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Summary: Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto x human!Reader -> When Erik finds Xavier's school placed in his custody, he's shocked to find there is a Human as part of the staff. And he doesn't know how to feel about it.
Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, friends to lovers, canon divergence, domestic fluff, tiny angst, reader has a brother, teacher!reader, reader gets hurt and Erik takes care of them, bruising, falling in feeling and physically, reader stress bakes, Erik uses his powers to help reader in small ways, banter, little flirting, found family vibes, 7.1k words, meeting the parents, soft intimacy.
When Erik was asked to take charge of Xavier’s School for The Gifted, he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea.
But, then again, he owed Charles more than a few favours for the pain he’d caused in his life, and the stress. So, he took it in his stride.
And, it was going well.
The kids were safe, they were enjoying their time. Everything was a little more controlled than he would have liked – after all, he didn’t exactly hold Xavier’s mentality of ‘controlling powers in order to fit in’ mentality. But, overall, it was going well.
Until the morning you showed up.
It was still early so all the kids were in bed. Technically, most of the teachers were too. But Erik had found running in the early morning sun was helping with his daily peace.
Which was soon disturbed when he heard a voice behind him.
“Oh, hello.”
Erik hadn’t heard a thing. Not a footstep, not a breath or even the turn of a key in the lock. Nearly dropping his coffee cup, he turned quickly.
“Hello.”
His voice was measured and controlled. He didn’t know you. He hadn’t even been expecting anyone.
You looked around you, taking care as you stepped further into the kitchen. “I’m not an intruder, I promise.”
Erik saw a brief smile on your face. A look that was probably meant to put him at ease. Except, he wasn’t.
“You-You’re Erik, right? Magneto?”
He definitely wasn’t at ease.
Slowly, he moved from his place by the kitchen counter, near the coffee pot, to stand in front of the sink. There was still a kitchen knife amongst the dirty dishes from late last night.
To him, that was the safer choice of metal since a tea spoon likely wouldn’t help if you were about to attack him.
“And who are you, exactly?”
You moved your hand towards your pocket, but watching his reaction, you stopped for a moment. “Just reaching for my badge.”
“You’re a cop?” The question left his lips before he could stop.
But, instead, you laughed. “Oh, no. Well, my brother is. But I’m not.”
From your pocket, you pulled out a lanyard with your photo ID. You worked here?
“I work here. With Professor Xavier,” you clarified.
Erik nodded, and held out his hand. You handed your badge over with ease.
It didn’t look fake. The amount of ID numbers matched, there was a stamp across your photo only visible in certain light, and it had your department title.
Only when he looked at your name did it finally make sense.
It wasn’t much, but there was a physical relaxation in his tense shoulders. “Y/n.”
You nodded with a reassuring smile. “Yeah. I know I’m meant to be on sabbatical but after six weeks with my family, I decided to cut it short.”
“Does Charles know you’re here?” Erik asked you, handing your badge back.
You nodded, accepting it. “I left him a message. Several, actually. He should get them once he wakes up.”
Erik took a look at his watch. Going off the top of his head, and taking the time-zone difference into consideration, it would be at least eight hours before Charles would be waking up – that was, if he was in bed.
“If I had your contact details, I would have left a message with you, too.”
Erik nodded. “Would you mind if I waited to hear back from Xavier before-”
“Oh, oh my– yes. Sorry, of course. Sorry.”
“You said you were with your family?”
“For six weeks. It was meant to be eight, but they can be…a lot. Entertaining and fun, but a lot. Especially when I’m used to this place.”
“And your brother’s a cop?”
“Yeah. A couple kids here got into trouble a while back. My brother found them. Xavier was worried but my brother…he isn’t like the rest,” you explained.
“Because his sister is a mutant?”
You seemed to get a little defensive. “Because the only people he doesn’t care for are bullies.”
Erik could help but laugh a little. “And who is your brother? Steve Rogers?”
“Wasn’t aware you read comic books. You don’t seem like the type.”
Erik shrugged. “I’ve confiscated plenty during classroom hours. Wanted to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Ah.”
Erik laughed. “What?”
“Nothing, just…you already sound like the kinda teacher I thought you would be.”
“And what kind of teacher is that?”
“A hard ass.”
“Excuse me?” Erik raised a brow.
“You heard me. But, ultimately, even if the kids don’t like you now, they’ll appreciate it when they’re older.”
Erik didn’t know whether to be offended, agree with you, or simply say ‘thank you’ and walk away. But, he didn’t have much time to do anything because the phone he’d left on the counter was ringing.
“That’ll be Xavier,” you said.
Erik furrowed his brows, especially since from where you were standing you couldn’t see the caller ID. And he’d given no reaction to alert you otherwise.
“Hello?”
“Erik. Just a quick call to let you know Y/n–”
“Is coming back? I know.”
“Oh, she’s there? Oh, right- time zones. Totally forgot. Anyway, she’s free to start right away.”
“She says she’s got another two weeks-”
“That doesn’t matter much. She’ll start work whether you want her to or not. I’ve found it’s better to just let her do her thing.”
Erik looked over at you, briefly. “So I’m starting to gather.”
Xavier chuckled on the other end of the line. “I’m sure you two will get along like a house on fire. Just…don’t actually set my house on fire.”
“I’ll try not to,” Erik mumbled before Xavier said his goodbyes and wished him good luck.
“Guess I can start unpacking?” You asked, a knowing smile growing on your face.
“I guess so.”
Everything ran somewhat smoothly despite his unease with you. You were a good teacher to your students – they all seemed to be enthralled in your classes – and the extra circulars you ran seemed to produce good numbers.
There was just one thing that bugged him. He couldn’t work out what your mutation was. There was nothing in your work file from Xavier, and each time he asked him, Xavier just replied and said you were gifted.
You seemed to have a knack for knowing who was calling, or who was about to walk into a room. Based on your reactions to the few outbursts that happened in your classroom, you seemed to know what was going on in people’s heads.
“Tea?”
“Jesus-”
You also never seemed to make a sound.
From your place behind the counter, you just smiled – a little smug – at him. You motioned to mug in front of you, as if to ask him again.
“Yes, but, I can make my own.”
You just shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I make a mean cup of tea.”
“I’m sure you do.”
In the quiet of the kitchen, you were aware Erik was watching almost your every movement. The way you picked up the kettle, the tea you chose, what you stirred it with – a spoon or magic.
As he turned his back, opening up the tea cupboard, you didn’t look at him. Just simply said, after a few moments, “Top shelf, right at the back and to the left.”
Erik stilled himself for a moment, before reaching to where you said and he found the box he’d been looking for.
What th-
“Alright.” He turned around quickly.
You paused, the tea spoon you had been using, hanging in your mouth for a moment as you assessed your situation.
“How did you do that?”
“Know where the tea was? Who do you think stocks the cupboard?”
“Not that.” Erik placed the box of tea down as he came to your side. “How did you know which one I wanted?”
You shrugged. “Took a guess?”
“Took a guess?” Erik laughed. “Alright. It’s not just the tea.”
“We have coffee, too.”
“What are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What are you? Because that is something I’ve been trying to figure out. Are you like him? Like Charles? A telepath? Or a psychic? Some kind of witch?”
“Why are you so interested?” You lowered your voice, playfully. “Do you have a crush on me? If you do, you can be a little more forward.”
“Stop messing around.”
You chuckled. “I’m not messing.”
“What are you? What is your mutation?”
“I don’t have one,” you answered honestly.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop lying.”
“I’m not,” you almost laughed, again. “I’m not lying. I don’t have a mutation.”
You held a steady gaze with Erik, keeping your heartbeat calm. You really were telling the truth.
“You’re not lying…” Erik’s voice came out softer than he’d ever spoken to you. “But Charles said-”
“That I’m gifted?” You nodded. “Because I am. But not because of a mutation.”
“So what’s your gift? Knowing tea preferences?”
You nodded, “Amongst other things. Look, I’m observant. I always have been. My dad was a Detective, my brother’s a cop, my mom was the woman everyone ran to when they needed to vent. I notice things, pick things up. Both emotionally and from off-the-books training.”
“You’re really not a mutant?”
“All human.”
Erik, surprisingly, relaxed. “So how did you end up here?”
“My brother’s a cop. After he found a group of kids hanging round the mall, after hours, he was gonna call it in. Until he saw what they were doing.”
“Do I wanna know?”
You chuckled. “They were training. Mostly messing around, but they were using their abilities. Doing flips and tricks – nothing any standard human could do. My brother called out to them and when they didn’t run, he asked if there was someone he could call to come and pick them up.”
“They called Charles?”
You nodded, picking up your mug and walking over to the small wooden table by the window. Erik joined you.
“He was thankful that my brother wasn’t–”
“A bully?”
“Yeah. Anyway, a couple days later, one of the kids must have wanted to report a missing item or something but didn’t exactly wanna go to the cops and explain how they had lost it.”
“And?”
“Xavier showed up at my house.”
“Why your house?”
“Oh, my brother was having his house exterminated. Termites, just everywhere.” You gave a shiver at the thought. “Anyway, he was staying with me. But, he was out so I invited him in. He wasn’t there long but he must have seen what I was preparing for my classes. Apparently he had an open position at his school and, well, I wasn’t exactly crazy about staying where I was.”
“Why?”
You smiled at him. “Why are you so curious?”
“Can you blame me? I know Xavier is all for mutant-human relations but…I didn’t expect him to have human teachers this soon.”
“Well, if you must know,” you sighed. “My boss was more focused on what the teachers, especially the females, were wearing, rather than what the kids were being taught.”
“I’m sorry.”
You shrugged. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine. But…well, I’m no longer there. And, come to think of it, I don’t think he is, either. Pretty sure he moved after his divorce.”
“Good for his wife.”
You nodded. “She’s remarried now, or so my neighbours tell me.”
Erik smiled a little, leaning on the table.
“Go on,” you said.
“What?” Erik smiled.
You leaned on the table, with a smile covered sigh. “I know you wanna know more. So, come on, ask me.”
“Are you sure you’re not a mutant? Mind reader, perhaps?”
You chuckled. “Maybe in another life. In this one, I’m just perceptive. Plus, Xavier warned me you might be nosy.”
“Did he now?”
You hummed. “So, come on, ask me what you wanna ask me.”
That evening, Erik got to know you a little more. More than what was in your file, more than what he was sure you had shared with Xavier.
And you got to know him.
Some of his past – the happier memories, at least. Moments between himself and Xavier, and his surprising ability to be a decent teacher. And not just when dealing with mutant powers.
Only a few days later, things were beginning to change. Erik wasn’t quite as guarded when it came to you. He smiled a little more, he actually walked with you down a hallway without stopping to study you, he didn’t make excuses or hide away.
Deep down, it surprised you.
Professor Xavier had tried his best to explain the man that would be taking over his position in the school whilst he was away. What you could research about Erik Lehnsherr only ever told you one side of the story – not that it was a big story in the eyes of the mass media.
But after spending time with him, getting to know him, he seemed…different.
You could see the sides of him – predict them, even – that others had seen. But you could see something else, too. He wanted what Xavier wanted, but his methods were different. He looked out for the kids, taught them what he knew and what they needed to know – both about the world and the academic version.
But there was still a vulnerability. A softness. Something buried in his soul behind pain and hurt. You couldn’t blame him for burying it.
But it was nice to see it. To experience a side of him that Xavier had told you about. The side of him that smiled, the side of him that laughed, the side of him that opened himself up to happier memories.
Even after Professor Xavier returned, you were grateful to get to know Erik as both a colleague and somewhat of a friend.
“Don’t you think it’s rather dangerous to be climbing so high in your position?”
“And what position is that?” You called down to Erik.
Since the summer months were drawing in, you had decided to start clearing out the botany garden at the bottom of the hill on the estate. So far you had pulled out all the weeds, gathered the broken pots and were now straddling the roof of the shed in order to strip the moss and replace the broken beams.
“You know,” Erik called up. “Human. Last I checked, you don’t exactly have the ability to fly.”
“Technically, neither do you.”
“Technically, I still have powers.”
You chuckled, before concentrating to pull up another stubborn beam whilst also trying to avoid splinters.
Erik felt a little uneasy watching you. “Are you sure you’re safe up there?”
“I’m fine, Erik. Totally-”
The commotion all happened at once. The sound of your voice, a splinter, a crack and then a loud crash.
Erik ran as quickly as he could, whilst making sure the metal brackets inside the shed kept the sides up. He wasn’t about to watch you get buried alive under rotten and unstable wood.
“Y/n!”
You coughed, trying to catch your breath. By the time he got to your side, you groaned.
“Whoa, easy. Take it easy. Are you okay?”
“I think my life just flashed before my eyes.”
Erik tried to keep you still as he checked you over. “Does anything feel broken?”
You shook your head, but instantly stopped. “No. I-I don’t think so, but I think I might have hit my– oh.”
Moving your fingers from your head, you saw red.
“Here, let me see.”
Leaning over you, Erik cradled your head in order to check it. “Is there blood?”
“Yeah. Yeah, there’s blood. We need to get you back to the house.”
You groaned. “Help me up. I can walk.”
Erik shook his head. “You’ve got a concussion. I don’t need you collapsing climbing up that hill.”
“It’s not like you can carry me.”
“Says who? I get I might not be, you know, some world champion body builder, but I can still carry you.”
You laughed, but instantly regretted it since it left your head pounding.
“Okay, come on. Put your arm around me.” Erik kneeled by your side.
“What? No.”
“Y/n, come on-”
“No.”
“Do you always have to be this argumentative?”
“Yes.”
Erik paused to look at you, and you shot him a weak smile. The pain in your head was growing, and you were growing tired.
“Give me your arm.” Erik placed it over his neck and shoulders, placing his arms around your back and under your legs. “Ready, on three. One, two, three.”
Erik stood with you in his arms, and you cried out a little in pain.
“You okay?” Erik asked, his voice worried.
Biting your tongue, you nodded with a hum. “Hm-hm. I’m fine. Just sore.”
“Okay, just…try and hold on.” Erik made his way with you over the debris of the fallen shed and towards the house. “Almost there.”
Twenty minutes later, you were in the infirmary being checked over by the on-site doctor and nurses whilst Erik told them the truth about how you sustained your injuries.
“It wasn’t that high.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Make sure she’s not got any rotten splinters, too.”
“I don’t have any rotten– ow.” You saw Erik smile a little behind his hand as you were given pain-meds. “You’re enjoying this.”
“You almost die-”
“I didn’t almost die-”
“And you still manage to argue with me.”
“It’s a fun past-time.” Your smile quickly disappeared when you were jabbed with another needle. This time, they were drawing blood. “Ooh-ow. Ow, ow, ow.”
Erik held your hand before you hit someone.
“Don’t worry,” he told you. “Squeeze as hard as you need.”
A few hours later, after you’d been subjected to a lecture from Xavier (more than once), you were finally able to get some rest.
Only to wake up feeling worse.
Thankfully, you had no broken bones. You did, however, have one fractured rib, and a lot of bruises that you would be feeling sore for a few predictable weeks.
One afternoon, after teaching a couple classes, you said you were going for an hour-long nap…which just so happened to last four.
Sitting up, you fixed the mid-thigh t-shirt from its twisted state and slowly swung your legs over the edge of your bed. It was dark outside, and so was your room.
Carefully, you stood, trying to avoid the dull pain becoming sharp across your entire body. Only, as you managed to stand, the pain became your consequence.
You managed to reach your bedside table, flick on your lamp, and make your way to the body length mirror in your room when someone knocked on your door.
“Hey.”
It was Erik.
Light from in the hallway flooded your room as Erik stood in your doorway, dressed in- jeans? Most often, he was in business casual. Really, you’d noticed, he only ever wore what he was wearing – jeans, boots and button-down flannel – when he was getting his hands dirty.
Most often, in the garden when he was with you.
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” you told him. “Really sore.”
He nodded to where you were holding a hand on your lower back and hip. “Want me to take a look?” Then he held up a pot of balm. “Arnica. It’s…well, it’s meant to help.”
You just nodded and took a breath, before telling him to close the door.
Erik was as gentle as he could be, as he lifted up your shirt. It wasn’t long before he saw the deep purple, black and yellow bruises that trailed up the side and back of your thigh.
The bruises continued up your body and ended just above your rib cage, but Erik stopped lifting when the fabric of your shirt hit your waist.
You were both quiet.
In the mirror, you watched as he tried to hide the pain he felt for you.
“It’s not so bad.”
“Liar,” you replied, your voice quiet but light.
He hummed, “Okay. Maybe it’s a little bad. May I?”
He looked at you in the mirror, and for a vulnerable moment, you held his gaze. You trusted him, you trusted his touch – you trusted he wouldn’t intentionally hurt you.
Unscrewing the jar lid, Erik scooped some of the balm out and warmed it between his fingers and palms.
“Ready?”
Holding onto your window cill to steady yourself, you nodded.
It hurt. Not badly enough to make you cry, or anymore than it would have done if you had done it yourself, but it hurt.
But he was gentle.
Steady and supportive, but still gentle. After a few moments, your skin started to warm under his touch and, rather than tense yourself, you relaxed into him.
“Any better?” He asked, his voice soft by the shell of your ear, and his chest firm behind your back.
You closed your eyes. “Yeah. Thank you.”
For a few moments, you both stayed quiet and soaked in the moment. The feeling of his hands anchored on your hips, your breathing falling in time with his, your heartbeat steadying its rhythm enough to sync with his.
And his lips by your shoulder.
He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately laid a gentle kiss against the fabric of your t-shirt. The second, just by the edge of the fabric, where it met exposed skin. The third just a little higher, fully against your skin. And the fourth, he placed it in the crook of your neck.
“You’re never climbing a rotten shed again.”
A small chuckle escaped you. “You can say that again.”
“Okay. You’re never climbing a rotten shed again.”
You both laughed, Erik stepping a little closer and wrapping his hand and arms a little deeper around you.
“Think you can make it downstairs? Everyone’s already eaten dinner but I saved you a plate. I can heat it up.”
“You cooked?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
You shrugged, slowly turning in his arms. “What can I say? I didn’t know you could cook.”
Erik smiled, a little coy, at you. “And yet I thought you noticed everything.”
“Oh, ha, ha. Pass me my shorts?”
Hanging over your desk chair, Erik reached for them before lowering himself to his knees.
“I can put them on myself, you know.”
Erik nodded, helping you step into them before he carefully dragged them up your legs. “You're injured. You’re allowed help.”
“I can still get dressed–”
Erik stood, keeping his gaze fixed on yours, whilst his fingers trailed the bare skin of your thighs.
“And yet, you let me help you.”
Erik came close enough for you to feel his breath on your lips. And yet, the gravitational pull you felt towards him, and he felt towards you, he pulled back and took your hand.
“Let’s get you some food.”
Erik stayed with you, walking at your pace, as you both made your way down the hallway, stairs and into the kitchen.
“Ready to show me what you’ve done?” You asked him, long after you had finished your meal and argued with him (but let him win) the ‘who washes the dishes’ argument.
“What?” Erik turned around in the hallway of the kitchen to look at you.
You smiled at him. “You’re wearing jeans and you’ve got dirt under your fingernails, despite the nail brush. Last time that happened to me I was pulling up potatoes.”
Erik sighed, placing his hands on his hips, but couldn’t hide his smile. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“You couldn’t even hide your tea preferences from me when you were avoiding me-”
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Erik shook his head.
“Sure you weren’t,” you replied, quickly. “Really thought you could hide it from me?”
Erik looked at you, shaking his leg a little, visibly debating whether to show you or not.
“Fine.”
“Yay,” you cheered, Erik still smiling at you.
“Grab your jacket.”
Grabbing the grey sweatshirt from the bench in the back hallway, you slipped it over your head as Erik opened the back door.
“That’s mine.”
“And now it’s mine,” you said, pulling your hair out of the back.
As you stepped in front of Erik to get outside, he gently pulled the rest of your hair from out of the collar and followed you.
Leaving your shoes inside the house, you walked barefoot through the cool grass whilst Erik’s boots tracked beside you. Reaching the bottom of the hill, you found fresh wooden beams and a full workshop set up.
“Oh, my god, you’re building a shed?” You quickly looked at Erik before looking back to the garden.
All the weeds were gone, the rotten wood had been chucked into a pile fifty yards away, there were freshly built raised beds filled with fresh soil and fertiliser. Some were already growing flowers – they had been replanted into fresh soil. Others were still waiting to bloom.
And then there was the food.
Most of your large-batch plants had been sown into the ground, thanks to Erik. In smaller pots, Erik had managed to salvage some of the herb plants that had been dying away before you fell through the old shed. And, at the very back, behind the half-build shed, was a large basket of potatoes.
“Holy crap, Erik. This is…thank you for doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” Erik told you. “Figured it was the least I could do before I found you here in the middle of the night when you should be healing.”
You hummed. “I have been going stir crazy.”
“It’s been less than a week.”
Erik watched you as you stepped into the garden and traced your fingers over the different petals, flowers and growing food.
“Still longer than a day.”
Erik chuckled.
Turning to look at him, there was nothing but sincerity in your eyes. “Thank you for doing this.”
Erik shrugged. “Can’t have you falling from another shed roof.”
With a chuckle, you took one last look around before walking back through the garden to stand with him. Almost instinctively, he placed his arm over your shoulder and held you against his side.
“We should get back before you catch a chill.”
“Erik Lensherr. Mutant Power: Prediction.”
Erik chuckled, pulling you closer. “Come on.”
“Really, you should ask Xavier if you can get extra powers as you get older. First the roof, now this? Before you know it, you’ll know someone’s tea preference before they do.”
“How did you figure that one out?”
“People have patterns before they notice them. Which foot they lead with, which item they reach for first in a morning, which direction they take during the day. You had to hold two early morning meetings and had a debate club. Every time you needed to wind down, you always reached for the tea at the back of the cupboard, to the left. Since I restocked that cupboard, I figured you’d need some help finding it.”
Erik went quiet for a moment as you both walked back to the house. “You don’t know which foot I lead with.”
“I knew your favourite drink before you realised you had one. Really think I don’t know which foot you lead with?”
Erik paused for a moment and looked at you. “That’s kinda scary.”
A few hours passed with quiet conversations and laughter, before Erik was helping you into bed, but not before you were standing between his legs as he sat on your desk chair and he carefully rubbed the Arnica balm over the bruise spreading across your upper thigh.
You held onto his shoulder for support, and accepted his help when lifting to covers to get into bed.
And, when you asked him, he crawled into bed beside you.
Over time, the dynamic between yourself and Erik was beginning to be noticed by everyone else. The way you moved together – they could practically predict the moment Erik was by your side, his hand would be on your lower back or hip. The way you talked, the way you didn’t talk.
Almost every movement you both made in each other's presence was as if you’d been doing it for a lifetime.
So, when the rain was pouring down over New York – weather you were usually still outside in – and had been stress baking all day, the students knew who to call on.
Rather, who to call on first.
“Do you know what’s up with Y/n?” Charles asked Erik as he entered the library.
Erik didn’t look up from his book. “Why do you ask?”
Charles just smiled at Erik. “You know, even I don’t have to read your mind Erik.”
Laying the book down on his lap, not bothering to remember the last two pages he’d read, he looked to his friend.
Charles just kept smiling. “It’s nice,” he said, “seeing you two together.”
“We’re just friends, Charles.”
“And I’m the King of England. But, seriously. Do you know if something’s happened?”
Erik sat up. “Is she okay?”
He nodded. “She seems fine as far as I’m aware, but a few students have asked me the same question. I figured I’d ask you.”
“Where is she?”
“In the kitchen,” Charles said, a little confused why Erik sounded so passionate. “Baking. She’s…completely fine-”
“What is she baking?”
“She’s just pulled some cinnamon buns out of the oven. I smelled them on my way here.”
Erik sighed, closing his book and standing.
“Erik? Erik, what is it? Is she okay?”
“She-She’s fine. Just…keep people away from the kitchen for a while.”
