supportive, but were you covering up your disdain? 

You assured him you’re not just saying that because of everything that went down tonight, so he’s inclined to believe you. Did he miss something in his friendship with you? He certainly missed some change in his relationship with Chrissy, so he doesn’t think he’s been on his game. Maybe you feel differently for him than he originally thought.

You called him handsome to his face just now. And you said you were jealous of any girl who gets to have him. You also said it like you don’t know he’d drop any date in a heartbeat if you’d even look his way. Maybe he hasn’t been clear enough. He can be clear. 

Observing the change in his expression, you’re pretty sure he just looked down at your lips. You don’t think you imagined that—or maybe you did. It wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately. The world feels like it’s moving in both slow motion and hyper-speed when he leans down, large, ringed hands holding your face ever so gently as he brings your lips to his. 

The kiss makes you feel like the laws of physics no longer apply and you’re floating up to the ceiling, his warm hands are the only things tethering you to this plain. The way his lips move on your stunned mouth feels like a wave of butterflies will erupt from your throat, traveling up from your stomach the second he parts from you. 

But that’s not what happens. 

When your frozen lips still refuse to meet his languid movements, he jumps back like he’s been burned. Your mouth is parted in surprise and your eyes make him think he’s never going to see you again once you leave this trailer. “Oh fuck. Oh shit, I’m so–I’m so fucking sorry,” his hand covers his mouth, mumbling his words. It probably looks like the general reaction of shock, but the hand is there more to stop him from trying again. 

He’s mortified and on the verge of angry tears—at his awful actions, not your lack of response—but he’s also vibrating with the need to feel you that close again. It’s like you’re a neodymium magnet and he’s scrap metal trying to fight the pull. 

His head won’t stop shaking side-to-side in awe of his stupid actions and because it’s the only movement that feels like the word ‘sorry’ without saying it. Eddie watches in horror as you stay silent, only bringing soft fingers to your lips, like you could feel his kiss still lingering. “God, that was so shitty, I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. Please, please forgive me, that was–I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Your prolonged silence and distant stare have him mentally flogging himself for forcing this on you—his best fucking friend, who was only trying to make him feel better. He’s never felt more like a piece of shit, and he’s had the town on his ass since he was eleven. Hurting you is the most deplorable thing he’s ever done, and he’s two seconds away from dropping to his knees to beg for your forgiveness.

“Jesus H. Christ, I’m such an asshole,” he shouts with a humorless huff, restless hands grasping the roots of his curls. He fucked up with you, then he fucked up with Chrissy, then he fucked up with you, again. It’s the definition of insanity at this point. Despite your lack of interest in him for all twelve years that he’s known you, his stupid ass thought maybe eight months made a difference. Clearly it hasn’t. 

“I ruin fucking everything, no wonder she went back to Jason! Am I just like–a plague of a person? What the fuck is wrong with me? Everything I do–”

His rhetorical, self-deprecating meltdown is halted when you shut him up with your perfectly soft lips. A grunt of surprise turns into a moan he’d feel humiliated over if it wasn't for the fact that you’re kissing him. Of your own volition. And you’re not stopping when he hesitates. No, you’re taking the reins with no qualms, trusting his brain will catch up eventually. 

Once the Big Bang happens behind his eyelids, his hands move on their own accord, desperately grabbing your cheeks, pulling you in closer. The tiny mewl you let out nearly has his knees buckling. 

You pull away first, your delicate hands gently pushing against his chest. He gives you space, but he’s needy for your touch already, refusing to drop his grasp on your cheeks. His mouth is parted and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. Before you speak, you make sure his eyes are on yours—but what you don’t know is that he’s never not looking at you.

“Shut up.” It’s a firm order to someone who hasn’t spoken a word since your lips graced him a second time. “You’re not a plague, you’re the best person I’ve ever met and when I said any girl would be so lucky, that included me.” 

Afraid to speak too loudly and break the spell he seems to have cast on you to finally capture your attention, he whispers hesitantly, “You like me?”

Your palms glide down his abdomen. Your fiery touch has him fighting everything inside him to keep the groan in the back of his throat from escaping. He’s not religious by any means, but he used to pray for moments like this—falling asleep dreaming about the way you touched his arm that day or pretending the soft pillow was your body, finally allowing him to hold you. You play with the hem of his shirt as you give him a chiding look. “Do I even have to dignify that with a response?” 