“Erik? Erik?!”
Erik didn’t turn back. Just simply made a beeline for the back kitchen which was where he found you. It was slightly worse than he was expecting.
It was like a tornado had exploded in the kitchen. An organised one. But still a tornado, nonetheless.
“Honey?”
You didn’t look up. You didn’t even react. You just kept hammering your dough with your rolling pin.
“Okay,” Erik said slowly to himself, bracing himself for whatever was about to happen.
Across each counter was some relevant stage of baked goods. Some still in the ingredients stage, others half way there, and about eight trays of freshly baked cinnamon rolls, blueberry muffins, and a collection of cookies.
It wasn’t like you didn’t bake. There was at least a tray of cookies or muffins each Sunday morning for the students and staff to enjoy. But, when you baked like this? With the anger, annoyance and intimidation of a thousand armies?
Something was seriously wrong.
Erik cleared his throat as he stepped closer to you. “Sweetheart? Can-can we put the rolling pin down?”
You turned to him quickly, making him jump. You weren’t exactly one for violence, but he wasn’t sure what your reaction would be if you were startled.
“Two days!” You yelled. “Two days!”
“Two days for what?” Erik managed to pry the wooden rolling pin out from your hands.
“You’d think-”
You started whipping up a new storm inside the kitchen as you darted around. As you did so, Erik tried to ensure your safety from open cabinet doors, mental utensils that were inches from falling off the counter and into your feet, and death defying climbing escapades in order to reach the top of the industrial sized cabinets.
It had been just over a month since you fell from the shed roof and Erik wasn’t exactly fond of the idea of you repeating your accident.
“After years of teaching, and having cops in the family, I’d know how to lie better. Wouldn’t you? But no! Instead, I’ve become some kind of truth-telling machine, physically incapable of forming a believable lie to my parents. And it’s not even a big lie! It’s a tiny, little white lie.”
Erik followed you. “A lie? What did you have to lie about?”
You turned quickly, pointing a finger into his chest. “I didn’t lie about anything. That’s my issue. I should have, but I didn’t, and now- now, they’re coming here.”
“Who’s coming here? And what should you have lied about?”
You kept walking, but Erik continued to follow.
“I should have said I was fired. Or that the injuries were to someone else. Or that I-I-I don’t work at a boarding school that is off for Spring break.” You sighed.
Erik had to take you by the shoulders. “Okay, just take a breath. What’s actually happened?”
Taking a deep breath, you tried to focus as you told him what had happened.
“My mom called me. She asked about my injuries. I hadn’t told her, but apparently the form that was sent through to the hospital flagged with my name. One of the nurses there knows my brother. She told him, he told my mom and now…they’re coming up here in two days.”
“Your…parents? They’re coming here?”
You nodded. “They don’t like the idea of my getting hurt in the work place and not being told. So, now, they are coming up here to see me. And, before you say…my dad has already said if Xavier says no and doesn’t rearrange, he’ll drop in and make a surprise visit.”
Erik nodded, slowly. “Okay. Does Charles know yet?”
You shook your head. “Not yet. I’m trying to…work out how to word it. Or find a way out of it.”
“Do they know what kind of school you teach at?”
You shook your head. “My brother does. But my folks…I don’t think they’d hold any prejudices but…”
Erik nodded. “You don’t want to risk it.”
You nodded, agreeing.
Erik took a breath. “Well, most of the kids are heading back home for Spring Break tomorrow. They’ll only be a select few here and one of the other teachers can…take them out on a day trip. Maybe your brother can help with that. Does he know how to fish?”
You nodded. “My dad taught us when we were young.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime, you…try not to implode. I’ll go and talk to Charles.”
Placing a kiss on your forehead, he headed for the door.
“Erik-”
He turned back. “It’ll be okay.”
By the time he returned, the kitchen was less Tornado Alley, more…chaotically organised.
“If it helps, Charles seems excited. Apparently his brother had spoken highly of your parents, too.”
“Are you gonna be here? When they arrive?”
Erik started helping you pack away the sweet treats you had already made, into air-tight containers. “Do you want me to be?”
“Yes,” you said. “If-if you’re okay with it.”
Erik smiled, walking over to you. Without a word, he hugged you and you wrapped your arms around him, tight. “Everything will be fine.”
You sighed. “You haven’t met them yet.”
“I’ve met you. And I like you. Surely the people who raised you can’t be much different.”
You leaned your head against his chest. “You say that now, but if you need an escape from my dad’s stories, or my mom’s relentless questions…just give me a sign.”
Erik chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “We’ll be fine. Besides, I’m sure Charles can keep them entertained.”
True to Erik’s word, Xavier did. He greeted them with a warming smile and offered them a tour around the place. He made reassurances for your safety as well as the staff and students. And, he soon got your dad talking about some of his old cases he’d read in the newspapers.
Meanwhile, your mom was practically falling in love with Erik.
You hadn’t mentioned you were dating, or even seeing anyone. You’d introduced Erik, the same way you had done with Xavier. But, even if your dad didn’t visibly notice your slight change of tone, your mom did.
She also recognised the look in your eyes as you looked at Erik. And, she recognised the look in his eyes, too.
A few hours into their visit and a general swap had taken place. Whilst Xavier was showing your mother around the grounds, bringing you with her, Erik showed your dad around the study halls and library.
“Take care of my daughter, Erik. She’s very precious to me.”
Erik nodded. “She’s precious to me, too, Sir.”
From his hand, your dad accepted the drink Erik had poured for him.
“I can see that.”
Erik fell quiet behind his glass. Meanwhile, your father took a sip and sighed.
“Her mother thinks I don’t see what’s going on, and I suspect Y/n doesn’t, either. But I do. You care for my daughter, yes?”
“Very much.”
Your father nodded, satisfied with his answer. “I am aware,” he began, slowly. “Of what kind of school this is. Now, I don’t hold any prejudices or fears. But…I don’t want my child. The one who seemingly should be the furthest away from danger, here…I don’t want to see her get hurt. By anything. Or anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
Erik nodded, swallowing the small ball of fear in his chest. “Yes, sir. I should assure you, Y/n is safe here. The students love her, and she’s fantastic at her job. She does have a tendency to ignore the generic rules of safety-”
Your father laughed, deeply. “She hasn’t changed. Did she ever tell you what happened when she was six?”
“No,” Erik said.
Taking a seat on the sofa in the library, your father invited Erik to join him. He took a seat across from him and listened.
“Her brother had decided that he was too old to play with his sister in the treehouse, so he and his friends had made up a ‘no girls allowed’ rule. Of course, Y/n wasn’t too happy about that. And she tried everything to get into the treehouse and claim her ownership. So, after everything else had failed her, she decided the best course of action was to climb onto the garage roof, shimmy across to the tree on a ladder and make the death-defying jump from the higher branch, and onto the roof of the treehouse.”
“So, her climbing onto roofs isn’t a new concept?”
Your father chuckled. “Oh, no. I got home just in time to watch her land on the roof, lose her grip and hit the ground below. Thankfully, she wasn't so high up that she lost a limb, but she did give me the fright of my life!”
“I don’t know if that story reassures me, or makes me more nervous.”
“Either way, Y/n is…independent. And tough. If you’re going to be her friend? Look out for her. But, if you’re going to be more than that, which, from how you look at each other, I suspect you already are...”
Erik shifted a little, nervous under your father’s gaze.
“Then I ask that you take care of her. In whatever way you can. Just don’t hurt her.”
“Believe me, sir, I have no intention of ever hurting your daughter.”
Your father took a breath, silently but not subtly, studying Erik.
“I believe you.”
Then, clapping his hands, he sat forward. “Now that's been taken care of, we should probably go and find my wife and daughter. No doubt the Professor is feeling the third degree of my wife’s questions.”
Erik chuckled a little, but did let his mask drop for a moment whilst your father’s back was turned. Quickly, he wiped his brow, said a small prayer to whichever God was listening, and led your father to the garden at the bottom of the hill.
It was approaching ten in the evening before your parents – after sitting for a cooked meal from Erik – headed home. And, whilst Xavier made sure all the kids were back and safe in their rooms, you went to find your brother.
“So, how was it?”
“It was good!”
Your brother smiled at you. “Told you there was nothing to worry about.”
Erik appeared behind you. “Hello.”
Your brother looked at you for barely a moment before looking at Erik, trying to hide his smile. Without having to properly introduce him, he already knew who he was.
“Hi,” your brother stuck out his hand and introduced himself.
“Erik,” he replied, shaking his hand.
“Erik, this is my brother-”
“The cop. Charles said the kids had fun.”
Your brother smiled proudly. “Oh, yeah. They’ve learned how to fish, and also what not to do. A couple people almost fell in.”
“Truth,” you said, glaring at your brother.
He turned a little sheepish. “Okay. One.”
“And that was?”
“Me. Okay, it was me. But it was…purely on purpose. You know, to show them what not to, uh,” your brother scratched the back of his head, “what not to do.”
You chuckled, the image of your brother falling into the river playing across your mind.
“But, hey,” your brother smiled. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Y/n’s told me a lot about you.”
Erik smiled, looking at you a little. “Has she?”
“Oh, yeah.”
You wanted to die. Suddenly, you were fourteen again and avoiding every corridor in your school in fear of running into your crush who your friend asked out for you.
“Uhh, we- we don’t have to do this right here-”
“Non-stop,” your brother clarified, completely oblivious to your mortification.
Erik just grinned like the cat that got the cream. “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of things has she told you?”
“Oh, well, the usual. Your looks, your personality. Honestly, sometimes it’s kinda annoying. How handsome, tall, smart, funny–”
“Okay-”
“-you are and how she feels-”
You called your brother’s name, but Erik just held out his hand politely.
“Y/n, let the man talk.”
Flicking your gaze between Erik and your brother, you slowly watched the mask on your brother’s face fall. He knew what he was doing.
“Ohh, I hate you,” you grumbled as he started laughing.
When Erik joined him – although deep down it warmed something inside of you, knowing your brother and Erik were getting along – you wanted to kill both of them.
“God, you’re annoying.”
“Oh, come on!” Your brother laughed. “When else can I talk to the man? Besides, he asked!”
You threw your hands up in the air. “You know what, I’m gonna ask Xavier to wipe my memory. You two stand here and gossip all you like.”
Erik shrugged. “It’s interesting gossip.”
You glared at him, but behind the heated look, Erik saw the smile you were hiding. Which, by the time he was joining you in your room long after everyone went to bed, was beaming on your face as he got you to finally admit your crush and subsequent feelings for him.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> When Mycroft asked you to marry him, he thought it would be in name only. However, as time goes on, the lines between being your friend and being your husband seem to blur.
Disclaimer: Mostly fluff, friends to lovers, domesticity, brother's best friend/best friend's brother, one bed trope, hurt/comfort, Mycroft gets wounded, talks about children, marriage of convenience, happy endings.
When Mycroft asked you, one of Sherlock’s only and oldest friends, to be his wife, he thought it would be in name alone.
He needed a stable foundation to secure his place in the Foreign Office and, on many occasions, he had heard you say that you needed security away from your family and the older you got the less likely that seemed.
The ceremony, although slightly shocking, was quick and efficient. Simple vows exchanged, nothing too personal. And nine months later, no child was born. Whether strictly business or love, it wasn’t socially unacceptable.
“Are you still awake?” Entering his study, you took a look at your husband. He should have gone to bed hours ago.
Confused, Mycroft looked to the mantle clock and realised the time. “Oh sh…”
With a tired smile, you stepped inside and stood by his side. You felt him relax under your touch.
“What are you working on?”
Mycroft leaned back. “It’s…not important.”
“You’re still awake at two in the morning. It must hold some consequence.”
He sighed, “It’s for Sherlock. He…needs my help.”
“Legal?”
“More so than the last time.”
You smiled, leaning down to wrap your arms around his shoulders.
Since you had known the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had always looked out for Sherlock. Even if it meant giving him gray hairs before he was thirty.
“Think it can wait long enough for you to get some rest?”
He sighed, pushing the papers forward in order to stand from his chair. “I don’t see why not.”
Snuffing out the candles, you took Mycroft by his hand and gently dragged him to bed.
It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you both started to share a bed. Nothing other than sleeping, and the odd cuddle, occurred. But it was nice.
It was nice to know you both had someone.
In the beginning, it had been only a little less than awkward. Maybe if you hadn’t known each other for so long beforehand, it would have been easier. Maybe.
But, one night when you’d both finally gotten home from saving Sherlock’s neck once again, you’d collapsed onto the master bed. Mycroft had landed beside you and asked you to stay.
After spending the last three days searching for one family member, he didn’t like the thought of being separated from another, even if just for the night.
From then on, it just…stuck.
You both already talked and dined together. Once a week, you’d both go out and have lunch or dinner at a tea shop or restaurant. You were already a friend of the family before marriage so there was no bad blood.
Sherlock did seem…off for a while when the engagement was announced. But, after a few weeks, he came around to the idea.
Sharing a bed, just to sleep, didn’t seem too big of a stretch.
“I’m meant to see Lestrade today,” Mycroft told you when you’d both finally woken up.
Rubbing your eye, you turned your head to look at your husband. Mycroft had a strange ability to look devilishly handsome, even in the morning.
“And?”
“I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach…”
“Sherlock?”
Mycroft nodded. “I do worry about him.”
Reaching up, you laid a gentle hand on the side of his face. “He’s your brother. And, he does often find himself in precarious situations.”
“But if he’s on Lestrade’s radar…”
You rubbed your eye, again. “Then…hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.”
Mycroft nodded. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“Are you alright?”
You rubbed your eye for a third time. “I think there’s something in my eye.”
“Let me see.”
Leaning closer, Mycroft gently brushed his thumb under your eye. “There’s an eyelash. Hold steady.”
“Ow.”
“That didn’t hurt.”
“It’s not your eye.”
“Stay still…there.” Mycroft leaned up a little. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
Mycroft smiled, his own hand resting on your face gently. His eyes traced over your own, before he felt his breath catch in his chest for a moment.
Just as his eyes dropped to your lips and started to wonder the same thing he’d been wondering for weeks – what would it be like to kiss you? – there was a knock on the bedroom door.
Like most mornings, you both put distance between yourselves and went about your day. You met him at the bottom of the stairs before he left for work, fixed his tie and kissed his cheek.
The entire way to work was spent with thoughts of you. Even on your wedding day, you didn’t share a kiss. A pillar candle inside the room had fallen from the table when the officiant stepped back, distracting both yourselves and everyone else from the final piece of your marriage agreement.
The kiss.
Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself; though you were his wife, you were his friend. And he was yours. Although no verbal agreement had been made, there was an unspoken understanding that the marriage was strictly business. If either one of you were to fall in love with someone else, it would have to be kept secret until you could both find the least messiest way out of the marriage.
But that was three years ago.
Since then, you’d saved both his and Sherlock’s neck countless times. He’d been there for you, even when you tried to push everyone away. You had made sure he took care of himself, in the time he forgot he was human. He had made sure to take care of you, even when you said you could do it yourself.
“I hate to pester but when am I going to get grandchildren?” Cordelia asked you.
You and Mycroft exchanged a glance before he took the lead of the conversation. Every Sunday, you both took a trip to Appleton Manor to visit Cordelia. And, every Sunday, the conversation always landed near or around the topic of children.
It was unusual to be married three years and not have a child. Most couples you both knew were on their third child by now.
“I know you both said you’re waiting for the right time, but Mycroft. You’re more than secure at your job, and Y/n…children-”
Reaching out, you held her hand. “I know. I know. But…we’re just taking our time, right Mycroft?”
He nodded with a reassuring smile. “Yes, dear.”
Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself. He did often find himself wondering what it would be like to have children, especially with you. But, again, you were friends. Marriage in name, alone.
You couldn’t lie to yourself, either. You had found yourself thinking what it would be like to actually have children, especially with Mycroft. You were an only child, growing up. Sherlock had become not only a friend, but a brother of sorts, when you were kids.
And Cordelia wasn’t the only mother-in-law asking for grandchildren. Your mother had been waiting longer than three years to see you married with children.
The thought both excited and terrified you at the same time. Because, for as much as you were married, yourself and Mycroft had never…crossed that line. With all technicalities, you hadn’t even kissed each other.
By that logic, children were…a long shot in the dark.
“Well, whenever you decide to have children, there is an empty room at the top of the hall for a nursery.”
Yourself and Mycroft smiled at Cordelia before you both realised what she had said.
“Let me show you.”
Less than five minutes later, yourself and Mycroft were opening the door to an old bedroom. It was the nursery Mycroft had stayed in as a baby. After Bea grew up, the nursery became a collection room for old trinkets and sheets.
Except, as you both stood looking inside, it was…freshly painted.
The cot had a fresh coat of wood-stain and wax, the mattress was new, as were the sheets and curtains. Old wooden toys had been refurbished to look like new.
It was…perfect.
“O-Of course, I would expect your mother would want to be close, too, whilst you were recovering. And London is no place to recover in peace. But I understand if-”
You were on the brink of tears. “Cordelia, this is…”
“Mother, this is truely…”
“I’m lost for words.”
“You can just say if this was a bad idea-”
You shook your head, quickly. “No. No, no, no. Of course, not. No. I just…it’s a lot to take in. Thank you, Cordelia.”
“Yes, mother. Thank you.”
“You both like it?”
You nodded. “It’s wonderful.”
Cordelia took a breath. “Oh, thank goodness. Of course, nothing has to happen now. But, I wanted you to both know that there is a place here, for all of you, always.”
The carriage ride back home was quiet. Filled to the brims with a silence that was almost suffocating.
“So…”
“So…”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “We never broached the topic of children, did we?”
“No…we didn’t.”
“Do you, rather, I guess, would you– would you like– to– unless there’s someone– I suppose, unless you have someone else—”
Reaching out, you took his hand. “Mycroft.”
Almost selfishly, it eased you to know that he was dealing with the issue as well as you. Awkwardly, whilst trying to remain normal.
“Please tell me you know what I’m trying to say.”
A small chuckle left you. “I think I do.”
“Dear lord,” Mycroft lifted a hand to his brow. “One would think this kind of conversation would be easier.”
“Yes, I suppose so. If one wasn’t married only in name.”
“Plenty of couples are only married in name, surly.”
You nodded. “But how many are just friends? Friends who might want children?”
“I don’t know. I don’t…know.”
Mycroft laid his head back and looked at you.
“How about we take this one step at a time?”
“I think we’ve skipped the first few.”
You nodded. “And maybe that is something we have to retrace before we…commit to children.”
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
Mycroft smiled, squeezing your hand. “Retrace. One step at a time?”
You nodded. “I think I can agree to that.”
Despite everything seemingly going back to normal, there was a fresh awkwardness around yourself and Mycroft. Some conversations would die away, others simply would start off too awkwardly for either one of you to stick around long enough.
However, it would only take a few weeks for all of that to change forever.
First, there was a government gala where one particular member of parliament decided that you were to be his date, electing to ignore the fact you were someone else’s wife.
It wasn’t the first time you had heard Mycroft call you his wife, but it was the first time it seemed to truly mean something more than just a name coming from his lips.
Then Sherlock found himself in a spot of danger, which just so happened to pull you into that spot, too. Thankfully, you were unharmed, but Mycroft wasn’t so lucky.
With a slash across his jacket, a heavy log of wood thrown to bash his rib cage and a grazing bullet left him with: a smattering of scars across his back, a growing purple bruise across his side and chest, and a burn-like scar.
“I really do think you should see a doctor, Mycroft.”
Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
You looked across his bare back and chest with sadness. Despite the new scars, you couldn’t help but let your fingers trace over healed ones. They were miniscule in comparison, and decades old.
“I’m okay,” Mycroft said, his voice gentle. “Look at me?”
With a gentle finger, he pushed your chin up until you looked him in the eyes.
“I’m okay,” he repeated.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“All that matters to me, is that you are alive and well.”
“At what cost?”
“A couple of scars that will heal.”
Reaching up, you went to lay a hand on his arm where you usually would. Only, there was now a fresh scar.
“It’s okay,” Mycroft quickly took your hand, kissed it, and held it close to his chest. “It’s okay.”
Taking a deep breath, you tried to still your tears.
“Don’t cry, darling.” Mycroft held you closer, wiping away the falling tears.
“When I heard the shot…Mycroft…I thought…”
“I know. I know. For a moment, I did, too. But everything’s okay. We’re both safe.”
Reaching up, you wrapped your arms over Mycroft’s shoulders and neck, being careful to not disturb his clean wound. Meanwhile, his own arms wrapped around your waist securely.
The final push came a few days later.
Until then, your days had been filled with soft and quiet moments that you shared with Mycroft. You kept his wounds clean and made sure they were healing, eventually he told you where the other scars came from.
Most were from being a child – climbing trees, rolling down twig-covered hills, and the like. But a few – only a few – were from more…serious incidents.
“My father got angry one evening. I don’t even remember what it was over, but I got in the way. I know he didn’t mean it but…”
Leaning down, carefully, you placed a single kiss against the scar.
“You’re not your father, Mycroft. You’re not him.”
That night, you held each other until you fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. But that wasn’t the case a few nights later.
“Can’t sleep?”
Mycroft looked over at you from his space on the sofa, “What? Oh, sorry. No, I guess not.”
With a tired smile, you closed the door behind you and took a seat beside him. On instinct, he lifted his arm and held you by his side.
“How are your wounds?”
“A little sore, but healing thanks to you.”
“Good.” Looking up at him, he seemed…pensive. “Mycroft? What are you thinking about?”
Suddenly, he turned to you. “We’re married, yes?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“We’re husband and wife.”
You nodded, again. “That’s usually what happens when people get married.”
“Do you think of me as your husband?”
You chuckled, nervously. “Why are you asking?” Then your stomach dropped. “Mycroft-” You sat up. “Have you…” You tried to steady your voice. “Have you found someone?”
Mycroft sat up, too. “No. I just…I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually, and…I think- no. I know…I want to be married. Specifically, to you.”
“We already are.”
“Not just in name,” he quickly added.
“Oh.”
You fell quiet as you looked at him. He was waiting for a response, but your reaction told him that your brain had come to a halt.
“It’s not just because of these last few days. Well, I suppose it gave me the push I needed but...I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I just– and this isn’t about being intimate…I’d like for us to try and be more than just friends.” Mycroft took a strained breath. “I’m really hoping I haven’t read into things wrongly, or made assumptions–”
“No. You haven’t. I just…”
The longer you looked at Mycroft, the more you wanted to invent a time machine to go back to when he first offered to marry you, and hit yourself over the head. Entering into a contractual marriage with the one guy you’d secretly been crushing on, from afar, probably wasn’t the best premise to avoid catching feelings for your husband.
Mycroft’s breathing seemed strained. Like he was secretly wishing to turn back time, himself.
But for the wrong reasons.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
He didn't make assumptions.
For as long as he had been thinking about your marriage being more than you both agreed, you’d been thinking about it a lot longer.
Mycroft seemed confused, and a little concerned, when you reached for him. Unable to think of what to say, your mind landed on one simple thing that could express what you were trying to find the words to say.
Simply, you kissed him.
It was a little awkward, at first. Uncertain, testing, searching. After a moment, Mycroft finally moved.
His hand came to hold your face, gently, as he deepened the kiss a little. Leaning forward, pressing a little harder, your mouth parted just a little.
With a slight of hand, it wasn’t long before you found yourself straddled across your husband’s lap.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been dressed in a nightgown and dressing robe in front of Mycroft, but it was the first time he had touched you. Just small and sensitive touches – a skimming of his palm over your clothing, the tender cupping of his hand, a squeeze of your hip.
A small noise came from the back of your throat as he seemed to shift a little under you.
“Is-is everything alright?”
Trying to catch your breath, you nodded. “Yes. It’s just…new.”
Mycroft swallowed. “We should probably slow down.”
“Probably,” you agreed, your fingers gently tracing his jaw line.