He sure would like you to. “But if you–then why didn’t we–” Unable to form coherent thoughts, his mind replays every interaction he’s ever had with you in a split second—this time with a better outcome to hold onto than the one he found in his reflection on his relationship with Chrissy.

You give him a wry smile, shrugging half-heartedly. “You never asked. I didn’t know you felt the same. Thought I was doomed to watch you marry Chrissy Cunningham and live in a big house with a picket fence.” 

Coming back to his body, he frowns at that, “Where would I get the money for a big house? Marrying Chrissy wouldn’t make me rich.”

Scoffing, you click your tongue at him, “I don’t know, Edward. I was too busy breaking my own heart to figure out the logistics.” 

Your biting tone brings a smile to his face, his cheeks feeling like unstretched leather, stiff from the dryness left by his tears, but his grin still puts every shining star to shame. “Aw, baby,” he coos, leaning in to give you a sweet peck. “Don’t break your heart for me. I like you too.” Purposely holding back, he doesn’t think you’re quite ready for the other ‘L’ word—but lord knows he is.

You can’t fight the relieved smile that overtakes your face at his adoring words and gentle affection. He kisses you so easily, like you’ve been doing this forever. The thought makes you both happy and sad—you could have been doing this forever. But at least you know you will be doing this forevermore. 

“But what about Chrissy? Why’d you–” You struggle to question his choices—not for lack of confusion, but because you hate to bring up his very recent ex when he’s trying to tell you how much you mean to him.

His brown curls sway as he shakes his head, but his grip on your cheeks never falters. “I’ve been trying to be a good friend for the past five years,” he whispers, thinking back to when you went from his best friend to the girl he dreams about at night. “And, of course, being the asshole that you are, you just kept getting prettier and prettier every year,” he quips, “It got harder and harder to be around you.”

Your face warms at the compliment. You try to look away from his piercing gaze, but he doesn’t let you. With heavy eyelids, your best friend leans in again, halting your attempt to retreat with another world-altering kiss. His lips on yours makes you feel like those cartoon characters entranced, floating toward a delicious-smelling pie. You can’t help but get trapped in his orbital pull, his tongue draws you in for more. He shines so bright, it’s blinding, and you’d gladly feel your way around forever.

When he frees you once again, your body is swaying from the hum of electricity he shot straight into your bloodstream with that kiss. “Chrissy asked me out as a rebound and I thought it was the perfect chance to try and get over you. But now I don’t wanna be over you,” he rushes out, desperate for you to understand just how ‘yours’ he’s always been. 

No, he doesn’t want to be over you—maybe under you, but that’s a ways down the road. He’s going to treat you right—not rush into things, get you to stop calling him ‘dude’—because he doesn’t want to be alone again. He’s tasted your lips, felt your hot touch, and he’s pretty sure if you take this drug from him, he’ll go insane. He just got you, and he knows there’s no reality where he’d rather be without you. No reality where he could stand to be without you.

Realization dawns on your face, you let out a gasp as you look into his eyes, “Am I the fish?”

An elated chuckle leaves his lips as he watches you with crinkling eyes and a toothy grin, “You’re the fish, sweetheart.”

A/N: like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it! I wanna know what y'all think!!!

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El turns out to be very good at bowling, much to her delight and everyone else's dismay. Mike won’t even look at the scoreboard anymore, and Dustin keeps muttering different physics facts as though trying to explain El’s talent away while Max rolls her eyes and calls him a sore loser. Eddie has abandoned the game altogether in favour of splitting his time between flirting with the employee manning the concession stand and feeding nickels into the claw machine, and Lucas and Steve are in the middle of some mad smacktalk as to who is going to go home with second place (it’s Robin, but Will doesn’t bother pointing that out.) 

Will sits down after his turn – knowing his score of six isn’t going to have him moving anywhere on the board – which sees Steve jump up for his turn with a whoop. You and Robin roll your eyes at him in sync. 

“Make sure you’re watchin’, babe! This one’s for you!” Steve boasts; everyone groans in response.

“For me?” Robin squeals. “Oh, Stevie, you shouldn’t have.”