It was the logical thing to do. After all, it was past midnight and, despite his injuries, Mycroft was well enough to travel. You’d both promised Cordelia you would go and see her.
But there was something in his kiss that felt…magnetic. Pulling away from his kiss was harder than leaning closer and kissing him, again.
So, you did exactly that.
Not that either of you were complaining.
Being married for three years granted you both more than a little leeway in terms of intimacy.
And Cordelia certainly noticed the change in both of you when you arrived at Appleton Manor two hours later than scheduled.
“We got caught in…traffic! Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Traffic. There were so many carriages in the city this weekend. It was ram-packed.”
Cordelia smiled. “Mycroft, darling, perhaps you could fetch me my shawl. It’s just in the drawing room.”
“Of course, mother. I’ll be right back.”
The second Mycroft disappeared, Cordelia took you by your arm. “You two are terrible liars. But, I’ll forgive you. I suppose nearly dying gives you both a second lease on life. And a second honeymoon.”
“Cordelia!”
“Oh, please. Before Silas turned out to be a raging psychopath, we were the same. When we were a lot younger. But, I won’t embarrass you further. I just wanted to say…it rather suits you. Being in love. Showing it.”
In your head, nothing had really gone any differently. But, perhaps, there was an atmosphere. Less secret looks, more open ones. A few more noticeable, lingering touches.
Before you knew it, things were changing. Even more so than they already had.
Summary: Clark Kent/Superman x Journalist!Reader -> You don't trust Clark Kent, and you have reasons why. But, after a conversation with Superman, you begin to open up to both Superman and Clark.
Disclaimer: Rivals/Enemies to lovers, journalist!reader who has just transfered to the daily planet. Ik it's May but Christmas vibes eventually, emotionally avoidant!reader, eventual work partners, slow burning friends to lovers, reader has goddaughters, holding hands, snowball fights, snowed-in, identity discovery/reveal, 10.3k words.
You had been working at the Daily Planet for six months. And, it was going…well.
Perry was a better boss than your last one had been. The coffee was slightly better, and your desk was a little bigger. And the staff was nice.
Well, most of them.
“Having a partner isn’t a weakness, you know. They can be a strength. Hold each other up, support each other-”
Clark had been rushing after you, through the bullpen, since Perry had given his morning talk and orders and you had found out your lone adventure wasn’t going to be so lonesome.
You sighed, focusing on the case file in your hands. You had picked it up from your desk before being pulled into the morning meeting.
“You really know how to make a girl swoon, don’t you, Kent?”
The block of your heels clacked against the floor, as you weaved in and out of people. Clark wasn’t having an easy time keeping up with you.
“I get the feeling you don’t like me very much,” he said as he finally caught up with you.
“Really?” You asked, starting up the printer to make some copies of the file in your hand. “What gave it away?”
Clark shifted on his feet as he stood beside you, moving to the side to avoid being hit with the mail trolley.
“Have I done something to upset you?” He asked, his voice tense with worry. “Because if I have, please tell me.”
You didn’t answer, and instead concentrated on making sure the printer didn’t eat your paper again.
You heard Clark bark a quiet laugh. “You seem to be able to speak your mind to everyone else. So why not me?”
Turning your neck quickly, you looked at him. Your gaze was less than warming.
“I work better alone. I told you that from day one. So why make Perry agree to make me your partner?”
Clark shrugged, looking for his answer. “I dunno. I have a few good leads for your case. I thought we could work together. I thought it would be easier.”
“I have my own leads,” you told him. “I can write my own article. I don’t need help from someone who’s just gonna try and steal it down the road. Free press is a competition, right?”
Clark nodded, slowly. “I did say that but– that’s out of context.”
Less than a week ago, Clark had been standing with Lois by the coffee maker, having a discussion over the morals of story ownership. Whilst someone might discover a story, it is theirs. But that doesn’t stop others from finding it out, too.
There’s a difference between using somebody else's sources and quotes, and finding your own which just happen to be similar.
Finally, the printer had stopped jittering.
“You know,” you sighed. “I see right through you.”
“I wasn’t aware you had x-ray vision?”
You laughed, shaking your head as you bundled together the copies. “You put on this act.”
“What act?” Clark asked, starting to get offended.
“This…” You waved a hand over him. “This bumbling, clumsy – but somehow always manages to save the day – ultimate farmboy next door act. And I see right through it.”
Clark bit the inside of his cheek as gaze darkened just a little and he looked at you. “You think you know me, huh?”
You nodded, firmly.
“Fine.” Clark placed his hands on his hips as he looked at you, clearly annoyed. “Have it your way. Use your sources, write your story. And I’ll write mine.”
You raised a brow, though completely unsurprised. “So you are gonna steal my story?”
“Perry put us on this together-”
“Because you asked.”
“But since you wanna be so stubborn about it-”
“Stubborn?!”
“We’ll write it separately and have Jimmy splice it together. 100% effort, 50-50 shared article.”
You glared at him for a while, even more so when he held out his hand.
“Deal?”
You knew you didn’t have much of a choice. Perry trusted you, but Clark had been at the Daily Planet a lot longer than you. If he wanted a partner on something, you had a feeling it would be a battle to try and shift Perry from the idea.
Putting the copies under your arm, you shook his hand. “Fine.”
Having an understood shared article was better than having the rug pulled from under you.
Not long after striking the deal, you headed out in search of your sources. One called you in the early hours of the morning, telling you to meet them outside the quarry.
Meanwhile, Clark was still in the office, making a few calls to confirm his leads.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lois said, her voice light as she passed his desk.
He’d been on hold for over thirty minutes, but hadn’t stopped glaring at your empty desk.
“What’s your opinion of Y/n?”
Lois shrugged. “She’s a hard worker. Quiet. Saw her reaction when Perry said she’d be your partner for this. Is that why you look so…pensive?”
“I’m not pensive.”
“Annoyed, then.”
“I’m not annoyed.”
Lois shrugged. “Could have fooled me. What’s going on?”
Clark sighed. “She thinks I’m gonna steal her story.”
“Are you?”
“No! We’re partners. Well, we’re meant to be. And, instead, we’ve made a deal to write our own articles. I’m gonna have Jimmy splice them together.”
“Why not just work on it together?”
Clark sighed, again. “She didn’t seem thrilled about working together. Why make her write with me, too?”
Lois hummed. “She hasn’t been here long, but usually by now the newbie’s have made some kind of friendship group. I wonder why?”
At that moment, Cat leaned in. “I know why.”
“You do?” Clark asked.
Cat nodded. “Rumours have it her last job didn’t end so well.”
“Because of Y/n?”
Cat shrugged. “I don’t know the full details, but a couple sources I have over at the Eagle tell me her last partner completely pulled the rug from under her.”
“He stole her story?” Lois asked, testing the waters for her answer.
“Remember that front page story Perry lost his mind over, just before Christmas?”
Lois and Clark nodded.
“That was her?” Lois asked.
“Rumours have it.” Cat nodded. “But, then again, they’re just rumors. If we want the truth, we should probably ask her.”
“Why haven’t you asked her?”
“Because she needs a little time,” Cat said. “Her last job…I suspect it was like leaving her family.”
Clark’s gaze fell onto your desk. Between the messy post-it notes, overflowing pile of random papers, two smaller case files, and your desk-top computer, he spotted a picture frame.
It was you, two girls and another woman in front of a building. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before. He just figured the woman was your sister. But, taking a closer look, the woman didn’t look related to you.
Her face shape was different to yours, the eye colour, smile…all of it different. But the two girls look related to her. She was their mom, most likely.
Looking even closer, Clark recognised the building you were all standing in front of. The Metropolis Eagle.
Clark’s curiosity was piqued. Why have a picture of people, standing in front of your old building, on your desk at your new job? And, if the rumours Cat told him were true…how badly had it gone down?
Over the next couple of days, Clark kept his eye on you. As he suspected, he ran into you more often than you liked. But, with overlapping sources and meetings, it was inevitable.
“Wanna get some lunch?” Clark asked you as you both left the lab where you had been pushed together for a meeting with the owner.
“You think we should spend more time together?” You asked, your voice a little lighter, as you rummaged through your bag for…something.
Clark shrugged. “We do work together. Maybe…rather than fighting over this, we work together. It would also save Jimmy a job.”
“How about this?” You asked, looking up at him. “You go and do what you wanna do. And I’ll-” You looked at your phone. “Go to the hospital.”
“What?”
The lighter expression you had been holding on your face disappeared in an instant.
“I need to go to the hospital.”
Looking around you, the panic was rising up your throat as you tried to figure out where you were.
“I-I- what street– where did I-”
Clark took you by your shoulders. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I need– what street are we on?”
Clark told you. “The hospital is three blocks away. I’ll drive you.”
“No-”
“Y/n, you’re not in the right frame of mind to drive, right now. Who’s at the hospital?”
“My goddaughter. She’s- I don’t know. I just-”
Clark nodded. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Ten minutes later, you were running down the hallway of the children’s ward of the hospital.
“Y/n!”
Turning on your heel, you looked down one of the halls where Molly, the mother of your goddaughter was standing.
“Molly!”
“Hey,” she smiled, accepting your hug.
“How’s Iris? Is she-”
“She’s okay. She fell off her bike,” Molly explained. “No broken bones, no concussion. She’s got a couple grazes and a sprained wrist. Nothing, a couple painkillers and some ice cream won’t fix.”
You laid a hand over your chest. “Oh, thank god.”
Then Molly shifted on her feet. “I should warn you-”
“Y/n!”
You felt your skin crawl with betrayal as you heard your name leave the mouth of Molly’s newly ex-husband and your ex-partner.
“And Clark Kent!” Richard seemed surprised. “My, my. Isn’t this a surprise?”
Clark’s gaze flicked across everyone’s faces. Molly was the woman in the photo – the two girls, her daughters. Your goddaughters. Richard was…the journalist who covered the Eagle’s front page story before Christmas.
“I heard you got a job over at the Planet,” Richard smiled. “Hope they’re keeping you busy.”
“Fuck you.”
“No need for hostility,” Richard held up his hands. “A story’s a story. Am I right, Kent?”
Rolling your eyes, you shoved past Richard and entered the hospital room. The door closed just as you heard Molly tell him to shut his mouth.
After you had left the Eagle, it had taken less than three months for Molly to turn up outside your apartment door with Jane and Iris. She was divorcing Richard and didn’t have anywhere else to go.
You had accepted them with open arms. Richard had been your partner, until he betrayed you. You’d worked with him long enough to know he could be one of the nicest people. Until the Hyde to his Jekyll came out.
Inside the hospital room, Jane hugged you tight before letting you go to sit on the edge of her younger sister’s bed.
“What happened, kiddo?”
“I fell off my bike. The doctor said I’ve sprained my wrist.”
You nodded. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, it hurt at first. Like, really bad. But now it’s okay. Mommy said I can have ice cream.”
You chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”
“Who’s that?” Iris asked, looking over your shoulder to the tall, broad and handsome man standing outside her room.
Clark was talking to Richard. Rather, he was nodding along as Richard rambled to him about something. Molly just looked fed-up.
“Oh, that’s-”
Jane smiled. “He’s handsome. Is he your new partner?”
“Uhh.”
Jane and Iris shared a knowing look.
“Sorta.”
“Sorta?” Jane asked.
“We’re…working on an article together but…it’s complicated.”
Suddenly, the door opened. “Say bye-bye to your dad, girls. He’s leaving now.”
“Bye!” They both called from the bed.
Richard, who was waiting for his girls to run and hug him, dropped his arms awkwardly. “Uh, bye then, girls. See you next week, yeah?”
“Bye!” They called again.
As Richard moved away and left, Molly invited Clark inside.
“Girls, say hello to Mr Kent.”
“Hello,” Iris smiled.
“Hi,” Jane smiled, before looking at you with a knowing look.
“Hi,” he smiled back. “I heard you’ve fallen off your bike?”
Iris nodded, very quickly jumping into her story about what happened. While she was trying to ride as fast as she could, she saw a cat and didn’t want to hit it, so pressed her brakes but swerved and then fell.
“Are you Y/n’s new partner?”
Clark looked at you as he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and rocked on his feet. “Well…it’s-”
“Complicated?” Iris asked, raising her brow. “That’s what grown-ups usually say when they’re being childish.”
Clark let out a nervous chuckle, but looked at you nonetheless. Meanwhile, Molly stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on her daughter’s back.
“Iris.” She warned. “Sorry.”
“No, no. It’s…it’s fine.”
You and Clark stayed for twenty minutes before being shooed back to work by Molly and Jane (who whispered once more about how handsome Clark was).
“Still hungry for food?”
You turned quickly. Quicker than Clark had been expecting.
“Iris had a point back there,” you said. “About being complicated, being childish. But-”
Clark cut you off. “Sometimes complicated can also just mean complicated.”
You swallowed a little. And then nodded. “Yeah.”
“Y/n, listen…” Clark shifted on his feet, awkwardly, until his gaze found your own. “I don’t know what happened at your last job.”
“You don’t?”
“Well…sorta. I mean- I don’t know the full story.” Clark said. “I don’t know what your last partner did to you, or how badly it screwed things up but, I just want you to know, I’m not him. I know that doesn’t really instill a lot of trust either.”
You nodded. You had lost count of the amount of times a ‘nice’ guy had told you he was ‘one of the nice’ ones, and then that turned out to be the opposite.
“I’m just- what I’m trying to say is-” Clark sighed, frustrated at himself for not knowing what to say. “I respect your reasons for not trusting me. But…can you try and judge me on my actions? At least every once in a while?”
For a moment, you paused. He had a point. A point you already knew. From most of his actions, on the face of them, he was a genuinely good guy. Bought coffee in the mornings, helped people edit, helped people in general.
You’d just seen him with your goddaughters. He had them smiling, laughing – feeling the complete opposite as they did when they’d been around their father, recently.
But you still had your reservations.
Richard had bought coffee. Richard had been nice. Richard had been helpful.
And, although Clark wasn’t Richard…you’d only known Clark for six months.
Your trust had been shattered at the Eagle. You didn’t want another story being taken from you, and having you stripped of your credibility.
Swallowing, hard, you nodded. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Over the next week, you tried your hardest to judge Clark based on his actions and his words. But it was proving difficult to lower your guard when around him during writing sessions, interviews and information.
You were walking back from work after finishing late. Your route was only a couple of blocks and, since it was a Friday night, the streets of Metropolis were almost as packed as they were when people took an early lunch break in the summer.
Halfway home, your heel broke.
“In need of assistance, ma’am?”
Jumping a little, you turned around and took a breath of relief. “Superman.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, my shoe broke. I’ll be fine.”
Superman looked around the block. It was late, and dark, and although there were people, they were tipsy and/or drunk.
“Maybe I can help fix-” Before he could finish his sentence, you took off your other shoe and broke the heel.
“I’m not looking to walk barefoot through the city and,” you shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to replace these anyway.”
“You know, I could have carried you home.”
You chuckled and shook your head. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
“Well…may I walk you home? It is late and you’re on your own.”
Looking around, you soon turned back towards him. “I guess…I guess it couldn’t hurt. But, if sirens pass us, I expect you to follow them and not me, we clear?”
Superman chuckled. “Very clear, ma’am.”
“Call me Y/n. I feel like my mother when you call me ma’am.”
“Sorry, ma’a- I mean, Y/n.”
You smiled. “Better. Thank you. So, what are you doing on this side of Metropolis?”
“A pub brawl. You?”
“Late night at the office.” You said. “I should probably tell you, I am a journalist so…I expect full scoop if we do pass sirens.”
“Daily Planet?”
You looked at him, surprised. “How did you-”
“Your badge,” Superman pointed out.
On your hip, you had your Daily Planet ID badge on view.
“Right. Duh.” You chuckled.
“I don’t recognise you. Are you new to the Planet?”
“Yeah. Well, sorta. I’ve been there six months so far.”
“Enjoying it?”
You nodded, lifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Actually, yeah. Perry’s a good boss, coffee’s better, people are nice.”
“What’s your latest scoop?”
“I’ve heard you’re good friends with Clark Kent,” you said. “Figured you’d already know.”
“Uhh, well, Clark doesn’t tell me much about his work.”
“Really?”
“He…he did tell me he had a new partner, though. Is that meant to be you?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Sorta. I-I kinda blew up at him over it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I kinda have a history with work partners and Perry knew that. He knows why, too. But, when Clark asked him to partner up with me, he jumped at the chance.”
“Mind me asking about your history with your partner?”
You sighed, debating whether or not to tell him. “It’s kinda complicated. Or, feels that way, at least. I had this story and…just before publication, my trusted partner of almost ten years took it to our editor and said it was his. The story ran front page and everything. I wasn’t even a footnote.”
“But it was your story?”
You nodded. “Every word of it. Had the evidence and everything. All the copies, edit notes – everything. Took it to my editor and he just shrugged. Said free press was a competition. Since I didn’t bring it to him first, it wasn’t my story.”
Clark felt sick to his gut. He hadn’t meant to pry this much, but he had wanted to know more about you. But, the second you opened up to him, he felt like he was really going to be sick.
Because now he knew.
But he wasn’t Clark.
“I’m so sorry they did that to you.”
“Not much I can do about it, now,” you said. “But, he got his just deserts.”
“He did?”
“Not long after the story ran, his wife divorced him. Molly – his wife – we’re good friends. I’m also godmother to their two beautiful and funny little girls.”
Clark couldn’t help but smile as you did. Without your guard up, you felt safe to talk some more. And he couldn’t help but admire the way your eyes lit up when you told him random side stories about your goddaughters.
He’d only met them for twenty minutes but the stories you told, and how you told them, he could totally see it. Jane practised for her recital at school – which was apparently why you disappeared from work early two weeks ago (though Perry seemed to know). Iris running rings around her neighbours.
It was the first time in six months Clark had heard you laugh. Truly laugh. Not one that barked at him out of sarcasm.
“Well, this is me.” You said, pointing at your apartment building. “Thank you, for walking me home.”
“Anytime, Y/n.”
Just before you walked into your apartment building, you turned back around. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
You smiled at him. “Thank you for listening. I know it probably sounded boring but…thank you.”
“It didn’t sound boring. And, you’re welcome.” Clark was about to fly away when he turned back around to you. “The reporters at the Planet…they’re good people. It might be worth getting to know them?”
For a moment, you remained fixed in your spot. Then you nodded. “I might just try that.”
And you did.
By the time your and Clark’s story ran in the paper – landing you both on the front page – you had allowed yourself to trust Clark enough to save Jimmy the job of splicing your articles together.
You worked together and stayed late at the bullpen in order to write the article together. You shared your casefile with him, and he showed you the information he had found from his research.
Whilst writing, although some things overlapped, other pieces of information were like two jigsaw pieces finally fitting together.
You also got to know Lois and Cat some more. Cat had the scoop on your old job, including some other reporters that had transferred to other newspapers after you left. Lois and yourself shared the odd comment that still kept Clark humble.
“What do you say, Y/n?” Jimmy asked. “Celebrations calls for drinks?”
You looked at the clock on your screen. “Oh, uh, actually…I’m needed elsewhere.”
“What? No,” Cat pouted. “Can’t you do one drink? It is yours and Clark’s names on the front page?”
You smiled a little, with a nervous chuckle. “I know, and I’m sorry. But have one for me, yeah?”
Cat sighed. “Fine. But I’m ordering my brand. I love you, but your choice of drink is appalling.”
Jimmy scoffed. “Why not mine?”
As they bickered about choices of celebratory drinks, Clark leaned into you.
“Sure you can’t come?”
You nodded, nervously. “I’m sure. I promise Iris and Jane a movie night.”
“Which movie?”
You shrugged. “Dunno yet. They get two picks each and we put on a random generator. See you on Monday?”
Clark nodded, letting you go. But, as he watched you leave the building, he couldn’t help but wonder what you were really up to.
Since your conversation with Superman, you’d disclosed the same information to Clark and the others, so he was no longer in ‘questionable ethics’ territory. But, on top of that information that Clark knew, he also knew Molly had taken the girls away for the weekend to visit her parents.
So, you were home alone.
As far as he was aware, you didn’t have a story that required a late night meet up with a lead. You, as Cat had gracefully pointed out when Jimmy suggested they go out for drinks, had a non-existent love life.
So, what were you doing?
“Should I be worried you’re stalking me?”
You’d spotted the familiar floating red cape outside your fire exit five minutes ago. When he didn’t knock, you decided to throw the window open and check where he was.
“I just wanted to check in.”
“Didn’t think to ring the doorbell?”
“Sorry,” he said, landing on the platform. “Force of habit.”
“You make a habit of landing on people’s fire escapes?”
“Well…”
You chuckled. “Relax, Superman. I’m only messing.”
He chuckled. “I saw Clark and the others not too long ago. I also read your article. Front page, congrats.”
You tipped your imaginary hat. “Thank you.”
“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”
“I am.” You shrugged, “In my own way.”
“And that way is?”
“Enjoying my quiet apartment while I have it.” You nodded to the open window you had climbed through in order to sit on the steps of the fire escape. “I love my goddaughters, but sometimes I like the sound of silence.”
Superman chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the barrier. “Noisy?”
“In the best way, but yes.” As you looked back at Superman, you couldn’t help but study him for a moment. He seemed to have something on his mind.
“Something on your mind?”
“What?”
“You seem worried about something.”
“I do?”
You nodded. “I’m off the clock, so this will all be off the record. Superman is usually Clark Kent’s domain, anyway. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Superman sighed. “I don’t know if there is.”
“The man who helps save people daily doesn’t have anything to worry about?”
He sighed. “I guess…this is off the record?”
You nodded. “Completely.”
“Okay. Well, I have this…friend. Not ‘friend’. They’re more like a–”
“Situationship?”
“No.” He seemed genuinely disgusted by the term. “No, nothing like that. Just…we work together.”
“Another superhero?”
“No. This is…at work. Away from…me.”
“Okay.”
“You see, I don’t think she likes me very much. Or, maybe she didn’t, but now she does? It’s…It’s hard to tell. She’s the lone wolf type. Doesn’t like working with others, independent almost to a fault.”
You nodded. She sounded familiar.
“Everytime I think I’m getting close to her, she…pulls away.”
“Well, how long have you known her?”
“A…short while.”
“And how long is a short while?”
“Almost eight months.”
You nodded. “Well, the best advice I can give you is…take your time. It takes time. And effort. I know a thing or two about emotional wall building and,” you chuckled. “I can tell ya, it’s not an easy thing to tear down. Especially when you’re afraid…”
“Afraid of what?” Superman asked, when you didn’t continue.
“Especially when, even if you don’t get hurt again, you’re afraid you’ll trip on the rubble and hurt yourself anyway.” You looked at him. “Or that another person will mistake your rubble for fresh building blocks and accuse you of building the emotional wall, again.”
Superman seemed to take a breath, unsure of what to say next as your words washed over him.
“A little kindness, and a safe space, can go a long way,” you told him with a light smile. “I know that first hand. Show her reasons to trust you. Even if she doesn’t believe you right now, keep showing her. Hopefully, it’ll be worth the wait.”
“Who showed you?”
“You did,” you said. “And Clark. I-I don’t know what, or if, he’s told you anything but…I spent a long time fighting him because of my experience with others. After my conversation with you, I thought if Clark hadn’t proven me right yet, then I shouldn’t be trying to find evidence to prove he was going to.”
You and Superman spoke for another twenty minutes before the sound of sirens wailing across the city were calling for him.
Over the following months, as you got to know and became a close friend to the others at the Planet, you also got to know Superman.
“There’s something familiar about you,” you blurted out one November evening, whilst sitting out on your fire escape.
Clark shifted on his feet, trying to keep his ‘cool’ facade up. “There is?”
Your eyes narrowed at him, but not in malice or hate. It was in genuine curiosity. Like there was something different on his face and you couldn’t work out what it was.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice distant. “I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while, to be honest.”
“Why not mention it before?”