“Not you, freak,” Steve huffs at his best friend before shooting you a wink. 

The party collectively gawks when you don’t immediately ask if that was a nervous tick or if he needs to get his eyes checked.

Even El leans forward and whispers your name like a nervous stagehand prompting you to recite your line. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey,” Steve barks, pointing towards himself when everyone returns their attention to him. “Eyes up here, huh? You’re not gonna wanna miss this.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, looking over towards the claw machine longingly. “I think Eddie had the right idea.”

“Eyes up here!”

“Okay!” everyone choruses. 

Once satisfied with his captive audience, Steve makes a show of picking out the flashiest ball on the rack and steps up to the lane. He pretends to examine the weight of the ball, then licks a finger and holds it up to the ‘wind’ before squinting down at the pins as though calculating the perfect trajectory. 

Dustin breaks first. “Oh my God, would you fucking throw it already?”

“Any day now, dingus!” 

“You’re gonna lose your turn,” Mike mutters petulantly. 

Steve obliges, eliciting a round of groans and whimpers when all ten pins fall. 

“Yes! Were you watching? Did ya see that?”

“Yeah, we saw,” you grumble. “You look like a tool.”

“It did look cool! Thank you!” 

Robin leans into your side as she stage-whispers at you. “Is that because he’s dumb or does he only hear what he wants to hear?” 

“I think it might be a bit of both,” you respond in kind. 

“Alright, who’s bowling for Eddie this round?” Steve asks as he reclaims his seat next to you. Eddie offers a wave of his hand from the concession stand at the sound of his name and Dustin jumps up from Will’s side to do the honors. 

“This game is rigged,” Lucas mutters under his breath.

“Oh? What was that?” Steve jumps in eagerly. “Did you just say Steve’s wiping the floor with me? You’re so right, I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Lucas picks up the last of Max’s bag of popcorn and launches it at Steve; kernels rain down over him and the galaxy-print carpeted floor around him, scarcely missing you and El positioned on either side of Steve save the few kernels that El flicks from her leg and the few you brush off your shoulder. Will thinks Lucas should count his blessings. 

“Hey! What is wrong with you, Sinclair? Are you kidding me? Clean this up right now; you were raised better than that. Like hell you’re leaving that for the employees.” 

Between Steve’s scolding and Max’s complaints from his other side about how she wasn’t done with that, asshole!, Lucas stands and heads towards the concession stand to pay for another bag of popcorn and ask if he can borrow their broom. 

“God. Kids these days, am I right?” Steve mutters to you as though the two of you are sharing a secret. You look at him sideways. 

“Why are you beefing with an eleven year old?” 

Steve guffaws. “He’s fourteen!” 

“That doesn’t make it better, dingus.” 

“He’s a heathen.”

“You look insane, you know that?” you mutter, reaching up and plucking stray popcorn from his person. “Like, committable level insane. I’m gonna drop you off on my way home.”

Steve hums appreciatively and shoots you a salacious look. “You’re driving me home, huh?” 

“Insane,” you insist, moving to fix his hair.

Lucas returns with a broom in hand only to drop Max’s new bag of popcorn when he finds Steve the hair Harrington letting someone mess with his hair. “Is…is he-?”

“Yup,” Will whispers, remembering the hair-tastrophe of ‘83 when Dustin tried to ruffle Steve’s hair as a goof. Everyone shudders from the collective flashback.  

“Holy shit,” Mike murmurs. 

“Do you think Dustin knows?” Max asks quietly, eating from the new bag of popcorn that she procured from the floor, now missing half its contents. 

Lucas lets out a snort of laughter. “What? That his best friend is definitely screwing his favourite cousin? Doubt it, and I’m not gonna be the one to break that news.”

The group is interrupted by Dustin calling your name. “Your turn!”

Steve cheers loudly as you stand and make your way towards the ball rack, which only serves to earn him a withering glare from you. Steve beams as though you just blew him a kiss. 

Will shuffles over to make room for Dustin to rejoin the group and watches as Robin scooches in closer to Steve across the aisle now that your seat is empty. 

“You two have got to kiss already,” she whispers to her friend, offering him a gentle nudge with her elbow.

“Oh, Robin,” Steve chuckles, never taking his eyes off of you. “We’ve been doing that for months now.”