You shrugged, wrapping your arms around you tighter. “Guess I just thought it was because I’ve talked to you more than I ever thought I would. Even as a reporter.”
Superman chuckled with you.
“But…I don’t think that’s it. Have…” You bit your lip a little, debating whether or not to ask. “Have we met before…outside of you being Superman? I know you have a normal job- well. A semi-normal life outside of being a superhero.”
Superman nodded, folding his arms, trying to hide his smile.
There had been numerous conversations over the last few months that let you know more about Superman than you suspected anyone else did. Aside from Clark. And maybe Lois.
“A coffee shop?” You shook your head. “No, that’s not it. On the metro? I know you can fly and all but even normal, everyday Superman has to find a way around the city, right?”
“How often are you on the metro?”
You hummed. “Right.”
You sighed, still focusing your gaze on him. You knew him. You knew you knew him. You just didn’t know from where.
“You’re not a reporter, are you?” You half joked.
Clark felt his entire body heat up. He chuckled, trying to keep his nerves at bay. Looking at his feet for a moment, he shook his head. “No. No, I'm not a reporter.”
You sighed. “Just as well. You’d probably get all the scoop on yourself, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t that be considered unethical?”
You nodded. “You don’t seem like the unethical type.”
“Thank you?”
You laughed a little before feeling the chill.
“Cold?”
“I’m fine,” you shrugged.
Superman smiled at you, walking closer. “Here. Give me your hands.”
Holding them up, a little confused, he clasped them together before covering his own around both of yours. Within seconds, you were able to feel your fingertips again, and it was quickly spreading throughout your body.
“Is that a part of your superpower?”
He chuckled, again. “No. I just run hot.”
Your eyes remained on his for a beat too long to be considered casual. Thankfully, as you darted your gaze away, you saw what you’d been waiting for.
“It’s snowing,” you said.
Clark couldn’t help but admire you as you looked out to the darkened city as the snow started falling. There was something softly magical about it all. You included.
Sadly, the feeling of your hands in his as you both looked out to the rest of the city didn’t last long. Crime stopped for no one.
“I better go.”
You nodded, a little sad. “Be careful.”
“Goodnight, Y/n.”
“Night, Superman.”
Gently, he squeezed your hand a little before floating and flying off across the city. You were used to him going to save the city, but something was still bothering you.
Who was he? And why was he so familiar?
Your answer came a month later, just before Christmas.
The city was knee-deep in snow. It was all anyone could talk about. Aside from whatever Superman was doing – saving children from ice-skating on a deep lake, helping a family of squirrels find suitable hibernation.
It was three days before Christmas and Perry had assigned you and Clark to cover the Mayor’s speech for the day. They were meant to be discussing what they would be doing to help those who couldn’t spend seven hundred dollars at Costco to bulk-buy for the winter, when the streets would be cleared of snow to make it safe to walk, and anything else that needed aid.
“It’s freezing. How are you not shivering?” You asked, clapping your double gloved hands to try and get some feeling back into them again. “We’ve been standing out here for ages.”
“It’s been twenty minutes,” Clark pointed out. “The Mayor should be out soon.”
You scoffed. “They’re probably still inside, keeping warm.”
“Y/n.”
“What?” You rolled your eyes. “I get grouchy when I’m too cold.”
Clark playfully rolled his eyes, pulling his hands from his pockets. “Give me your hand.”
“I’m not holding your hand.”
“Yes or no: can you, currently, feel your fingers?”
You paused for a moment, before sighing in defeat. Pulling your gloves off your hand, you held it out to Clark who clasped it in his own.
“How are you so warm?”
Clark shrugged. “I run hot.”
You sighed with a grumble. “Lucky bastard.”
Clark just laughed, pulling you closer to him. Even in his winter clothes, he was almost like a furnace.
Thankfully, the Mayor finally made their appearance and started their talk. You were half-way through taking notes when you felt Clark’s thumb rub absentmindedly over your knuckles as he kept his hand, and your own, inside his coat pocket.
It was a split second thought. Your brain forgot where you were and who you were with. The Mayor’s voice muffled into the background as you looked up.
Where your brain expected Superman to be, you saw Clark.
Clark!
You did a double take.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked you, quietly.
Taking a breath, you nodded. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”
Looking down at your notepad, you pretended to read over your notes as a smile started to spread across your face.
Over the next hour and a half, you went through a wave of different emotions. The car ride to your lunch stop, you’d been quiet. Pretending to listen to the Christmas music floating out of the radio, your mind raced over everything.
You had opened up to Superman before you had opened up to Clark. Superman had talked to you about work. You were co-workers. He read your article. He knew your friends. He’d lied to you. But he also told you his truths.
He was your friend.
Superman was Clark.
Clark was Superman.
“What?” Clark asked you as he picked at his fries.
You’d been sitting across him in the booth for ten minutes, unable to take your eyes off him.
You had grounds to be mad at him. But…you weren’t. Instead, you were pleased. Grateful. Happy.
“What? You keep staring at me. Do I have something on my face?”
You shook your head. “No. Sorry, no.” You smiled as you shifted in your seat, folding your arms on the table. “It’s…it’s nothing. Uh, anyway, are you heading home for Christmas?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. I’m gonna drive down on Christmas Eve. What about you?”
“Molly and the girls have invited me for Christmas at their new place.”
Clark smiled. “How are they liking the suburbs?”
You nodded. “They’re really enjoying it. Molly had joined a local divorce book club.”
“Divorce book club?”
“They’re basically divorced and free women who can drink as much wine as they like for a Friday evening and compare fictional men to their shitty ex-husbands.”
“Sounds fun.”
You laughed. “She seems to be enjoying it. Iris is living next door to her new best friend, and Jane has been volunteering at the library. She wants to start a book club of her own.”
Clark smiled. “They sound like they’re thriving.”
“They definitely are.”
It wasn’t long before your article was being written and sent into Perry for editing. And, by the time you were done, and had started to finish off the last of your Christmas wrapping, you heard a gentle tapping coming from your window.
If you hadn’t figured it out earlier, seeing Clark Kent crouching on your fire escape, wiping the snow from his glasses – that would have done it.
“Clark?”
“Hey,” he chuckled, nervously. “I tried your buzzer but it wasn’t working. Pretty sure it’s frozen. I saw the light on so I thought-”
“You’d climb up eighty feet of icy fire-escape steps?”
“I’ve got sensible shoes on.”
You let out a laugh and stepped back from your window. “Well, come in then. Before you fall.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you here, exactly?”
“Uh, well, I wanted to give you this.” From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“It’s– just read it.”
“Okay.” Opening up the letter, you unfurled the three-way fold and read it. “Oh, my god. Is this real?”
Clark was almost beaming. “Congratulations!”
You had been nominated for a journalism award for your article that reported on the misdeeds of a local laboratory. Perry had made you front page news for a week. You’d celebrated by having a newly stocked Pumpkin Spice Latte, at the time.
Beaming, you hugged Clark in excitement. “This is insane!”
“Well, you earned it, Y/n.”
“Can you stay for a while? I’ll make us some drinks. How did you know?”
“Perry got a call,” he told you as you stepped back. “He told me and asked me to bring this to you before tomorrow.”
“Hot cocoa?”
“Sounds great. You’re still wrapping?”
“Oh, yeah.” You poured some milk into a pan on the stove to heat it up. “We’ve been so busy, I kinda lagged behind.”
“Want some help?”
You popped your head around the edge of your kitchen door. “How well do you wrap presents?”
“I’ve not won any awards or anything, but Ma always has me help her.”
You hummed and nodded. “Fair enough. Just, uh, I should have labelled the piles.”
Clark nodded, calling back to you. “You have.”
A few minutes later, you came through with two mugs of hot cocoa with the toppings.
“Cheers.”
“To your nomination.”
You smiled. “To my nomination.”
Clark helped you finish wrapping the presents you had bought, whilst you re-watched (but mostly talked through) It’s A Wonderful Life.
Long after the movie had finished, and all the presents were wrapped, you and Clark were in stitches with laughter.
Trying to breathe through your stitch, you couldn’t look at Clark without laughing.
“Oh, no, no, no. Stop. I can’t breathe.”
Both of you tried to catch your breath. “I can’t believe you did that.”
Clark nodded. “Believe it. It haunts me enough at 3 am.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Collapsing back against the sofa, the laughter started to settle and it was just you and Clark, left alone in your living room, with whatever hallmark christmas tunes were floating around the room.
“You’re staring again,” Clark said after a few minutes. “Got something you’d like to share?”
“No.” You replied, a coy look in your eyes.
“Really?” Clark sat up, and you copied him. “Because you’ve got that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“That one. That one that says I know something you don’t.”
You shrugged, acting innocent. “Hmm, who knows? Maybe I do? Maybe I don’t.”
Clark’s gaze narrowed at you. “Spill.”
You shook your head. “Nu-uh.”
“Oh, come on! I shared my 3 am nightmare.”
You smiled. “But mine isn’t a nightmare.”
“Y/n.”
You grinned, leaning closer as he had done. “Clark.”
Clark sighed, “You’re a tough case to crack.”
You nodded, proudly. “That I am, Kent. That I am.”
He glared a little longer, hoping it might work. “What secret are you hiding?”
“What secret are you hiding?” You countered. “Often it’s the guilty who see guilt in others.”
“And what am I meant to be guilty of?”
You hummed. “Secretly being a really good Christmas wrapper. If I’d known you were this good, I would have found some way to guilt trip you into doing the rest.”
“Well, if it helps, I would have helped if you’d just asked.”
“That does seem like you. You’re very helpful, Clark.”
“Thank you.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know.”
Clark swallowed. “Really?”
You hummed with a nod. “Someone you know, too. Really well.”
Clark’s head tilted. “Who are we talking about?”
“I don’t know. You looked in the mirror lately? He might be closer than we think.”
You watched as Clark’s eyes flicked over your own and the penny finally dropped.
“Y/n.”
You smiled, gently. “I haven’t told anyone, Clark. And I don’t plan on doing so.”
“I’m not-” Clark was about to deny it, but you just talked over him.
“Wanna know when I figured it out? It was earlier, at the Mayor’s speech. You were holding my hand and, for a split second, I forgot where I was. I thought it was you. And it was. It just wasn’t the you I was expecting.”
Clark’s shoulders dropped and he leaned back against your sofa, feeling on edge. So, you shuffled closer, laying a hand on his arm. “Clark?”
He lowered the hand from his face and looked at you, a little hopeful, a little defeated.
“You have my word. No-one will hear it from me. Ever. Unless you told me otherwise.”
“Really?”
You nodded. “Really.”
“And you’re not mad?”
You shook your head. “No. Believe me, I was surprised, too. But, no. I’m not mad. Rather, I’m glad it’s you.”
Clark sat up. “You are?”
You nodded, a light smile on your face once again. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I am.”
Gently, Clark took your hand in his, his thumbs once again running back and forth over your knuckles.
“Does anyone else know?”
He shook his head. “No. Not yet. Ma and Pa know, obviously. But…if you mean work…no.”
You highly doubted that was completely true. Everyone had their own guesses as to the real identity of Superman. But you believed him.
“I’m guessing you’ve got a lot of questions-”
You held onto his hand, firmly. “They can wait. Tell me whenever you want.”
“Ask me, and I’ll tell you.” Clark said, his focus on you. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Like…right now?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Oh, okay. Uhh, okay. Let me think.”
You looked away for a second. You had fully meant it when you said your questions could wait. But being told you could ask. Now. Suddenly, every question you had ever had (and not even for Superman) had disappeared from your brain.
“Oh, okay.” You turned back to him. “When you’re late to work, is that on purpose?”
Clark laughed a little. “All the questions you could ask?”
“I wanna know! Is it a tactic or do you just have poor time management?”
Clark leaned back into your sofa, his gaze softly focusing on you whilst he kept your hand in his. “I wish I could say it’s the former, but some mornings I just press my snooze button one too many times.”
“Does caffeine have any effect on you?”
“No. But, I like the taste.”
“Have you ever been sick? Like, when you were a kid? Were your…abilities less powerful then?”
“Nope,” Clark shook his head. “It took me a while to learn how to fly but in terms of being sick, no.”
“Not once? Not even after being exposed to kryptonite?”
Clark shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
You asked Clark every random, and not so random, question you could think of. Before you knew it, the conversation had leaned away from Superman and had delved into Clark’s childhood.
Despite his abilities, he was still the ‘nerdy’ kid the popular ones picked on. Whenever he was on the farm, he usually used his abilities to help his Pa paint the barn or fix the roof.
On the whole, he lived a pretty normal life.
“I should go, it’s getting late.”
“You sure? You can take the spare room. Saves you driving back to your apartment in the snow.”
Clark looked out your window. The snow in the city had practically doubled in the space of a couple hours.
“Well…”
With your blanket trailing behind you like its own tired version of the dramatic Disney cape sweep, you headed towards your spare bedroom. “You can stay. Pretty sure I’ve got some pjs that should fit you.”
Clark did a double take back to you. “You do?”
Clark appeared in your doorway as you rummaged through your linen closet. “Yeah. I placed an order for pajamas online. They ended up sending the wrong package but they said just to keep the package.”
“Didn’t you want a refund?”
“Oh, they gave me the refund. Yeah- oh, here they are.” Holding them up, you judged them against Clark’s frame. “They should fit.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. There’s spare toothpaste, brush, washing stuff – all in the cupboard under the sink. Use what you want.”
A few minutes later, as you had finished with your shortened night routine since you were seconds from falling asleep whilst standing, you said goodnight to Clark.
Clark replied the same back, and as he finally laid down in bed, smiling as he thought back on the whole day whilst being surrounded by the smell of your laundry detergent. He ignored the fact he could have easily flown home.
It was still dark when you woke up.
You would have stayed in bed, huddled in the warmth of your bed, if you hadn’t been intrigued by the smell of fresh breakfast coming from your kitchen.
Clark was standing in your kitchen, in a world of his own, when he turned to see you standing in the doorway. Huddled in a thick blanket, your hair loose, one word flashed across his mind.
Beautiful.
“Are you making breakfast?”
Clark shrugged, a quiet smile on his face as you shuffled inside and planted yourself at your table.
“Thought it was the least I could do since you let me stay.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after seven,” Clark said, reading the clock on your kitchen window cill.
“What’s the snow like?” You asked in a yawn.
Nodding over to the window near your fire escape, Clark said, “Take a look for yourself.”
“Oh.”
Against the window, the snow had piled up. If you were to open your window, your apartment floor would end up covered, too.
Looking around your kitchen, you spotted your radio on the side. As the bacon started to sizzle in the pan, you stood from the kitchen chair and reached for it.
The voice of the radio crackled through your kitchen as they gave out the reports. Most roads were closed, everyone was being advised to stay indoors, more snow was to come…
“I’ll do a sweep,” Clark said. “Make sure nobody’s stuck.”
You nodded. “I’ll call Molly and make sure she’s okay with the girls. Think you’ll still make it home?”
Clark shook his head, turning off the stove. “Not if people need me here.”
As Clark got the plates and cutlery ready, you pressed start on your percolator to start coffee.
Suddenly, the ringing of your telephone rattled through your apartment.
“You have a landline?”
Dropping the blanket off your shoulders, you rushed over to the beam of your doorway between the kitchen and the rest of your apartment. “It’s mostly for emergencies.”
Lifting the receiver, you placed it against your ear. “Hello?”
It was Molly. “Hey, happy Christmas Eve.”
“Is everything okay?”
Clark leaned against the other side of the phone, his bicep braced against the beam.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to let you know that our wifi has cut out. The entire block is the same way. The company- they’re meant to be coming out to fix it but we don’t know when. I heard the city’s blocked.”
You nodded, despite the fact she couldn’t see you. “Yeah. We’re basically snowed in here.”
“We?”
You stalled and Clark just smirked but looked away. “Uhh. Yeah. Uh, me and Clark.”
“Clark’s there?” Molly sounded hopeful.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he is. I didn’t think it was safe for him to drive back last night so I asked him to stay.”
“Well.” You could hear the smile in Molly’s voice. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“Molly.”
“The girls aren’t awake yet. I’ll let them call you later? You know, when you’re not….busy.”
Molly was trying to hold back her suggestive laughter.
Trying to remain cool and normal, despite the fact pajama-clad Clark Kent, with slightly messy hair and glasses, was leaning against the doorframe barely four inches from you, you tried to keep the conversation on track.
“Keep me updated, yeah?”
“Course,” Molly said. “If it keeps snowing, maybe we can push Christmas Day?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll let you go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Bye, Molly.” You said in a panic before quickly hanging up the phone.
Clark looked at you, an amused expression on his face. “Everything okay?”
You nodded. “Everything’s fine. Breakfast?”
You heard Clark chuckle behind you, but he moved to plate up breakfast as you poured the coffee.
Throughout the day, as Clark zipped around the city to help those who needed it, you checked on your neighbours. Some had braved the storm to pick up their shopping, others were hunkering down with a film and hot chocolate.
By the time you were back inside your apartment, showered and dressed in pajamas once again, Clark knocked on your front door.
“Did you bring all the snow in the city with you?” You asked, dusting him off as he stepped inside. “Let me get you a towel.”
Heading towards your dryer, you pulled out a towel and passed it to him as you took the coat from his hands and lifted it over the hook beside your door.
“It’s not just the city,” he told you. “It’s basically the entire state. Mr Terrific, and the others, are helping where they can. But it’s getting dangerous, even for me. Clouds are thick, so is the snow.”
You nodded. “Go and take a shower,” you said. “I know you don’t get ill but, still. Any chance you saw where the storm will break?”
“It looks like we’ve got it for a while. Maybe by New Years, it’ll be clear enough to safely go out. But, until then?”
You swore under your breath. “Tell me you brought some stuff with you? Even Jimmy is staying with Lois.”
“Out in the hall!” Clark called from your bathroom.
“Thank god,” you sighed under your breath. Opening the door, you found a navy blue dufflebag, decorated in old patches.
Smallville High, Uni of Metropolis, Kent’s Dairy Farm – they were all used to cover up holes or tears in the fabric.
Leaving his bag in your spare room, you made sure the drawers were clear of crap and there were fresh towels.
You knocked twice on the bathroom door. “I’m not coming in,” you called out. “Just gonna leave the towels on the sink.”
“Okay!”
Cracking the door open just enough, you tossed the folded towels inside before closing the door once more.
Halfway through cooking dinner, you turned down the hallway towards your bedrooms and bathroom. You hadn’t been expecting Clark – naked Clark – to be stepping out of the bathroom at the same time.
But, when you did, you turned back quickly.
One saving grace was the fact he had a towel wrapped around his waist, but that didn’t stop you from seeing anything else. Not that you were complaining at seeing it.
But you were freaking out.
Holy crap.
Practically saved by the bell, your phone started ringing.
“H-hello?”
“Not interrupting, am I?”
You turned away from where you were staring down your hallway. “N-no.”
“Y/n.”
Clearing your throat, you shook your head in order to try and clear the mental picture. “I’m fine.”
You could already picture Molly’s face on the other end of the telephone. A coy smile, her eyes silently curious and wanting to know every detail.
“Are you?”
You chuckled. “I’m fine. Seriously, Mol. What’s up?”
“The girls wanted to speak to you.”
Bless your goddaughters for providing an adequate distraction from the 6’4, steaming hot, wet, seriously good looking…god.
But even that didn’t last very long, because five minutes into Iris’ retelling of her snowman competition, Clark appeared again.
“Washing machine?” He mouthed.
You pointed down the hallway towards the hidden pantry at the back of your kitchen.
His glasses were folded and laying on the kitchen table, meanwhile he stood in your laundry room, unloading the current washing (that you were yet to move) into the empty dryer. After pressing start, he loaded his own washing with detergent and softener before choosing the right setting and pressing start.
His damp hair was starting to curl and you were…staring.
“Y/n!”
“S-sorry, honey. Say that again.”
“Mom says we can do Christmas after Christmas.”
You smiled, “Yeah. She told me. Isn’t it great? You know, Santa’s got a lot of presents to deliver tonight and with this storm, well, you gotta be in bed early for your mom, right?”
“I know. Do you think he’ll see our house, though?”
“Well, luckily for us, Santa has been doing his job a lot longer than the rest of us. I’m sure he and his reindeer know what they’re doing.”
“Rudolph can guide him with her nose!”
You smiled, again. “Exactly right.”
In the background, you could hear Molly hurrying Iris up for her bath. They all said goodbye to you quickly before the receiver went dead.
“Molly and the girls?” Clark asked.
“Yeah. They’re all okay. I was just about to make some dinner.”
“Want some help?”
“Sure.”
It was one of the first times in your life you didn’t want to kick someone out of the kitchen. Clark knew what he was doing and didn’t need constant instructions – even if it was just a simple shrimp-pasta dish.
As you sat together, eating dinner, he caught you up on things happening around the city and asked you about the others in the building. By the time the dishes were cleaned and put away, you and Clark collapsed onto the sofa to watch a movie.
“You called your folks yet?”
Clark nodded. “I called them before I came here. They’ve got this storm, too. Thankfully, it’s not as deep.”
“They know you’re staying with me?”
Clark chuckled. “Yes. So, if you kill me in my sleep, they know who suspect number one is.”
You laughed, putting your feet up. “Oh, please. Wouldn’t want to take the top spot from Luthor.”
“You can come a close second.”
You nodded, “I’ll take it.”
“So, what are we watching?”
You sighed, sinking further into your sofa. “You pick. I think I’ve watched every film twice by now.”
Eventually, Clark found one and somewhere between the baritone voice of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas and Count Your Blessings you felt yourself drift off to sleep.
You just didn’t realise it was on Clark.
Over the next few days, you and Clark celebrated Christmas together. You ate, you drank, you reminisced. With the wifi still down, the girls called you three times a day. You and Clark laughed as you heard Iris ask her mom if “this is what it was like living in the olden days”.
It was New Year’s Eve by the time enough snow had cleared to ensure Clark could go home. Neither of you spoke about the fact that he could have left two days earlier. But, when you met him on the doorstep of your apartment building, dressed for a joint Christmas-Quiet New Years Celebration dinner at Molly’s, he did seem happy he got to see you again.
“You look…wow.”
“Never thought Clark Kent would be lost for words,” you teased, taking his outstretched hand.
After Molly had triple confirmed Clark could also be coming, per her (and the girls) invite, Clark managed to finally get you to agree to drive you.
“Well, he is. I am.” Clark panicked for a moment. “I am lost for words.”
You chuckled, stepping closer to him in order to fix his tie.
“Thank you.”
“Shall we go?”
Opening your door, Clark helped you slip into the passenger seat before he securely closed your door and got into the driver’s seat. The drive was a little under an hour, and by the time Clark was pulling up outside of Molly’s, you could see the girls dancing around the Christmas tree, screaming some form of lyrics.
“Ready?” You asked Clark, but he just beamed back at you.
“Of course.”
Everything was going…as chaotically smooth as it could. The girls pestered Clark with questions, all of which he answered. Wrapping paper was everywhere. At one point, Clark reached up, gently, to pull a small stripe of green and white wrapping from your hair.
The action didn’t go unnoticed by Molly, or Jane.
Dinner was delicious, Clark helped Molly with the clean up whilst you kept the girls – mostly Iris – occupied outside in the snow.
“So,” Molly started as she dried a plate Clark handed her. “How long have you had feelings for my girl?”
Clark nearly dropped the plate he was washing. “I-I’m sorry?”
Molly just moved, casually, turning herself to lean her back against the counter. “Clark. I might be distracted with two girls invoking chaos around this place 24/7, but I’m not blind.”
Clark admitted defeat pretty quickly. “What gave it away?”
Molly smiled to herself. “The way you act with her. Y/n’s convinced you’re like that with everyone, which I can believe. But…I know the difference. The way you look at her – like she is your entire galaxy, right in front of your eyes.”
Clark’s gaze drifted out of the window and into the backyard where you, Jane and Iris were building a snowman family.
“She looks at you the same way, you know.” Molly pointed out.
Clark shook his head, averting his gaze bashfully. “We’re- we’re just friends.”
“I know,” Molly nodded, placing a fist on his hip. “But you could be more. Just saying…you do her good.”
Clark looked at Molly with a curious gaze. So, Molly explained.
“Y/n…she’s been through a lot.”
“You all have.”
Molly nodded. “But I saw mine coming. She didn’t. I don’t like talking about him, but that…asshole.” Molly struggled to find a nicer word. “He blindsided her. Pulled the rug, right from under her. In the later months, I didn’t see Y/n be..Y/n. Not like she was in the beginning. She trusted his judgement and he tried to make her tougher. Y/n was already tough, but never in the wrong way. She still had emotions. Empathy. She was never…cold. Or ruthless.”
Molly sighed. “Her entire world was knocked off its axis. I helped where I could but…she had herself convinced that she had to fix it. Alone. That she couldn’t trust anyone else. But…after she met you….”
Molly smiled at Clark. “I know she fought with you, probably drove you crazy, but I saw her spark starting to come back. First the fire in her belly, to become a great reporter. Then…she started smiling again. She panicked less. Trusted her judgement more. You gave her a safe space, Clark. And as her closest friend, thank you.”
Molly laid a hand over her heart as she spoke. “Thank you for helping bring back the girl I knew.”
Clark smiled, unsure of what to do. So, he nodded, gently.
“I don’t know the kind of effect she’s had on your life, but from the way you look at her, I’m gonna guess it was a good one.”
Clark nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, it was.”
“Then, I guess what I’m trying to say is…it could be better. Don’t be afraid. Y/n feels the same way, even if she doesn’t know it yet. It might take her a while to accept it, if she hasn’t already. Just…don’t be afraid.”
Molly’s words settled into Clark’s bones the same way yours had done all those months ago. A little kindness…and a safe space.
Suddenly, a snow ball hit the window.
“Mommy! Mr Kent! Come on!” Iris yelled before she ran away.
Outside, as a lighter snow started to fall, a snowball fight broke out. You and Iris, against Jane and Clark. Once Molly had stepped outside, all sides got switched.
Iris left you for her mom, Jane joined you – eventually, it was everyone for themselves.
You had gotten a couple points for hitting Clark, but very quickly realised his aim was a lot better. Especially when, after tag-teaming with Iris, he snuck up on your and took you down into a pile of snow.
Laughter broke out from everyone. It was daughters versus mom on the other side of the garden whilst you tried to escape Clark’s snow covered grip.
But, just as you and Clark stalled for a moment, breathless in each other's arms. Clark’s fingers reached up and brushed some snow from your face, whilst your own fingertips gently pressed into his chest, wrapping the wool of his jumper to pull him a little closer…
You both got hit with three snowballs.
“Hey!”
You and Clark scrambled to your feet in laughter, gathering snow to defend your position.
It was just before midnight when Iris and Jane fell asleep on the sofa, bone-tired from the snowball fight and dancing around the house to music.
Molly woke Jane up long enough to get her up to bed, meanwhile Clark carried Iris to bed, your hand gently resting between his shoulder blades as you showed him the way to her room.
“Moll, we’ll get out of your hair,” you told her. “We’ve gotta be back at work tomorrow.”
Molly nodded, secretly thankful that she got a sort-of early night. But, she did send you and Clark home with left-overs.
“See you guys next year,” she called out from the front door.
You chuckled, nearly slipping in the snow as you turned on your heels to see her and wave goodbye. Clark managed to catch you.
“Night, Mol!”
“Take care of her, Clark.”
“I will! And thank you.”
As Molly closed the front door behind her, you and Clark stood beside his car, leaving the left overs on the roof, as he fished for the keys.
In the distance, fireworks started to go off in the distance. So, pulling your phone out of your pocket, you flashed your lock screen (a picture of the girls at the Christmas Tree Farm) to show him the time.
“It’s midnight. Happy New Year, Clark.”
“Happy New Year, Y/n.”
You didn’t kiss Clark. You wanted to, but you didn’t.
Clark didn’t kiss you. He wanted to, but he didn’t.
But you both thought about the entire drive home.
As he opened your passenger door. As he started the engine of the car, letting the front window defrost. At the red light, just before entering the city. At every red light after that. When Clark finally pulled up outside your apartment. When you told him he didn’t have to walk you up. When he got out of the car anyway.
And when you finally got to your door.
“I guess this is good-”
You cut Clark off, reaching up and putting a hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. He took no time in kissing you back, or having you leaning against the beam of your front door.
“We should have done that sooner,” Clark said, breathlessly.
“I agree.”
With his hands resting gently on either side of your face, he pulled you in closer and kissed you again.
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Summary: Clark Kent x fe!Reader -> Clark is there for you when you need him.
Disclaimer: slow burn (ish), reader gets cheated on, reader doesn't know superman's identity, best-friends to lovers, yearning from afar on Clark's side, Clark takes care of reader, platonic!lois, reader gets stood up on a date but Clark comes to the rescue.
Usually, you were on time. For everything.
Work, life, social and otherwise. Clark could note your arrivals by the second.
So when, for the first time in four years, you were officially late to work, he started to worry.
The first five minutes, he felt something was off until he looked at his desk clock and then at your desk. People were five minutes late to work – traffic, a missed alarm. It was normal.
But you weren’t people.
A further five minutes after that, his gaze constantly flicked from his computer screen to his desk phone. Would calling security be too much of a jump? Maybe you got stuck in a conversation with Marge again? She did just have a new grandbaby over the weekend and had an entire folder of pictures to show people.
After you were officially twenty minutes late, he sent you a text. It was delivered, but it was unanswered.
You never took more than ten minutes to answer a text on your phone, or call someone back.
At the forty minute mark, he asked Jimmy if he’d seen you.
“No,” Jimmy shook his head. “She wasn’t at the coffee shop this morning. Check with Lois. She might know.”
As if on cue, Lois came rushing into the bullpen, but she looked far from happy. She didn’t even seem to be in a world of her own. Rather, she looked…worried.
Really worried.
“Clark!”
Less than five minutes later, Clark was standing outside your apartment door. He knocked, but no answer came. So he tried again. And again.
“Y/n?!”
Taking a breather before he passed out, he calmed himself and listened out for you. You’re alive.
Looking around your doorframe, he eventually found the small hatch you’d secured into the wooden beam when you’d first moved in. Inside, he found the key and called out to you.
“I’m gonna come inside, okay?!”
Unlocking the door, he pushed it open. The chain snapped and he made a mental note to replace it later. Right now, you were his priority.
“Y/n? Y/n?”
Clark turned the corner in your apartment hallway and took a closer step towards your bedroom. The door was ajar so he could see you inside.
Your curtains were drawn, your sheets were a crumpled mess strewn across your body, your t-shirt was a little twisted around your middle and one of your pajama pant legs had ridden up to your knee.
You kept your back to him, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the sobs you were trying to keep locked inside.
“Lois told me…” Clark let his voice trail off as he looked at you.
You didn’t need to talk right now, about anything or to anyone. What you needed was comfort.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, mostly to himself.
You didn’t move from your position in bed until, after hearing Clark remove his suit jacket and his shoes, you sat up. Clark slowly dipped into your mattress until he lay down beside you and you shuffled closer to him.
Without question or restraint, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you leg over his own to let you get more comfortable.
Clark did nothing more than hold you whilst you cried. He didn’t speak. Every once in a while, he pressed a soft kiss into your hairline. At some point, you fell asleep.
In the meantime, Clark stayed by your side until most of the day had passed and you were in a completely deep sleep. He was careful when leaving your bedside – not that he went far.
In your kitchen, he did a once over of things you had stocked in.
Eggs, bacon, bread, tomatoes, mushrooms, a couple of different tinned goods, a random mix of fruit and veg and some leftovers from a take-out that seemed to be at least two days old.
Less than three minutes had passed by the time Clark had rushed to the store to grab a couple of things, including a spare door chain, and came back.
In your living room, Clark could practically map out your movement from the night before.
You had picked up some fresh flowers and a couple of books on your way home. Some were for work, others for pleasure. And the flowers were just because.
You were probably happy as you walked inside, humming the same tune you’d been singing to yourself at your desk all day. Then-
You saw your boyfriend, Mark, of two years sitting on the sofa. The good mood you had been in washed away the second you saw the guilty look on his face.
“What’s going on?” You had asked, your smile wavering. “Mark?”
For a long time, he was quiet. Fearing it was bad news, you’d dropped your bags by the dinner table and rushed over.
“Mark? Hey, talk to me. What’s going on? What happened?”
He was almost in tears. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.”
“What? Sorry? Sorry for what? Did…did someone call?”
“No,” he shook his head. “No. Nobody called.”
Mark took a deep breath before telling you the truth. And, as he did, the room around you started to shrink away. A buzzing noise floated in and out of your ear and your chest grew tighter.
“It was only meant to be a one time thing,” he said. “But…the more we saw each other…the more we realised that there was something worth pursuing.”
Your eyes fell on the empty vase on the side table. You had…bought flowers to put inside. You’d chosen the orange-red bunch because they were the ones he preferred, compared to your usual choice of yellow, blues, purples and reds.
Peeling your hands from his, you tried to make yourself look at him. “How long?”
“Ten months. Maybe more. I-I can’t really remember when it started.”
You wanted to puke. You could feel the wave of nausea coming to wash over you. “Ten…”
Sitting back on your heels, you pushed yourself to stand. You could barely feel the wooden coffee table under your fingertips.
You and Mark had been together for just over two years. And…for ten months…he’d been sleeping with someone else. Dating someone else.
“Who…who is she?” You asked, turning back to look at him.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“I want to make sure I didn’t hear you wrong.”
So he repeated the name. And there was only one person you knew with that name. She was the same woman you’d known for nearly twenty years. She was the girl you’d grown up with, who you’d attend prom with when your dates cancelled last minute. She was your best-friend. Who had been in your home at least three times a week since you’d first moved in.
And that hadn’t changed over the last ten months.
You…you had told her…everything. Every happy moment, every shitty one. She knew…everything. And she had just sat there! Smiling! Being happy and proud of you.
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“We tried to stay away from the apartment.”
You laughed. “Aren’t I lucky? Wait-” Tried. Past tense. “You mean to tell me…” You took a few deep breaths. “She…you and her…here?!”
“It was only a couple times.” Mark stood up quickly, but you moved away.
“A couple times?! A couple?! Tell me, did you fuck me after you fucked her? Or was it the other way around?”
“Now, that’s-that’s not fair.”
You barked a laugh. “Not fair? No! You know what’s not fair? Not fair is finding out for the last ten months your boyfriend and your best-friend have been sneaking around behind your back for almost a year! That’s nearly half of our relationship!”
“Y/n-”
“Why not just break it off with me? When you realised? Or when you slept together?”
Your brain seemed to catch up in that split second. Ten months ago was completely ordinary. Except for one evening; the awards gala.
“When did you first sleep together?” You watched as he stalled. “No point hiding it now!”
“Uhh, the, uh-“
“Mark!”
“The gala! The gala. She was waiting for her shawl— she was cold. I offered to wait with her and we started talking. Before I knew it we were…together in a side closet.”
“You were both with me for most of the— oh, no. No- Mark, tell me you didn’t.” You pressed a hand to your stomach, trying to remain calm. “During my award?”
Mark just turned away, guilty. “I’m sorry, Y/n.”
You turned your back on him for a moment, willing yourself not to break in front of him. You could break later. Until then…there was no point in dragging this thing out.
You knew you didn’t want to see him. Or her. Either of them after this.
Taking a breath and steadying yourself, you turned around.
Clark spotted the overturned picture frame on your bookshelf, and the box of tissues on the floor.
Midway cleaning, Clark heard you shuffling around in your room. Only a few moments passed before you appeared in the hallway.
Your eyes were puffy, but better than when he’d first arrived. Your expression was…numb. You were rested but clearly still exhausted.
“Hey.” Clark stood slowly, trying not to spook you.
“Hi.”
His heart cracked inside his chest. You sounded so…defeated. Broken.
Within a second, Clark had you in his embrace, holding you tight against his chest.
“Thank you for coming.” You said, your voice muffled against the cool fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” Clark told you.
“Did Lois tell you what happened?” You asked, hoping he already knew. You were ready to talk about it yet.
“She did.”
Leaving Clark’s embrace, you wrapped your arms around yourself.
“I-I picked up some things. I can make you some dinner. You need to eat.”
You shook your head. “I think I might puke.”
“Because you haven’t eaten. Come on, I’ll make you something.”
Letting Clark lead you into the kitchen, he pulled out a seat at your breakfast bar. For the most part, you sat in silence whilst Clark turned on your stove, pulled out the pans and plates and started making breakfast for…dinner? What time was it?
You hadn’t eaten since work yesterday so breakfast was still, technically, breakfast. You’d laid awake most of the night, thinking over everything. It was torture, but there was no stopping your thought process.
Lois had called you around 8 o’clock – the barista at your local place had seen Jimmy but not you. She was curious and asked Lois. When Lois found out you hadn’t been in, she called you immediately.
And you had told her everything.
It all just came spilling out of you.
“Here you go,” Clark said, with a light smile, as he laid a ready made plate of breakfast in front of you.
“Thanks.”
“Water? Milk? Soda?”
“Milk,” you answered. “Please.”
Clark poured two glasses of cold milk, placing one beside your plate. Then he sat beside you.
In the quiet, which you started to realise was being layered with music from the radio, yourself and Clark sat together and ate dinner.
By the end, and against his polite offer, you stood with him at the sink and washed the dishes whilst he dried them and put them away.
Half way through, Lois knocked on the door and came barreling through your apartment like a whirlwind. Finding you, she hugged you tightly.
“He is an absolute-”
“Lois,” Clark warned.
“Sorry. Right. Yes. Calmness?”
You nodded, forcing a light smile. “For now, yeah.”
Lois nodded, understanding. “But when you’re ready to get mad, just give me the word. I’ve got a source – they taught me about break-lines and insurance policies over tyres. Trust me, you wanna end him-”
“Lois.”
Lois nodded, but then turned back to you and leaned in. “Just give me the word.”
For a moment, you chuckled and nodded. “Thanks, Lois.”
“Want me to stay?” She asked.
You shook your head after a moment. “No, it’s…okay. I’ll be okay.”
Lois gave you a saddened smile. “If you change your mind, just call me. I’ll fly right over.”
Lois hugged you once more before leaving the small care package by your dinner table and saying goodnight. Meanwhile, it didn’t go unnoticed that Clark stayed.
Or that he stayed for the next two days, and checked in with you for the next couple of weeks.
You returned back to work after three days, but it was still tough to deal with. Even more so when, after spending months dealing, healing and moving on, you found your ex-best friend waiting at your desk one afternoon.
You’d been partnered with Clark for the week since you were both chasing the same story. You’d been laughing at a story he was telling you, from when he was younger, when he pointed at your desk.
“Hello?”
She stood up, a relieved look on her face. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I-I thought we could talk.”
You took a step back. “If you’re here to report a story, I can refer you to another desk-”
“I meant what happened…between myself and Mark. And you.”
Swallowing, you nodded. “Oh.”
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of this moment; what you would say or do if you ever happened to see either of them again.
“Maybe we could go for a coffee? I still haven’t tried out that new place you recommended. Two blocks over, right?”
“Whatever you have to say shouldn’t take too long, right? Whatever you want to say, you can tell me here.”
“O-Okay.” You watched as she took up a seat beside your desk once more and gestured for you to sit down.
Slowly, you took your seat, but you didn’t relax into it like you usually would.
“Well, I guess I should start with ‘I’m sorry’. What I- we did to you was completely unfair and-”
“Cruel.”
Your friend swallowed and nodded. “Yes, cruel. We should have said something sooner.”
“Who’s we?” You asked. “I don’t remember you being there when Mark broke the news to me. Or at any point until now.”
“I thought you might not want to see me.”
You nodded. “You were right to think so.”
“I really am sorry, Y/n.” Your friend searched your face for some sign of forgiveness, but she didn’t find it. “But, if it makes you feel any better…it wasn’t for nothing.”
Though you managed to keep your facial expressions to a minimum, you heard Lois and Cat let out a scoff at Lois’ desk.
You watched as your friend gave you a teary-eyed smile. “Mark and I…we’re getting married.”
Any breath you still had left in your lungs quickly vanished. From there, your friend showed you her hand with the familiar engagement ring on her finger.
“See?”
A shaky voice left your mouth as you said, “Congratulations.”
“Remeber when we were kids?” Your friend had a nostalgic look in her eyes. “We used to play weddings and you used to make your teddy bear the officiant.” She went on to remind you of the different school and celebrity crushes you both acted out that you were marrying.
“You’re the first person to know. Mark and I both agreed. And, I was hoping we might turn our make-believe wedding into something real?”
You just stared at her, unsure of what she was asking.
“I know the situation isn’t ideal but a girl can’t get married without her best friend as her maid of honour, right?”
Whatever blunt dagger had been stabbed into your chest, was now being twisted slowly around.
“You’re asking me to be your maid-of-honour?”
Your friend nodded, a teary happiness in her eyes. “Yeah.”
With your heart hammering in your chest, you shook your head slowly. The previous daydreams of official marriages and wedded-bliss flashed across your memory. Only, now it was all skewed.
Where it was you being a bride, marrying Mark, you were flung off to the side. Where your friend would fix your veil; yours was being torn from your hair and cast onto the floor.
“No.”
“What?”
“I-I don’t know what else you expected by coming here, but my answer is no. I wish you all the best, I really do. But…I won’t be attending your wedding.”
“Might you change your-”
“You slept with my boyfriend for almost a year. You lied directly to my face when I asked if you were seeing anyone. You lied to me every time you were both in my presence, pretending to be happy and care for me. If you came here looking for forgiveness…maybe one day, one day, I will find it in me to forgive you for the betrayal and hurt you’ve caused me. But there isn’t a chance in hell I will be attending that wedding.”
“But-”
“I think it’s best you leave.”
Dejected and in shock, your friend gathered her things before standing.
“I really do wish you the best,” you told her, fully meaning it. Despite the betrayal, there was nearly twenty years worth of friendship and memories that came before it. “But please don’t ever contact me again. And the same goes for Mark.”
Watching her leave, only once the elevator doors had closed did you collapse back into your desk chair and cover your face.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Lois and Cat rushed over within seconds, hugging you tightly. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
“You are such a badass.”
“You really are. The gall she had coming here and saying those things to you? Honestly, that girl needs a reality check.”
“Honey, you’re better off without him. And her. You are incredibly smart, and incredibly beautiful. You’re also insanely talented.”
Eventually, a small smile broke out on your face. “Thanks, guys.”
“We mean it.”
“And we agree,” Steve cut in as he approached with Jimmy and Clark. “You deserve so much better than what those pricks did to you.”
“How are you feeling?” Jimmy asked, laying a supportive hand on your shoulder.
“Ask me again in half an hour,” you said, honestly. “I think I’m still in shock at just…everything.”
Jimmy nodded before leaning against your desk.
By the time everyone got back to work, you felt a little better. But it wouldn’t be until a few weeks later that you would find freedom in forgiveness. Well, partial forgiveness.
Work had wrapped up hours ago, but with the sun still in the sky, you’d opted to spend some alone time on your building roof top. Which was where you were met with a surprise visitor.
“You know, it’s not usually safe to be up this high.”
On your left, you saw Superman standing there. Cape and all.
“Well…I’m sitting down and I’m pretty far away from the edge. And, I doubt the sky is gonna fall.”
“It could.”
“I think if that starts happening, then we’re all screwed.”
Superman chuckled. “I guess you have a point.”
Smiling, you looked up at him. “Is there something I can do for you, Superman?”
“I guess…I was just wondering if you were okay?”
Looking at him, something dropped in your stomach. It wasn’t fear, or anger. It was…recognition.
He knew something.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well,” he seemed flustered. “I- uh, I guess you seemed a little…lost…the last time we spoke?”
It had only been a few days since you had seen him. You had left work to take an early lunch break and found an empty park bench to sit on.
Since being asked to be maid-of-honour, you really thought you’d been doing better. Until you were shuffling through your mail you’d picked up from your apartment locker on your way to work.
Between the promotional letters, company alerts that your bank was updating their apps, a letter from your mom and dad back home and a letter from Smallville detailed with the familiar handwriting of Mrs Kent who had promised to send you a copy of her famous blueberry pie the last time she saw you; you found a wedding invite.
In bold, cursive writing, you were cordially invited to attend the wedding of Mark and Sarah.
Unable to concentrate at work, you had rushed to find a quiet space to…freak out? Cry? Try to calm down? When a familiar figure dressed in red and blue approached you.
“Superman.”
He smiled at you. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“A kid,” Superman motioned over his shoulder. “Climbed a tree and couldn’t get down. He’s safe now.”
“That’s good.”
“What are you doing here?”
Unable to think of a conceivable lie, you just held up the wedding invite. “Trying not to commit a crime by burning the park down over an invite.”
You didn’t talk for very long, and you didn’t tell him who the invite was from. But you did tell him how you were feeling.
“I thought I was figuring it out, but now…I don’t know.”
Taking a breath, you nodded. “I guess I was. Lost, that is.”
“And now?”
“Better. Still hurting. But…better.”
Superman smiled. “That’s good. Do you…do you mind me asking what happened that made you feel so lost?”
“Haven’t you asked Clark? Or Lois?”
Superman nodded. “Lois said she knew something, but Clark has been more…quiet. Lois said it was best to ask you.”
You sighed, debating it. “Fuck it. Might as well tell more people.”
“You don’t have-”
“No, it’s okay. The invite was…it was from my ex. And my ex-best friend. They were sleeping together– dating, even. Whilst he was still dating me. She knew. A couple weeks back, she asked me to be her maid-of-honour as if barely six months had passed since I found out! And then, after saying no, they still sent me an invite. I was just…” You sighed. “I thought I was doing better. That I was moving on but at that moment, seeing the invite, I didn’t feel like I was.”
“And now you are better?”
Taking a breath, you admitted something you hadn’t told anyone other than yourself. “I’ve decided to forgive them.”
“You have?”
“Partially, at least.” You went on to explain, “Sarah and I have been friends since we were, like, six. I can’t say that, that kind of betrayal will ever be something to get over. I mean, we planned our lives together. The kind of weddings we would have, the guys we’d date, the houses we’d buy. She knew every single one of my secrets, and I knew all of hers. At least, I thought I did. And Mark…it was only two years but we lived together. We had a life together.”
Taking another breath, you gripped the arms of your chair. “But. They’re getting married. It might fucking hurt. And I mean really fucking hurt. But…it wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t something they both threw away over-night. And…you can’t make someone stay, or make someone love you. If they were capable of doing either of those things, especially together, and wanted to…then they would.”
That night, after burning the wedding invitation, along with the pictures you had around your apartment of yourself, Mark and Sarah. And, after Lois and Cat had come around to do a full sage cleansing and blast every album of music you could never play because Mark hated the singer and band.
You felt free.
Two weeks later, Cat set you up on a blind date with a guy she knew. He was nice. Kind. He wasn’t looking for anything serious, but, as you had admitted to Cat, you weren’t looking for anything serious at that moment.
A couple dates to make you feel safe in the dating game, again, however? They couldn’t hurt.
And they didn’t.
Until the day you remembered why you had been glad to get out of the dating game.
The half-assed replies, the unanswered messages, the slow ghosting (on both sides), the effort taken to get ready only to be cancelled at the last minute, and the confirmed dates that left you stood-up.
Leaning into your palm, you sighed and stirred your coffee.
“Can I get you anything, honey?”
You had gotten ready for your date; it had taken a little over three hours to do your make-up, hair and choose an outfit. Turning up for your date at the restaurant, you had waited until the staff came over and told you that they needed the table for another party.
You had been stood-up. But, despite the embarrassment you felt, you decided to take yourself out. It was just to the diner down the street, but it was better than nothing.
“Burger and fries, please.”
“Hot date tonight?” Doris, your waitress, asked with a smile.
“Uhh, could have been. But, no.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. You’re a knock-out. Whoever they are, they don’t deserve you.”
With a grateful smile, you thanked her and she walked away with your order written down on her notepad.
In the meantime, as you were scrolling on your phone and waiting for your food, you heard someone call out your name.
“Y/n?”
“Clark!”
Smiling as he approached you, you felt a warmth wash over you. “What are you doing here?”
“I worked late. Figured I’d pick dinner up. I thought you– oh, shoot. Are you on your date?”
You shook your head. “Oh, no. He didn’t show. So, I decided to take myself out instead.”
“He stood you up?”
You shrugged. “It’s not uncommon in this day and age.”
Clark grumbled. “That is– unbelievable. Don’t people realise what they are missing out on?”
You just smiled. “Relax, Clark.”
Clark sighed, looking around. “Fancy some company?”
“Thought you might be sick of seeing me?”
He smiled and shook his head, gently. “You? Never.”
Five minutes later, Doris brought over two plates of food; yours and Clark’s.
“Thanks, Doris.”
“No worries, honey. Holler if you need anything else.”
As Doris stepped away, Clark peeled the paper away from your straw and slotted it into your drink, before doing his own, whilst you picked out the salt, pepper and sauce for his fries.
For the next couple of hours, over food, drink and desert, you and Clark talked. You both laughed until your stomachs hurt, shedding tears whilst trying not to disturb other customers.
Doris boxed up some leftover deserts that would have only gone to waste by closing time, and sent both you and Clark home with some each. She watched with a smile as Clark held the door open for you and gently led you down the street in order to walk you home.
“I guess this is goodnight?”
You nodded, walking up a couple steps of your apartment stoop. “I guess so. Thank you, for tonight, Clark.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“Yes, it is.” You told him. “It’s everything, Clark. Whoever ends up being your girl, one day, will be a very lucky woman.”
Clark blushed a little. “Nothing wrong with a little kindness.”
You smiled. “No, there isn’t. You should print that on a t-shirt. More people might learn.”
Clark chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a beat too long. “I’ll wait until you're safe inside.”
Feeling the newly familiar feelings of something suspiciously similar to butterflies, flapping around in your stomach, you smiled. “Goodnight, Clark.”
“Goodnight, Y/n.”
You got halfway into your hallway before you stopped with an idea.
If you went through with it, there was a chance everything could change for the worst. Or, it could change for the better. Taking the leap, you turned back around and rushed outside.
“Did you forget something?” Clark asked, innocently, as you rushed over to him.
Pulling him in by the lapels of his coat, Clark lifted himself onto one of the steps before he felt your lips crash against his. It took him a second to register what was happening, and once he did, he didn’t waste any time.
Kissing you back with as much fervor, he dropped his bag down by your feet and reached out to pull you closer to him.
It would take time, but eventually you and Clark would find your footing. Until then, he stayed by your side, taking things as slow as you needed them to be until you could figure out why, after everything, Clark’s kiss made you feel things you’d only ever read about.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> You and Mycroft become each other's Quiet Strength.
Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, change of opinions of people, spoilers for Young Sherlock, silas holmes being a psychopath, flangst, hurt/comfort, historical inaccuracies, a little smut at the very very end, relationship growth, forehead kisses, hand holding.
(gif is not mine)
You and Mycroft had never exactly been friends.
In all fairness, you had started out as Sherlock’s friend which had given you a starting point to dislike Mycroft.
He was the older brother. The head of the family. The workaholic. The forcibly responsible one. The one who let his brother stay in prison for three months.
All of which you judged him for. To a certain extent, at least.
But it was throughout the time you spent with him; being the go-between for him and Sherlock to make sure their information stayed up to date as they worked their ‘kidnapped princess’ case, along with the ‘apostles’. That you started to see him.
Despite all of his formalities, and his tight and controlling actions against life, you saw the edges.
They weren’t neat as you had first understood. They weren’t starched and ironed to an empty and flat surface as Sherlock was convinced. Instead, they were…fraying. Whenever he had the time, Mycroft was weaving the edges of himself back together, by hand.
He was bare-knuckled and numb to the burn of his wounds.
To make matters worse, when you looked around to the others, they couldn’t see it. It wasn’t because they refused to, or because they were simply distracted with others. It was because they couldn’t see him. At all.
Mycroft Holmes. Eldest son. Eldest child. Forced to grow up quickly for his family. Who lost his sister. Who felt responsible she had died, despite two parents being there to take care of her. Who felt he had to do things in order to make their lives easier.
Mycroft Holmes. A man who's always been compared to his genius brother. Who has taken it in his stride. Who hasn’t resented Sherlock for it. Who loves him and cares for him.
Mycroft Holmes. Who had no-one in his corner. Who is the quiet strength for the rest of his family, even if they, or he, doesn’t see it. Who hides his hurt when his family’s first opinion of him is that he would betray his family.
That last scenario you were watching unfold right in front of you.
Silas, Bea, Mycroft, Sherlock, Cordelia, James and yourself. All sitting around a dinner table in Constantinople.
After everything you’d experienced with both Holmes brothers, you were mere seconds away from attacking Silas. Wanting to make sure he understood the kind of pain he’d put his family through, the kind of torture he’d put Cordelia through.
You saw the stiffness in Mycroft’s shoulders as Silas addressed him first. Your gaze flicked between Mycroft and his father.
How could someone so monstrous father a man like Mycroft? Or even Sherlock?
“Promise made,” Silas said before slamming his hand down on the table, leaving the glasses rattling. “Promise kept.”
It was the first time, ever, you’d seen Mycroft have a physical reaction to his fear. Most often, he would breathe through it and try to keep his mind on something calming.
But from his reaction and the fear in his eyes, you wondered if this dinner wasn’t the first time Silas had led with such actions.
Loudness, brutality, violence that just showed how much he wanted to hit someone.
As attention quickly turned towards Cordelia as she pleaded with her daughter, you kept your focus on Mycroft. He was in distress. Everyone was, but something inside of you was growing more angry by the minute. Because Mycroft’s distress was killing you, too. So how could it not be hurting anyone else?
Without a word, you reached for Mycroft’s hand under the table. His hands were shaking as he searched for your hand and held onto it, tight.
Maybe you weren’t friends, exactly, but in your quietness you understood him. Saw what he was. Saw who he was.
You agreed with James when he called the entire thing A Greek Tragedy.
“You seem to agree with James?” Silas asked you, a wicked grin on his face whilst anger brewed underneath.
“How could I not?”
“Don’t talk to her,” Mycroft warned his father, his voice low and almost growling.
Under the table, you squeezed his hand gently. I’m okay. It’s okay.
“A not-so-dead daughter, a committed mother, a genius brother who landed himself in jail. His best friend who is just like him, although less prison as far as I’m aware. The eldest son who understood his responsibility but that same responsibility was used against him by the psychotic father.”
Silas laughed. But only for a moment. Slowly, the tips of his fingers pushed the handle of his dinner knife back and forth.
“And where do you come into the picture, Y/n? Where do you fit into our little Greek tragedy?”
This time, you laughed. “I don’t think that’s a question you want answering.”
As Silas chuckled, his voice laced with something inhuman, Cordelia tried to reason with her daughter, again.
Very quickly, things became loud.
Mycroft’s fear made you want to cry. To hug him and tell him he didn’t have to stay. That you could all leave.
But that wasn’t true. No matter how much you wished it was. Because Silas had at least a dozen men carrying weapons, spread out across his property. And Mycroft still had to make his plea on behalf of the British Government.
You watched the fall-out.
Sherlock and Cordeila believing they had been betrayed. Silas’ adoring shock that his son had been the chosen one to keep communications open. James’ shock and surprise at Mycroft’s news. Bea’s hopeful look that she had a buyer and the pay-out could be extraordinary.
“Did you know?” James asked you.
Every word that fell from Mycroft’s mouth seemed more painful than the last. You didn’t answer James, though even if you did you didn’t know what you could say.
Truthfully, you didn’t know. You didn’t know what the British Government had asked of Mycroft. But you had a feeling. Mycroft wanted security in his work and he had easy access to the things the members of the government wanted.
The government saw it as nothing more than a simple trade. Even if that trade came with emotional warfare.
By the time things were wrapping up at the diner table, you practically sneered at Silas as he laid his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. And, whilst Sherlock was calling his own brother Judas, Mycroft removed his hand from your own before taking total leave from the table.
A little over an hour later, you were slipping out of your bedroom and down the hall towards Mycroft’s room. You knocked twice before turning the knob and pushing the door open.
“You awake?”
Mycroft was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, the lights are on,” you said, mostly to yourself as you closed the door behind you. “So, I’ll take that as a yes.”
Without another word, you walked to the other side of his bed before laying down next to him.
“I’m here,” you told him. “If you want to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? My father is…well, you saw. And my family thinks I’ve betrayed them.”
“They’ll see sense,” you assured him. “Did they really ask you to betray your family?”
Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
You could figure out the rest of the conversation from there. Mycroft didn’t have much of a choice – there was a chemical weapon about to hit an open market. In a perfect world, men like Silas and his weapons wouldn’t exist.
But the world was far from perfect.
Mycroft made a judgment and took it. Choose the world where he gives his father the opportunity to give one buyer the weapons, and hope to god he can figure something else out before it’s too late.
“He’ll have you followed tomorrow,” you pointed out. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t you hate me?”
Reaching between both of you, you took hold of his hand. “I’m on your side, Mycroft. If you want me to follow the ones following you, I’ll do it. If you want me to stay here…I’ll fight you on it, but I’ll stay here if that’s what you need.”
Mycroft turned and looked at you. “You really don’t hate me?”
You shook your head. “No, Mycroft. I don’t. I didn’t have the best impression of you when we first met, but I’m gonna place that blame on myself and Sherlock. You were just his annoying, rule-following, older brother.”
Mycroft nodded, looking back at the ceiling. “People often tell me Sherlock is the better out of the two of us.”
“But then I got to know you,” you said. “Even if you didn’t mean to, you let me see parts of you that I don’t even think your family sees. Let alone, understand.”
“And what parts are those?”
“You’re strong, Mycroft. There’s no doubt about that. But I can also see you’re scared. Almost all the time. You worry for your mother, and your brother. You did worry for your father, before all this went to shit. You keep trying. And when something doesn’t work out, you run yourself into the ground until you find a new solution. Those are the parts I’m talking about. And I wished to god that your family would see it, too.”
Mycroft nodded, unable to speak for a moment. So, he held your hand.
“I’m glad that you’re the one that sees it.”
Taking in his gaze, there were words left unsaid between both of you. But, with a single look, you knew everything you needed to.
Mycroft pulled you into him and held onto you for dear life. And you held onto him just the same.
You were silently thankful that Mycroft couldn’t see your face for the moment, because the tears you’d been holding in all day were threatening to come to the surface.
“Just…promise me something?”
“Anything,” Mycroft said in an outward breath.
“Be safe tomorrow?” You asked him. “Don’t try and…fight someone if they’re gonna kill you. Don’t die on me, Mycroft. Not at the hands of your father. Not at the hands of anyone.”
Mycroft moved a little so he could see your face. Soaking in the moment, Mycroft laid a gentle hand against your cheek and, for a moment, your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch.
Laying your own hand on the back of his, you opened your eyes to see Mycroft memorising you. Your face, your touch, your voice, your presence.
“I don’t think we have much control over the hands of time,” Mycroft told you. “But, if it’s in our control? I promise.”
Letting out a breath, you leaned further into his touch. “Thank you.”
Pulling his palm to your lips, you pressed a long kiss to his palm. Then his wrist. Finally, you reached up and wrapped your arms around him. In return, he held you just as tight and buried his face into the crook of your neck.
His moustache tickled a little as he pressed a feather-light kiss to your skin.
In the morning, just before he was followed out of his father’s complex, and just before he walked past the rest of his family who believed he had betrayed them, you pulled him back.
“Wait.”
“I’ll be okay,” Mycroft assured you. “I made you a promise, remember?”
Gently, he tucked your hair behind your ear before tilting your chin up so you would look at him.
“Don’t say anything,” you said, keeping your hands flat on his chest. “When you come back, if you want to talk about it, we can. But, just for now, don’t say anything.”
“About what?”
“This.”
Leaning up, you kissed him.
It was…new. But meaningful. Not exactly a good-bye kiss, but one for good luck. One that told him that the thoughts he’d been having last night as you laid beside him, fast asleep and both of you fully clothed, weren’t just his own.
For a moment, he kissed you back. Not long after that, you pulled away, rolling your lips to memories the brief taste of him.
“Keep your promise?”
Mycroft nodded, leaning in once more. Only, this time, he pressed his lips to your forehead. His fingers ran through your hair as he did so; a quiet, comforting gesture.
“Always.”
Waiting for him to come back had dragged. Between the curious looks you were receiving from James who desperately wanted to ask – the only thing that was holding him back was the clear worry he could see in your face. And the clear hurt and anger on Sherlock and Cordelia’s face.
You just wanted him to be okay.
And, thankfully, he was.
Long after the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally (a hidden mine blew up), you were all heading back to London.
On the train, neither you or Mycroft spoke. But you held hands. And, when you grew tired, you laid your head on his shoulder. When he grew tired, he laid his own against yours.
When the day finally came that you all returned to Appleton Manor, you stayed close to Mycroft.
Bea was growing closer to James – something else only you seemed to notice. But she was still struggling with the comprehension that her father had lied to her, for her entire life.
Learning who her family was, and who she could trust, would be a long road.
It would be a long road for them all.
In the quiet moments, where Mycroft excused himself and pretended everything was okay, you would follow him. A simple reach of his hand, or a gentle hand against his shoulder soon opened the gate to you hugging him.
Mycroft, for as long as you had known him, had never really been the physically affectionate type. So, when he reciprocated your touch, your hug, your hold, without reservation, you were glad.
Even more so when he sought you out for that very thing.
If you were standing in the kitchen, early in the morning or late at night, making a snack or a drink. You would feel his hands tenderly grip your waist or your hips. Mere moments later, his head would be on your shoulder, or his lips would press soft kisses against your exposed neck.
Sometimes it would go further than that. But, the most common outcome was Mycroft just standing there, holding you against his chest, without a word.
“I must return to London,” he told you one afternoon. “There’s…there’s a lot of work waiting for me. After everything…”
You nodded. “I understand. If you’re not sick of me already-”
Mycroft chuckled, reaching out for you. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
You hummed, letting him pull you closer before you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and around his neck. “Beg to differ.”
He chuckled, again, pulling you in at the waist.
“But, if you’re not, would you mind me coming with you? I’ve got a bit of business to tend to in the city.”
Mycroft raised a brow. “Oh? Something I might like to know?”
“Not yet. It’s not fully thought out yet.”
Mycroft knew that was a lie. Not from you, but to the world. You had thought it, whatever it was, out. There were just a few more steps to take and you needed to clear your path before you could safely step on them.
“Okay,” Mycroft kissed you. “But I am curious.”
“You will be the first to know.”
“Will I?”
You nodded. “You’ll be the only one in London. Geographically speaking, nobody here will know until I come back.”
Mycroft chuckled, letting his hands slide down towards your arse. Slowly, you leaned your hips into his whilst he tried to kiss you.
“You. Are a pain.”
You chuckled, kissing him. “You love it.”
“You drive me mad, woman.”
“You love it.”
A small growl left his throat as he kissed you. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
The next day, when you finally reached London, you and Mycroft went your separate ways. Whilst he headed towards his office, you headed towards a for-sale sign that wasn’t too far from Bow Street.
“Darling?”
From the rafter office, you peered over the wooden balcony, both of you completely unaware of the new nickname Mycroft had used and you had answered to. “Up here! Come on!”
A little- no. A lot confused, Mycroft looked around the dusty, sheet-covered office.
“When the boy said to meet you here, I thought he was mistaken but apparently-” Mycroft got to the top just in time to watch you tear another sheet away, proudly, to reveal a sturdy desk. “Not.”
“This is to be our new office.”
“Our?”
“Myself, Sherlock and James.” You were almost beaming with excitement. “We’ve been throwing around the idea for a while. A private investigation agency. Sherlock and James have the experience, and so do I.”
“How did you even find out about this place?”
“It’s great, isn’t it?! Got it for a steal, too.” You were rushing about, pulling sheets off items in order to check their condition. “I’ve had feelers out for a property for a while. I figured I’d be turning it into a tea-shop, or a library or a charity house. But, this one? This place is perfect for what we need.”
“This one?”
You nodded. “There’s an old building just past Fleet Street. I suppose in a couple of months I should have a functioning Charity House for women, mothers and children. My father always said if I was going to invest my time in something, it should be useful. So…here we are.”
Mycroft looked around whilst you mapped out your vision for the place. It was almost fully furnished, save for a few touches that would make it seem less…dreary.
Lighter curtains in the back would help. So would printed letters on the front of the window, a slightly more welcoming seating area to the right hand side, which was hidden a little due to the position of the storage closet.
With an open space on the ground floor, there was a perfect opportunity for Cordelia to make some of her cordials. That way, a business was growing and women who didn’t want to seem overly suspicious could simply say they had popped in to buy a few items.
By the time you turned back to Mycroft, he didn’t seem as in shock as he had done when he first walked inside. Instead, he looked…proud.
“So, what do you think?”
“I think making sure Sherlock and James are still attached to the hip might cause more trouble than my stress can handle.”
You chuckled, climbing the stairs to reach him, as he smiled.
“But…I think it’s brilliant. This is brilliant. You’re brilliant, Y/n.”
“Thank you. Now, all I have to do is tell those two.”
“They don’t know yet?!”
You shrugged. “The idea, yes. That I have been looking for a building, no. But, now I can break the news.”
“Good lord, help us all.”
Laughing, you hurried over to Mycroft’s side and wrapped your arms around him. “So, how was work?”
“Boring. Even more so without you there to pester me.”
“I’m sure I’ll be back there soon,” you said.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
You shrugged. “It can be both.”
Mycroft just hummed before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips. Melting into him, you felt his fingers fan through your hair as you let him back you up towards the desk.
A small gasp escaped you as you finally hit the desk.
“Sorry-”
“Don’t be,” you said. “Keep going.”
Pulling his down to your lips by his tie, Mycroft helped you scoot further back onto the desk.
It was amongst the growing darkness of the office, and the empty street outside, that you and Mycroft fell deeper with each other. For however much he was straight-laced, tight and controlled; when it came to you, he was a man untamed.
With your thighs still trembling from the two orgasms he had served you, you begged for him to thrust harder and deeper for the third. His grunts and moans of pleasure as he felt you clamp and pulse around him only drove him on.
Leaving you dripping, Mycroft’s arms cradled your body as you held onto him for dear life.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> You have been in love with your best friend for ten years, but when you get hurts, he starts to question his own feelings.
Disclaimer: mentions of reader getting hurt, platonic!James, historical inaccuracies, fluff, angst, yearning, love confessions, oblivious idiots, reader survives ten years whilst Mycroft crumbles within ten minutes.
For the last nine and a half years, you have been madly, hopelessly, desperately and pathetically in love with Mycroft Holmes.
For the first three years, you tried your best to deny it. You didn’t love him, it was just a work crush that was lasting too long. He was a dear friend and wires were just getting crossed.
Then, for a year, you ignored your feelings. If they didn’t exist, you didn’t have to deal with them. None of it was real. — it was just a figure of your imagination running wild.
For years five, six and seven you went through cycles of trying to shove your feelings away, succeeding for a short while, growing them back but even stronger (and without your approval), only to stuff them down once more and so on and so forth.
Also, between years seven and eight, you tried your hand at a couple of romances — though none ever lasted very long. A few dances, a few tea dates and one night at the opera.
They were all lovely but they either found themselves someone else to occupy their time, or they simply were a friend who agreed with you that the romantic aspects of things simply did not exist.
Finally, as the eight year bled into the ninth and was slowly creeping towards the tenth, you’d finally accepted the truth.
After you did, you scolded yourself for a while. Because, somehow, accepting your feelings made them a lot easier to deal with.
And though, every once in a while, the pain of knowing you’d never be together did sting a little: you were very content to be able to call Mycroft Holmes a friend.
Until this very moment when, technically, it was your friendship with him that landed you in the hospital.
“How are you feeling?”
“If I had the strength and energy, I could strangle you right now.”
Mycroft nodded. “That sounds fair.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I-I didn’t think it was important-“
Mycroft didn’t have to look at your face to recognise the tone of disgust and shock. “Didn’t think it was important- Oh, you are so bloody lucky I am in this hospital bed- Mycroft!”
“I know,” he repeated, apologetically. “I know. I should have told you sooner but I really didn’t think you would have been targeted.”
“They shot me, Mycroft! With a bullet! From a gun! A concealed gun, no less! What did you think was going to happen?”
Mycroft stuttered, “Well, I suppose-“
“Oh, please don’t tell me you thought he was going to just talk.”
“Well…”
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, bloody hell!”
“I don’t see why you're so mad at me for that!? What were you doing following me anyway? I specifically told you-”
“I had a feeling so I followed you. I got worried, Mycroft. What do you think would happen, hmm? How do you think I, or your brother, or your family would feel if you had gotten seriously hurt? They could have killed you, Mycroft!”
“But they nearly killed you, instead!”
You nodded. “Yes! And I’m allowed to be mad at you for that, too. But I would do it again.”
Suddenly, the wooden door to your room swung open and a nurse popped her head inside. Both you and Mycroft agreed to keep your shouting to a minimum, and when the doors finally closed, Mycroft took a moment to look at you.
“What?” You asked, exasperated.
“What do you mean you would do it again?"
“I mean I would do it again,” you repeated. “I might want to kill you right now, Mycroft. But I don’t want to see you dead.”
Mycroft paused. “It seems, for the first time, I’m lost for words.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Neither of us can change what has happened. You should… you should probably go.”
“I can stay, if you’d-“
You shook your head, a little. “Your brother probably needs you, so…”
Mycroft took a breath and nodded. “Yes. You’re…you’re probably correct. I’ll pop in to check on you later.”
“Okay. Just try and not die before then, please?”
Mycroft nodded, “You have my word.”
And he managed to keep it. Though, by the time he arrived back at the hospital, you were fast asleep and on the mend.
As Mycroft stood at the end of your bed with a fresh bouquet of flowers, one of the nurses popped inside.
“Family?” She asked.
After a moment, Mycroft nodded. “Of sorts, yes.”
“Wonderful. You know, I was starting to get worried nobody would turn up. We did offer to send a wire to her home but she said she would do it herself. Didn’t want to worry you, you know.”
Mycroft nodded. “Is she…healing?”
The nurse nodded. “It’s a nasty thing, but she’s doing well so far.”
Earlier that day when Mycroft was told you were awake, he came and asked you how you were. You said it looked worse than it was.
Though he hadn’t fully believed you.
“Can I ask…how bad are her injuries?”
“Well, she was shot. The bullet was lodged but the surgeon managed to retrieve it. In all manner of speaking, she’s probably in a lot of pain. More than she’s admitting to any of us.”
After a few moments, the nurse turned back to Mycroft.
“Forgive me for prying, but would you happen to know if she is…involved with anyone? It’s a forward question, I know. But there were a couple women in here before — work colleagues, I believe. They mentioned something about a fella she might be seeing, or at least has strong feelings for?”
Mycroft was a little taken aback. Aside from the fact a nurse was asking him — though, by all assumptions, he was probably a cousin of some kind and since he was the only “family” to come, there could be consideration that you and he were close enough to discuss such things.
Mycroft, in all of his knowledge, wasn’t aware of any gentlemen who were trying to court you, or whom you had feelings for.
For a moment, he shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I do. Perhaps you have a name? Someone I can look for?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. It was a funny name. Not one I’ve heard before. Kinda like…Michael. But not that one.”
The nurse thought about it for a moment, but was struggling to recall.
“M-Mycroft?”
The nurse's face lit up. “Yeah! That’s the one. Do you know him?”
Mycroft a gaze fell on your sleeping frame for a moment before retiring to the nurse. “Ah, yes. I believe I might.”
“That’s wonderful! Is there any chance-“
Mycroft could feel his throat getting tighter. “Could- please just excuse me for a moment.”
He didn’t hear the nurses reply as he made his way out into the hallway to catch his breath.
Feelings? Strong feelings?
Surely, the nurse had to be wrong. You didn’t have feelings for him. You-you we’re friends. You would have said something-
Did you have feelings for him? To what extent? Maybe it was just an accident. Maybe the two women were talking about him, and you, because you worked together. Because he was the reason you were recovering from the bullet wound.
He didn’t pull the trigger: but he was the reason you got hurt.
No. You couldn’t have feelings for him. He would have seen. He would have noticed-
Before Mycroft knew it, he was back in his carriage and arriving home. Both Sherlock and James stared at him like he has three heads, as he poured a brandy and gulped it down before pouring a second and doing the same.
Loosening his top buttons and tie, Mycroft took a seat.
“Brother dear- oh, no.”
Mycroft stood and started pacing.
“What’s happened?” James asked, being the first to broach the subject.
“It’s not Y/n, is it? Is she okay?” Sherlock asked, quickly.
“Yes. No, no. Y/n’s fine. She was asleep when I got there. The nurse told me she’s healing nicely.”
“So what seems to be the issue?” James asked.
Mycroft attempted four times to speak before a statement finally fell from his lips.
“Feelings.”
Sherlock nodded slowly, looking from his friend to his brother.
“Yes, they are human emotions.”
“The nurse- she said there was- my point is- but it can’t be- but maybe- it’s a possibility-”
“Mycroft?”
“Does Y/n have them for me? Does she have feelings for me?”
Both Sherlock and James looked at each other – Sherlock slightly more confused than James. Slowly, and a little more relaxed than when he sat up, James leaned back in his chair once more.
“I thought he’d never figure it out.”
“What?” Mycroft asked.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
James looked at the pair of them, a coy smile on his face. “What? Oh, come on! You can’t seriously tell me you didn’t notice the woman has feelings for your brother.”
“Well,” Sherlock began, a little off-balance. “I…I suppose she has always preferred his company to others. But I thought it was just a coincidence-”
“You thought it was a coincidence that Y/n prefers your brother’s company to the likes of others? That the way she talks to him, looks at him, acts around him. That all of that…was just mere coincidence?”
“Well…”
“My god,” James sat back in dismay. “You really do look smarter than you seem.”
“Hey!”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Excuse me? I am the one with the dilemma, here.”
Sherlock and James nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, brother dear.”
“Is it true?”
“Do you want it to be true?” James asked him.
“I don’t know. These last few days have already been too much excitement than I’m used to.”
“In ten years,” James started. “You haven’t once thought romantically about her?”
Mycroft fell silent for a few moments. “Well…not in a full romantic, marriage and children image. But…maybe, once or twice…when I see her and- oh, what am I saying? We’re friends. That seems to be the label I’ve held her under for so long. I haven’t really considered the full possibility.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m pretty sure she’s in love with you. I can’t say for certain since she won’t officially tell me, but odds are she is head over heels in love with you.”
“If that is true, why not just tell me?”
“Because she knows you don’t consider her in a romantic fashion.”
“How could she possibly know that?” Sherlock asked.
“I learned a long time ago never to question the abilities of a woman.”
Sherlock turned back to his brother. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Mycroft answered, honestly.
“She did take a bullet for you,” James pointed out.
“But that doesn’t denote him having to propose marriage to her, does it?” Sherlock argued.
“No, it doesn’t,” James confirmed. “But she clearly cares for you, Mycroft. And if you decide you feel the same way, I would say you best tell her.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Sherlock asked.
But James didn’t look at him. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Mycroft who looked like he was about to become a father and had no idea how to support his wife from outside the delivery room.
For the type of man James had come to know Mycroft was – he wasn’t a man that freaked out, easily. He took things in his stride, tried his best to remain calm and collected and offered the right words when they were needed.
If Mycroft didn’t feel the same way about you, James could have almost guaranteed Mycroft would have kept the new information to himself and either talked to you when you woke up or would have slowly made it clear that he had no interest in you and, over time, you would have moved away from each other’s lives.
But, instead, he was freaking out.
“I don’t think that’s the question he needs to be worried about.”
Sherlock turned to his brother who had a rather guilty look on his face. “Do you?”
Mycroft didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.
He felt like he’d been kept in the dark from himself for so long, and only now he was starting to realise the light that had been growing beside him all this time was, in fact, not the world around him, but…you.
When he first sat outside in the waiting room as they started the surgery for you to remove the bullet – the one you had told him had gone clean through and refused to let him check – it was the first time he cried in a long time.
Fear overwhelmed him.
In truth, the moment you had started yelling at him a few days after you had finally woken up and was in a clear frame of mind, he had been relieved.
He would take your anger, over your possible eternal silence, any day.
Your statement; you would do it again, had nudged something inside of him. A list of questions and queries. The main one was Why? Why would you do it again? Why had you been so worried that it had prompted you to follow him on his investigation? Why had you lied to him about the true extent of your injuries?
If you were worried about him, why couldn’t he be worried for you?
That night, and the following day, Mycroft tossed and turned in bed, and paced around the entirety of his home going over the last ten years with you.
He could still remember your first meeting.
It was at the town hall. He was shadowing his mentor whilst you were taking note of your boss’ ramble, in order to type up later. It had been a simple smile in passing, a brief introduction and then an hour of talking and getting to know, not only each other, but your boss’, too.
Surprisingly, Mycroft started to see you more frequently around his office since your boss, as well as his own, had struck up a deal and spent a lot of their time working together. For a short while, you both shared an office.
Over the years, your friendship grew stronger.
If there was ever a dance, Mycroft made sure he was the first one on your dance card. He would walk you home. On sunny afternoons, you’d both sit outside the local tea shop and talk about your day.
Eventually, the days of you both not talking became more rare than the days you did talk. Even when Mycroft was prompted and moved to another office, you still managed to keep in contact.
It was only in the last two, maybe three years, that you had started to also help out his brother and his friend when they seriously needed help.
Mycroft had come to you one evening with a dilemma, and you didn’t think twice about helping.
You knew most of his secrets, and he knew most of yours.
There wasn’t a true aspect of his life that you weren’t in. And there wasn’t a single aspect of his life that he didn’t want to share with you.
You were a guiding light amongst the darkness of London, work and family difficulties. You provided him with a safe space.
And, he provided the same to you. At least, he once had. You had told him as much; just after you decided that your Opera date was going to be your last with…whoever the guy was.
Though, after the last week or so, Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if your statement had changed.
“And how is the patient feeling?”
You smiled, seeing James as he approached you outside the tea shop.
“She’s no longer a patient, so…thrilled!”
James smiled. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Please.”
As one of the waitresses came outside, James ordered a cup of tea before looking back at you.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” James started. “I half expected you to be with Mycroft.”
You shifted in your seat. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
You shook your head. “Not since he brought me home from the hospital. I sent him a letter but he told me he was busy. Which…I can believe.”
For a moment, you paused. “Might I ask you something, James?”
“Of course.”
“Has he said anything to you? Or Sherlock? We had a fight when I first woke up in the hospital and things haven’t exactly been…smooth since. We talked a little in the carriage when he brought me home but he seemed…”
“Distracted?”
You nodded, a little worried.
“Well, if you’re asking if it’s something you’ve done…it is. But it’s not your fault. Mycroft is a man who doesn’t understand what to do with emotions he wasn’t expecting.”
You stared at James, a little more than confused. “Pardon?”
As the waitress came outside with James’ cup of tea, he thanked her and watched her leave before pulling his gaze back to you.
“It seems that the bullet that hit you helped him realise something rather important.”
“Like what?”
James sat back. “I think I should let him explain that to you.”
“James, he won’t even speak to me.”
“Then, I suggest, you make him.”
You sighed. “How?”
“I think you can figure that one out.”
It took you three days, but you eventually did make him talk to you.
For those three days, and the two weeks since you’d left the hospital, he had avoided talking to you. Any letters you sent had been met with short and rushed replies. When you saw him in the hallway of parliament, he seemed…sad. But turned away and was carried away by his work.
But a few hours before you saw him, you had a surprise visitor.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m sorry to be calling on you so late,” he apologised. “But…might we talk?”
You nodded, opening your door a little wider. “Come on in. Is everything alright?”
“It’s about my brother.”
“Oh.”
“He’s starting to worry me and I believe you are the only one who can fix it.”
“Fix it?”
“Fix him. He’s…acting odd. Especially recently. He seems distracted by his feelings and I’m concerned about him. I fear the only way he might return back to normal would be if you spoke to him.”
“Feelings? What feelings?”
Sherlock sighed. “His feelings…for you.”
“Your brother doesn’t have feelings for me.”
“Well, I beg to differ. He’s been in a tizzy ever since you got shot. Even more so after he spoke to your nurse.”
“My nurse?”
Sherlock nodded. “She told him of your feelings for him and he came back home in such a state, I wondered if he’d been shot himself.”
The word around you quickly grew silent whilst a loud ringing in your ears started to rattle through your brain, meanwhile Sherlock’s voice drifted into the background.
“He hasn’t said as much, but I know my brother. And even James agrees. Clearly, he must reciprocate your feelings to some extent but he’s worried and doesn’t-”
Slowly, you dropped down to your sofa, gripping the edge of it with your hands.
He’d been ignoring you because…he had feelings for you? He’s been in a tizzy…over his feelings for you?
You’d known Mycroft for almost ten years. Never once had you truly seen him in such a state that could excuse the description of being in a tizzy.
No. Sherlock had to be wrong. It couldn’t be possible. He considered you a friend and nothing more.
Maybe he was just confused. You had gotten hurt – it was just a mixture of emotions that overwhelmed him. And he cared for you. Hearing from your nurse…oh, god!
Do you apologise? Tell him he doesn’t need to worry? Tell him it was all a mistake? He was your friend above everything else. You didn’t want to just ignore him for the rest of your life…you still worked together. But- no. No, if he wanted to ignore it, you had no other choice.
“Please, Y/n. Will you please try and talk to him?”
“I…I don’t know if I can. Sherlock…you brother doesn’t have feelings for me.”
Kneeling on the floor, Sherlock took your hands in his own. “I can assure you, my brother would not be in such a state if he didn’t reciprocate his feelings for you. But I fear he is beyond my reasoning. You’re the only one who can help him see some sense. You care for him, do you not?”
You nodded. “I do.”
“Then, please. Please. Talk to him?”
That was how you found yourself standing on the stoop of Mycroft’s home as your carriage rolled away down the street.
It was approaching eight in the evening, and although it would be considered incredibly rude, you spent twenty minutes sitting alone in your living room spiraling.
“Miss Y/l/n.”
Mycroft’s butler, Mr Clarke, answered the door.
“I’m sorry for calling so late, Mr Clarke. But is it possible-”
Although he seemed shocked, a look of relief washed over his face. “Come on in, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
“Might I take your coat?” He asked.
“Thank you, Mr Clarke,” you said, just before he laid it over his arm and nodded down the hallway.
“He’s in his office. I have to say, Miss, I am glad to see you. Good luck.”
You gave him a smile, but took a moment before smoothing down your dress nervously and walking down the hallway towards Mycroft’s office door that was left ajar.
“Who was it, Mr Clarke?” Mycroft asked as he heard the door creak behind him.
“Hello, Mycroft.”
Mycroft’s body stilled for a moment. He felt his breath catch in his chest before he turned around to face you.
“Y/n.”
“Forgive me for calling so late. I know it’s improper-”
Mycroft shook his head, laying down the paper file he’d been reading over for the last hour.
“No, no, no. Please, come in.” Mycroft looked around his office, seeing the mess he’d made. “Sorry about the mess.”
You chuckled, softly. “We shared an office, Mycroft. I think I can say my own office has looked worse.”
“How…how are you? How is the…” Mycroft gestured to your wound.
Your hand came up to it, holding it instinctively. “Oh, it’s…yeah, it’s fine. Like it was never there.”
Mycroft nodded. “Yes? That’s…that’s good.”
An empty silence fell over the room as you and Mycroft looked at each other. For the first time, you were seeing the aftermath of Mycroft being…in a state.
His hair was out of place, his tie was loose and so were his buttons. He looked…worn out. Tired and restless.
“Is everything…okay?”
You swallowed a little, and nodded. And then you shook your head.
“Actually, no. Sherlock…he came to me earlier and told me he was worried about you. And I have to say, I’ve been in a similar position.” You explained to him. “And I fear…that I might be the reason for your distress.”
“Oh,” Mycroft looked away, his fingers picking at the edge of his desk.
“Have I done something?” You asked, stepping forward.
“No, no,” Mycroft shook his head, eventually looking back at you. “No, of course not.”
“Because I can’t help but feel that I am,” you said. “Sherlock mentioned something about my nurse. That she said something-”
“It was purely coincidence."
“But, if she did, I don’t want you to fear my intentions of our friendship-”
“I don’t fear our friendship,” he replied.
“And I don’t want you to feel some sense of duty because of unspoken feelings.”
Mycroft stopped for a moment. “Feelings?”
“That…that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Feelings?”
“You do have feelings…for me?”
You felt your heart rate soar, but you tried to remain calm. “Mycroft, I need you to know they were never intentional.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I care for you. You are my friend, Mycroft.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why haven’t you spoken to me in three weeks?” You countered. Mycroft remained quiet. “That is why I didn’t tell you. Because, feelings or not, I didn’t want to lose you. But I am anyway.”
“You’re not losing me, Y/n.”
“Then where have you been?” You asked, your voice pained. “Where have you been? I sent you letters, I’ve seen you at work. But you seemed so eager to avoid me. It wasn’t until Sherlock spoke to me earlier that I finally pieced things together.”
“I needed…to gather my thoughts,” Mycroft said. “In truth, I still don’t know what to say. All I know is that these last few weeks have felt like hell.”
Mycroft sat against his desk and ran a hand down his face.
“When you got shot…I was ready for it to be me, when I saw you. But it wasn’t me. It was you. It was you who got shot, who got hurt…who nearly lost their life because of me.”
Mycroft could barely look at you as he told you his side of the story.
“And when you were in the hospital, all I could think about was…everything between us. Our friendship…all those moments that I cherish with you. They could have ended – you could have been lost in an eternal silence…all because of me.”
You remained still, listening to his every word. You watched as images flashed across his memory, the way his hands trembled, the way his shoulders hunched with tight tension.
“In all honesty, I was mad at you, too. If you hadn’t followed me, you wouldn’t have been hurt. You would be safe and everything would be…well.”
“But if I wasn’t-”
“I know,” Mycroft nodded, his voice gentle. “I see that. Believe me, I do. I really do see that. But if it is a question of your danger or mine? I will choose mine everytime because, as much as you say you don’t want to lose me, I can’t lose you either, Y/n.”
Looking at you, tears grew in his eyes.
“I really can’t.”
“Mycroft…”
He shook his head as he closed his eyes. “No, wait. Please. If I don’t say this now, I don’t think I’ll ever have the courage to say it.”
Nodding and staying fixed in your place, you waited. You waited to run over and hug him. You waited for him to tell you his truth.
“That same night, after we fought, I came back as I promised. And, I don’t know what Sherlock has told you, but your nurse did tell me a few things. None of which I had confirmation of. It could have been a coincidence, or not. I couldn’t tell. So, I came home. I don’t even remember leaving. One minute I was outside of your hospital room, the next I was standing in front of Sherlock and James.”
Mycroft relayed to you what happened when he got home, and what his brother and his friend told him. He told you how he couldn’t sleep for four days; he went over everything. Every moment of your friendship together than he could remember.
Surprisingly to you, he remembered a lot more than you did.
The inside jokes, the sunny walks in the park, the dreary winter evenings in the city, the tea-shop afternoons spent reading and gossiping together, the late nights in the office when you were younger, the schemes and acts performed for the sakes of his brother and his friend when they were on investigations, the dances, the parties, the Irish-Exits made at ones neither one of you wanted to attend, the summer picnics at his family home…
The list was endless.
But for as much as his memory was touching, it still didn’t explain why you hadn’t seen him for three weeks.
“You worry I fear our friendship, but I don’t.” Mycroft told you. “I care for you, deeply. I always will. But what I do– did fear was what came next.”
“Mycroft, I already told you. There is no sense of duty or concern that you need-”
“I want there to be.”
The cogs in your brain short-circuited. And he saw.
“I want there to be,” he repeated, standing up. “I have been incredibly stupid to not have noticed it sooner. And, even more so by avoiding you for these last few weeks. But if I think about it anymore, I might go mad. So, here it goes.”
Still in shock, your feet remained fixed to the carpet as Mycroft approached you.
“I love you,” he said. “I am in love with you. And I hate that what it took me to realise that, was you getting hurt. I don’t want there to ever be a day where we don’t talk, where I don’t see you, where I don’t hear your voice or your laughter. You are the light and my hope in this dreary world, and I will be damned if I never get to see you again. When I say duty, it’s not because it’s what is proper or what is right for society, but because it’s what I want for us. Because I want there to be an us.”
“Mycroft…”
You felt like crying. Or, maybe, you already were.
“Please, tell me now if you don’t feel the same. Tell me if you’ve let go, if I’ve lost you-”
You shook your head and reached up before kissing him, cutting him off.
Barely a few seconds passed before Mycroft’s hands were on your cheeks, pulling you closer to him as he stepped forward.
“You’ve not lost me,” you said, tears rolling from your eyes. “You’ve not lost me. You’ll never lose me–”
Mycroft kissed you again, his arms wrapping around you and holding onto you like you were his anchor; his reason for existing.
His kisses trailed desperately across your cheek and into your neck as you held onto each other, in a mess of feelings and tears.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Mycroft repeated, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck.
“I love you, too,” you finally told him.
For the next three days, you and Mycroft were practically attached at the hip. Sherlock and James turned up the next evening, in a rush and a panic and in need of help. James noticed you were already there, and Sherlock made a note to ask his brother later.
At work, whenever you passed in the hallway, there was always a brush of hands or a smile shared. By all means, not much had changed when it came to work; but the atmosphere felt lighter.
At lunch, yourself and Mycroft sat together in the lunch hall. At least, when the other wasn’t being dragged away because of work.
In the evenings, he would walk you home, or simply take you to his home. If you were ever parted, it wasn’t for long.
“Darling,” Mycroft reached out for you. “Come back to bed.”
“Your mother is probably expecting us downstairs. It’s almost after noon!”
Mycroft caught your hand and pulled you back onto the bed with him. “I can assure you my mother’s mind will not be on whether we are late for afternoon tea. We are newlyweds after all.”
You smiled, feeling his kiss trail down your neck slowly. “We came back from our honeymoon three weeks ago.”
Mycroft hummed against your bare skin. “And we have ten years to make up for.”
“Well, I think we covered years one through five in Europe.”
“Meaning there’s five still left. Not counting the lifetime ahead of us.”
Feeling yourself agreeing with his side of the argument, you practically melted under his touch.
Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> When James gets shot, you're there to patch him up. But, during his recovery, you both start to realise maybe you could be friends after all.
Disclaimer: mentions of wounds, reader takes care of James, anxiety over love, forced proximity, yearning in a bathroom, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff towards the end, swearing.
“You’ve gotta be fucking joking.”
For the last four days, you’d been practically confined to the uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner of the room, waiting (and secretly praying) for James to wake up.
But the minute you heard his voice, a small part of you wished he was still sleeping.
“Hello to you, too.”
James looked around himself, trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten there. But, as you watched him try to figure it out, the pain in his side reminded him of the moments just before he passed out.
“What happened?”
Laying down the embroidery hoop, you looked at him, mostly fed up. “I would have thought you’d have remembered?”
He glared at you. “I remember being shot and getting to a hospital. What happened after I passed out?”
You sighed, watching as he tried to sit up. So, placing the hoop on the table, you stood and walked over to help him.
“They needed the extra beds and since you were no longer on death’s door, and you’d have access to some pretty good medical care elsewhere, they let us bring you home.”
“What are you doing?” James asked, quickly, with a confused and slightly frightened look on his face.
“If you turn yourself any more, you’re going to rip open your stitches. And I’ve already sewn them back up twice. Did you know you wriggle a lot in your sleep?”
Mostly due to the shock, James stayed still long enough to let you fix his pillows and gently guide him into a comfortable sitting position.
“I have so many questions,” he admitted, still looking at you.
“I’m sure Sherlock can fill you in on most of the information.”
“Where is he, by the way? I thought that wee bastard might have been here when I woke up. I did take a bullet for him, afterall.”
You chuckled, knowing James didn’t really mean his harsh words against Sherlock. “My, my. For a man who’s just been told he’s alive, you certainly do have a rather gloomy disposition.”
“That’s another thing,” James said. “Why are you here?”
“Somebody had to make sure you didn’t die.”
“I would have thought you’d have smothered me in my sleep.”
“Believe me,” you told him. “I did think about it once or twice.”
“Once or twice?” He asked, watching you walk away.
You turned around to look at him. “Okay, maybe three or four times.”
You knew he would never admit to it, but even you had to admit that you’d caught the small smile on his face as he looked at you.
For a moment, the room fell silent. But, it was swiftly broken by James’ next question.
“You stitched me up?”
You nodded. “I did. Twice.”
“I’m assuming you’re not the medical professional that signed off on my home release,” James said. “And knowing Sherlock, he would have called for the local doctor. So would you.”
“Is there a question in there somewhere?”
James nodded. “Why? Why patch me up?”
You shrugged, mentally debating on whether to tell him the full truth.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it on your face. Why did you patch me up?”
With a slight smile, you sighed and placed a hand on your hip. “Because I…because I didn’t think the last nurse who sowed you up did a very good job. I don’t blame her, obviously. A hospital is a busy place and she was in a rush and she probably got distracted with…you.”
Feeling yourself blush, you cleared your throat and looked to your feet in fear of James noticing what you were hiding.
“But, if it wasn’t for those reasons then I don’t exactly trust a doctor who hasn’t been a surgeon for many years. So…I did it myself.”
“But they came undone.”
You looked at James, quickly, offended. “Like I said; you wriggle in your sleep. And besides, I don’t exactly hear a thank you.”
James took a breath and laid a hand over his heart. It was rare you got a sincere word from James, directed at you. But this one was.
Even if you were being made acutely aware of the fact he saw your slight embarrassment about being distracted by him.
“Thank you.”
You nodded. “Well…you’re welcome.”
A few more moments of silence passed over the room so you moved back to freshen up the bowl of water, as well as change out the old clothes for some new ones.
“Out of curiosity,” James said. “How long have you been watching me sleep, exactly?”
“I haven’t been watching you sleep.”
“Based on that terrible embroidery work, I’d have guessed otherwise.”
Looking at the hoop on the table behind you, you sighed, looked at James and then looked back to the task at hand. “I was never any good, even as a child.”
“Clearly practice makes perfect doesn’t apply in this situation.”
“Anyone ever tell you, you have an excellent bedside manner?” You asked, forcing a smile.
“Oh, all the time. So?”
“So…what?”
“How long?”
“Four days,” you told him. “Sherlock stayed with you at the hospital whilst I came here to get everything prepared. By the time I got back into London, you were being discharged so I took over whilst Sherlock went to find his brother.”
“And why did he go to find his brother?”
“Because he believes he knows who shot you. Rather, who was trying to shoot him but shot you instead.”
“And that is?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. He was in a daze when I saw him last and neither he or his brother has been in touch since. I’ve sent word but I’m yet to have a reply.”
“Should we be worried?”
You shook your head. “Not yet. I’m expecting he’ll turn up, if not tomorrow morning, tomorrow night.”
“And how do you know that, exactly?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Just a feeling?”
You nodded, pretty sure. “Yep.”
“I wasn’t aware we had a fortune teller in our midst.”
“Poke and prod all you like, James. But when you know Sherlock as long as I have, you get used to these things. It’s almost like an internal alarm. I’ll know when to worry. And right now, neither of us have to.”
James nodded, slowly. And then you heard a grunt.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
James swung his legs over the edge of the bed and was readying himself to stand. “If I’ve been laying down for four days, I need to move my legs. I’ll get restless if I don’t.”
Rushing to his side, you took his arm and helped him up. “You’re already restless. I’m pretty sure it’s in your nature.”
“Explains why I move in my sleep.”
You just hummed in agreement. “How do you feel?”
“Like a bird in a gentle breeze.” James said, his voice light. “How do you think I feel? I was shot.”
“You’re the one being sarcastic, not me.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“If you can walk well enough, I can have Mrs Crowle draw you a shallow bath.” Placing your hand on his front, you lifted his shirt a little and took a look at his wound.
It wasn’t infected; rather, it was healing nicely.
Standing in front of the mirror, you lifted his shirt high enough to let him see for himself.
“It’s gonna leave a nasty scar, so.”
You nodded, a slight grimace as you lowered his shirt. “The bullet was still inside. With the amount of blood pouring out of you, they couldn’t find it so they had to guess as best as they could.”
“Just as well,” James sighed. “That shooter was a lousy shot to begin with. Before he got a clear sight of Sherlock, he’d hit several wooden barrels.”
“Think you can walk on your own?”
James nodded. “I think I can manage.”
“Good. I’ll go and ask Mrs Crowle to draw a bath. Don’t go anywhere.”
James chuckled. “I’ll start training for my run back to London, then.”
“Very funny.”
By the time the bath was ready, you waited outside the door for James to be finished just in case something went wrong with his wound or he…passed out or something.
Which was probably a good thing, because as James was finished, he called out for you.
“You’re not dead, are you?”
“Would I be shouting your name if I was dead?”
“You did say you’d haunt me.”
“Just…get in here, please.”
Looking around before opening the door, you entered the room and closed the door behind you quietly. No doubt Mrs Crowle would probably faint at seeing you alone in a room with a man who was, for lack of a better statement; as naked as the day he was born.
Entering, you took in the sight of James Moriarty, sitting on the edge of the bath. His back was turned to you, his shoulders broad but hunched in pain.
Your brain took a mental image before what came next changed the entire atmosphere of the room.
“Jesus Christ,” you swore, seeing the blood running down James’ bare front and onto the towel he’d pulled across his thighs in order to cover himself.
Reaching for a clean flannel that lay on the dresser, you came to his side and pressed it against the wound. He hissed.
“Sorry,” you apologised, your voice soft as you leaned towards him.
You took a seat next to him on the lip of the bath, examining what had happened.
“The bath helped, but I think I moved too quickly.”
You nodded. “It’s alright. We just need to keep a little pressure on it.”
He hissed again as you pressed the flannel back onto his wound.
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
As silence swept over the room, it was becoming harder to ignore the fact that James was still – save for the towel covering him – naked. And you were, for all intents and purposes, an unmarried woman.
“Thank you for helping me.”
“You don’t need to thank me, James.”
“Why not? It’s not like you’re my actual doctor. Or…I wouldn’t have considered us friends before today, would you?”
You shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”
“That’s not to say I wouldn’t thank them, too. My mother raised me to have manners.”
You gave a fake but playful gasp. “She did? Jesus, I’d have never guessed.”
“Hey, you can give as good as you get.”
You chuckled, looking away from his gaze and back to his wound. Maybe trying to remember the reason why he’d called you inside would make the whole ‘looking into each other's eyes as you talk’ thing less intimate.
“So just…thank you.”
“Well,” you said, your voice quiet and soft. “You’re welcome.”
Looking at the wound didn’t make the situation feel any less intimate.
Just as your brain started to grasp the concept of ignorance about the current situation you found yourself in; James found your eyeline.
And what followed felt like a lifetime and a few lousy seconds rolled into one; the air became heavy, you felt your chest tighten and your breathing hitching in your chest as your eyes flicked from the colour of his own, to the colour of his lips.
Then his hand touched your own.
Softly, his fingers worked up your wrist and across the back of your hand that held the drying and slightly bloody cloth against him.
For a moment, you felt him lean in.
Or maybe that was you?
Both of you?
Only to have a steady knock on the door become either; your saving grace, or your biggest nuisance – you were unable to tell which.
“James, son! Everything alright in there?!”
Yourself and James sat back from one another quickly. “Uh-” James’ voice broke. “Every-everything’s fine, Mr Crowle. Perfectly fine, thank you!”
“Ah, good lad! Wound isn’t doing any harm is it?”
James looked at you and, secretly reluctant to break eye contact, you both looked down at where your hands met.
“No, no!” James called back. “Practically…fit as a fiddle! Is-is everything okay with you?!”
Behind the door, Mr Crowle nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. It’s just that, well you see, Mr Holmes just sent a telegram. He’s a little caught up in London but has asked you to keep your eye on Miss Y/l/n. He predicts she’s probably ignoring her – oh, what does that say? Oh, her stress…stressor signals!”
James looked at you, at first soft and vulnerable – he didn’t need to be told to keep an eye on you. He didn’t want to take his eyes off you. And then he looked at you knowingly.
Even if you two hadn’t exactly been considered friends, he still saw you. He saw the way you ignored stress; practically barrelled through it and carried the weight of the pain as if it was second nature.
Sometimes he thought you might be like a feral cat, or a wounded horse – or some kind of animal that has been hurt so bad it sees even a helping hand as an attack, so it has no other defence than to attack back.
“I think his point is just to look out for her.”
James swallowed. “I’ll be sure to do that! Have-have you seen Y/n?”
You furrowed your brows quickly as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing?”, but James just held up a patient hand.
“Oh, uh, well, she wasn’t in the hall so I can only guess she’s down by the lake. My wife says she sees her there sometimes.”
“Okay, well, thank you, Mr Crowle.”
“You’re welcome, lad.”
Both yourself and James didn’t move a muscle until Mr Crowle’s footsteps echoed away and down the hall.
“The lake?” He asked you.
You tried to avoid his eyeline. “I go there sometimes.”
“To do what?”
Looking back at his wound, you moved the cloth away. “It’s stopped bleeding. I’ll let you get dressed and-”
James reached out for your hand as you walked away. “To do what?”
Taking in a breath, you let out a sigh. “To..think.”
“Is that where you’ll go now? To think about this?”
You swallowed, hard. “I’ll see you at dinner. Mrs Crowle is making beef stew.”
Quickly leaving before James could ask you anything more, you closed the door behind you and raised a hand to your cheek. You were burning.
Gathering yourself together, you brushed a hand down your skirt before heading down the hallway and around the corner.
By the time you showed up for dinner, Mrs Crowle was plating everything up when she called you in to help James with the bandage around his middle.
“It keeps popping out under his shirt. Can you please help him?”
You made eye contact with James, but said nothing as you slowly approached him. Where he’d usually make a comment, or you would; neither of you spoke above a quiet decibel.
“Lift your shirt?”
He did so, not taking his eyes from your face once. Stripping off the bandage, you pulled it around his back, across his front and so on and so forth until it was tight enough.
“Too tight?”
James shook his head. “No.”
“There,” you said, finishing. “Just tell me if you need any help.”
“I will.”
You made the mistake of locking eyes with him because, in an instant, the memory of the bathtub came back.
“Dinner is served.”
Moving away from one another, yourself and James sat across from one another without another word. Meanwhile, Mrs Crowle shared a look with her husband who just seemed confused but accepting of whatever his wife was trying to tell him.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Turning around, you found James standing at the top of the embankment as you kept your feet in the water.
“I came here for some peace and quiet.”
James carefully made his way down to you. You and a very conscious James had been staying in Sherlock’s home, together, without buffers, for almost a week. And every time you seemed to catch yourself in a room together, it felt like the Bathroom Incident all over again.
Only dialed up.
“Oh, there’s plenty of peace and quiet in that house. You came here to get away from me.”
“And yet, you still get closer.”
“I do.” James was standing barely three paces from you. “It is pretty peaceful, I have to say.”
“It’s even more peaceful when you’re not here to talk over the birds.”
“The birds will still be singing their songs tomorrow,” James told you. “For today, they might choose to listen to us.”
“Us? There is no us?”
“Us. A pronoun used to describe the speaker and one or more other persons. Well, the speaker – that’s me, right now. And you’re here, too. So, us.”
“Glad to see you did learn something at Oxford other than Shakespeare quotes,” you mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.
Which he did, since you heard his chuckle.
“Yes, I suppose the know-it-alls at Oxford do know a thing or two, after all.”
“Why are you here, James? Other than to disrupt my peace?”
“Like I said,” James said, lifting his trousers a little in order to sit down beside you. “To talk.”
“About what?”
“Ohh, I think you know.”
“Really? Haven’t the foggiest,” you answered, quickly, keeping your eyes on the moving water.
You could feel his eyes on the side of your face, waiting for you to break and turn to look at him. But he could also see your determination. To both not look at him, and also try your best to annoy him.
“Why don’t I start, then, hmm?” James braced his arms against his knees as he looked out to the other side of the water. “The bath. Before Mr Crowle knocked on the door. The study, before you practically threw your poetry book at me.”
“I didn’t throw it.”
“I’ve seen people pass hot potatoes slower.”
You grumbled, but he continued.
“The kitchen, before you made an excuse about forgetting to feed the horses. And…just this morning. Before Mrs Crowle knocked on the door with some fresh tea.”
You swallowed but still didn’t look at him.
“Something is changing, Y/n. And I know you’re not blind to it. And neither am I.”
He waited, and still, you didn’t say anything.
“Jesus, if I’d have known feelings would have gotten you to be quiet, I would have developed them a lot sooner. Say something. Please.”
Finally, you looked at him. “What do you want me to say, James? Seriously? Because I have a lot and none of it makes any sense! You and I! We hated each other! We spent more hours in the day than most trying to either avoid one another, or push the other one to their wits end. The only thing we had in common was Sherlock. The only thing. And yes, you got shot. And yes, I was worried. And yes, maybe there is a small part of me that didn’t want to lose you because I’d rather-” You gritted your teeth a little. “Fight with you then talk to some pompous git that doesn’t even know the concept of the written word but will still try and explain what a book is to me.”
You took a breath.
“James. We had practically nothing in common. And we still don’t. Other than being confined to the same house for the last week and me taking care of you whilst you were unconscious…forgive me, but I don’t exactly see the logic in all of this.”
James shrugged. “I suppose you have a point. Mind if I make a counter point?”
You let out a breath. “Would it stop you?”
“No, probably not.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Whilst you make some excellent points; yes, we didn’t exactly get along. And yes, you’ve taken care of me whilst we’ve been here, together, alone. But, let me ask you this – because I already know my answers. Did you trust me? Before now, before this last week, did you trust me?”
You calmed yourself a little. “Yes.”
“I trusted you, too. And I still do.”
“I still trust you, too,” you nodded.
“Okay. Well, I understand that you think we have nothing in common but; you like to read?”
“Yes.”
“I do, too. Nobody ever has to read the same things in order to get along in life. But, considering you understood who and what I was quoting, I’d say we have at least a little crossover somewhere along the line.”
James continued.
“My point is…maybe blatant logic doesn’t need to be the thing either of us rely on at this point. I don’t have to see the change to know my feelings have changed towards you, Y/n.”
“How do you not know this isn’t just some…soldier falls in love with a nurse…thing?”
“Well, considering both our bedside manners when I woke up…I’d say we’re safe from that territory.”
“Are we?”
“What are you so scared of?”
“What?”
James barely reacted. “What is it that makes you so afraid to tell me the truth? You didn’t have a problem before now. What are you so scared of?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m not scared,” you grounded out.
Rather than walk away, James simply sat back with a content smile on his face. “Fine. Don’t tell me. We can sit here and soak in the sun, and not say a word to one another.”
This time, it was your turn to watch him.
Although, you were a little more defiant and turned with him, looking out across the water to the other side of the bank.
But the longer the silence stretched, the louder it became.
“You really are an arse, you know that.”
James clicked his tongue. “I believe you’ve told me once or twice before.”
Sighing, you felt yourself giving in. Fuck.
“I can’t tell you why I’m scared because…because I’m not sure I know myself. All I do know is…that I don’t work well with feelings. Or people, most of the time.”
“We’ve worked well, so far.”
“Because we haven’t liked each other, James. There was a mutual understanding and it was working just fine.” You told him. “But with feelings come…expectations. Expectations to soften or to…change. And I don’t think I can. And please. Please do not tell me you think you can change that, or that it will change. Because it’s more than just an insecurity.”
Taking a breath, you tried to find the words to best describe what you meant.
“I don’t think I’m capable of being soft. Maybe I was, once. And maybe, one day, I will be again. But I doubt it will be through something like this. I was on my own for a long time before you and Sherlock found me. Independence, barriers, survival instincts – they don’t just disappear, James.”
James nodded. “I know. More than you’d think.”
Neither you or James ever spoke of your histories – with anyone. Sherlock could only guess as to how James had found himself with a scholarship to Oxford. But other than that, he knew nothing of his friend’s past.
He’d asked. But it was rare for James to honestly answer.
And the same went for you.
“And I wouldn’t ask, or even expect you to give up those parts of yourself. I’m asking, and only if you’re willing, to…take a step with me. We’ll take it slow and figure out what exactly it is that has changed?”
“You’ll get bored.”
“You’ve managed to keep me on my toes, so far.” James nudged your shoulder a little. “And, besides,” he stretched his legs back out. “If we can both sit through Sherlock’s three hour lecture about the difference between fertilizer and soil, I think we’ll both be grand.”
It took a while. A long time, really.
But James was the one who turned out to be right.
Despite the fear, insecurities and worries about the change and what it all meant; yourself and James worked out well, in the end.
For most of your life, you’d found the only times you could truly work through something without thinking about it, was when it was in an extreme. Someone was shot, or hurt, or bleeding; you could deal with it, and solve every other minor problem with it.
But left to your own devices, with nothing but time to think, the fear nearly drowned you.
Until James did more than just toss you a rope; he held out his hand.
And you trusted him enough to take it.
Sure, you both pressed each other's buttons from time to time – but it was never in malice. And, sometimes, it even came in handy.
“The brown is gonna make it look too dark.”
“Oh, the brown is too dark, but the orange is an acceptable colour?”
James sighed. “It was just a suggestion. Besides, what’s better; orange or yellow fever?”
In front of you, the witness who thought it was better to run than stop and answer two simple questions, was still kneeling on the ground. “What are you going to do to me?”
Both yourself and James looked at him confused. “Nothing? Why are you kneeling?”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
You looked from the witness, to James and back to the witness. “I’m more likely to kill him if he paints our living room orange.”
James sighed. “It was just a suggestion!”
“So you’re not gonna kill me?”
“No!”
“Oh, thank god.”
“But we do want you to answer a couple of questions.”
“A muted blue or green is what I’ve found best to be. Especially if the room is south facing.”
Both you and James looked at each other. Then shrugged. “He has a point.”
“We’ll think about it, thank you. But those aren’t the questions we’re talking about.”
“Oh.”
After answering your questions, sending both yourself and James on the hunt once more to track down somebody else, it wasn’t long before you were back home.
“Please tell me you’ve decided on a colour?”
James chuckled, “Oh, no, no, no. That decision I am leaving to you.”
You groaned. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
With a slight sigh, you turned a little to look at him. “No, I don’t.”
For a brief moment, James’ lips met with yours.
“But I do hate having to pick colours.”
James sighed with you as you both dropped deeper into the sofa. “Do you think Mrs Holmes might be up for helping?”
You thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. We could always ask.”
James nodded. “Then it’s sorted. We’ll ask her tomorrow.”
“What if she says no?”
“I doubt she will.”
“But she could?”
James gave you a coy smile. “Who could say ‘no’ to me?”
You rolled your eyes a little, laying back down with him on the sofa. “You know, sometimes you’re too smug for your own good, James Moriarty.”
“But you love me anyway?”
You sighed, snuggling closer to him. “Yes. That I do.”
summary; Jake finds out you have nowhere to go for the holidays and becomes quietly, stubbornly determined to take you home with him.
word count; 11.7k
warnings; a little bit of a slowburn, frenemies to lovers, mentions of parents passing away
a/n; the holidays aren't over for me so here's a christmas fic for y'all, feliz día de reyes!! :) i thought about this right on the 24th so it took me a bit to write down haha, let me know what you think! happy reading <3
masterlist
The Hard Deck smelled like salt and citrus cleaner and something fried that had soaked into the wood years ago. Late afternoon light poured in through the open doors, slanting low and warm, catching on dust motes and the rims of half-empty glasses. It wasn’t loud yet — not the night crowd — just busy enough to feel alive.
You stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, methodically wiping down the counter while Penny flipped through the schedule beside you. Outside, waves rolled in steady and patient, their sound threading through the room like a quiet heartbeat.
“I’m still figuring out Christmas week,” Penny said, casual, but her eyes flicked to you with intention. “You sure you don’t mind picking up the shift?”
You didn’t stop what you were doing. Didn’t look up. Just shrugged, like it was nothing.
“I don’t have any plans anyway,” you said lightly. “Might as well stay busy.”
The words were easy. Practiced. You’d said them before.
Penny’s pen hovered above the paper for a fraction of a second too long. She knew the difference between fine and fine. But she also knew when not to press. She nodded once, a quiet agreement, and wrote your name in.
“Alright,” she said gently. “I appreciate it.” You smiled, bright and polite, and reached for another glass.
Behind you, the door creaked open.
Jake hadn’t meant to stop walking.
He’d come in laughing, jacket half off his shoulders, the day’s ease still clinging to him. The Hard Deck was familiar territory — noise, beer, you behind the bar rolling your eyes at him. Comfort in routine.
But your voice cut through it all.
I don’t have any plans anyway.
He slowed, boots scraping softly against the floor, his grin faltering before he could catch it. He stayed near the entrance, just long enough to hear Penny confirm the shift. Just long enough for the meaning to settle heavy in his chest.
Christmas. No plans. Alone.
Jake exhaled through his nose and forced himself to keep moving. Took a seat farther back instead of his usual place at the bar, fingers drumming absently against the tabletop. He told himself it wasn’t his business. That he didn’t care.
That was a lie.
Phoenix slid into the chair across from him, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. She set her beer down and studied him with narrowed eyes, already suspicious.
“You look like you just lost a dogfight,” she said.
He scoffed, gaze still fixed on the bar. “Hardly.”
“Mhm.”
Silence stretched, filled with the clink of glass and low conversation. Then, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet, Jake spoke again.
“She got family around here?”
Phoenix didn’t answer right away. She leaned back instead, arms crossing, watching him like a scientist observing a long-predicted reaction. A slow smile tugged at her mouth.
“Oh,” she said. “So that’s where we are now.”
Jake grimaced. “Don’t.”
“I knew it,” she continued, clearly enjoying herself. “Months of denial, and all it takes is one holiday schedule.”
He finally looked at her, jaw tight. “Nat.”
That got her attention.
Phoenix followed his gaze to where you moved behind the bar, laughter soft and unguarded as you handed someone a drink. When she spoke again, her tone was quieter.
“She doesn’t really have anyone,” she said carefully. “No family close. That’s all you get.”
Something shifted in him — a dull ache blooming beneath his ribs.
Jake nodded once, stiff. He didn’t ask follow-up questions. Didn’t need to. The picture was already forming in his mind, uninvited and vivid.
His mom’s house in Texas, too warm and too loud. The smell of cinnamon and roasting meat. His dad’s voice carrying from the living room, his sisters already complaining about the playlist, his nieces running around. Familiar chaos. Annoying. Comforting.
Unavoidable.
He couldn’t imagine Christmas without it, couldn’t imagine choosing not to have somewhere to be.
Phoenix watched the realization settle into his expression. “You gonna do something about it,” she asked, “or just sit there brooding like a sad country song?”
A faint smile tugged at his lips — gone as quickly as it came. “She’s not gonna be alone.”
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the question.”
He stood, decision already made. “It’s the answer.”
Later, when the crowd thinned and the sun dipped lower, Jake approached the bar — not you, but Penny.
She looked up the moment she saw him, recognition flickering across her face. Penny noticed things. Always had.
“She won’t be working Christmas,” Jake said quietly.
Penny studied him for a long moment, then glanced toward you — laughing, unaware, completely unprepared for the way your world was about to shift.
“I wondered when you’d say something,” Penny replied softly. “Alright. I’ll cover it.”
Relief loosened something in his shoulders.
“She deserves better than another shift,” Penny added. “I’m glad someone agrees.”
Jake watched you for a beat longer than necessary.
You didn’t know it yet.
But you weren’t spending Christmas alone.
Not this year.
—
The bar was caught in that quiet in-between hour, when the sunlight poured in low and honeyed through the open doors and the ocean breeze slipped lazily across the floor. The bar smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and salt, the wood warm beneath your palms as you stepped behind it, already reaching for the schedule board without really thinking about it.
Routine was comfort. Knowing where you were supposed to be, when, had a way of grounding you.
Your eyes skimmed the list once, then again, slower this time. Monday. Tuesday. Christmas Eve. The space where your name should have been on Christmas Day stared back at you, blank and wrong, and a small frown tugged at your mouth as you leaned closer, as if proximity alone might make it reappear. You traced the line with your finger, checked above it, below it, then stepped back, confusion settling in your chest.
“That’s… odd,” you muttered.
You were just about to turn and call for Penny, already forming a casual explanation in your head — something light, something easy, like it didn’t matter — when the familiar weight of someone else’s presence registered behind you.
“Studying the wall now?” Jake’s voice drawled, warm with amusement. “Careful, it might flirt back.”
You closed your eyes briefly before turning, already bracing yourself. He stood a few feet away, leaning against the bar like he owned the place, confidence worn as effortlessly as his dog tags. The sight of him sparked the usual mix of annoyance and reluctant fondness, the kind you’d never admit out loud.
“Don’t you have literally anyone else to bother?” you asked, gesturing vaguely around the bar. “I’m busy.”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking from your face back to the schedule, then back again. “Looks like you’re not, actually. What’s got you so worked up?”
You sighed and pointed at the board, irritation slipping into your voice despite yourself. “I was supposed to work Christmas. Guess Penny forgot to write me in.”
Jake followed your finger, his expression unreadable for a moment as he took it in. Then his mouth curved into something like satisfaction. “That’s a win,” he said easily.
“Not really,” you shot back. “I had a plan. Now I don’t.”
“Well,” he said, pushing off the bar and closing the distance by a step, hands sliding into his pockets like he was trying very hard to look casual, “since you’re free, what are you doing instead?”
You shrugged, feeling strangely defensive all of a sudden. “Nothing. That was the point.”
Something flickered behind his eyes, but he smoothed it over quickly. “Perfect,” he said, far too confidently. “You’re coming to Texas with me.”
You stared at him, disbelief blooming into a short, incredulous laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
He smiled, broad and unapologetic. “Dead serious.”
“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not. I am not crashing your family’s Christmas like some stray you picked up at a bar.”
He waved the comment away like it was nothing. “You wouldn’t be crashing anything.”
“Hangman.”
“You’d be invited.”
“You didn’t even ask me,” you pointed out, crossing your arms. “You just decided.”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “I do that sometimes.”
You shook your head, already backing away. “Plane tickets alone would be insane this close to Christmas. I’m not letting you spend that kind of money on me.”
“I already checked,” he replied, far too quickly. “I’ve got miles.”
You blinked. “You what?”
He shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
You pressed on, stubbornness flaring. “I have responsibilities.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“I—” You hesitated, then said, “I have to feed my cat.”
His grin turned knowing. “You don’t have a cat.”
You narrowed your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’ve never talked about a cat,” he said, voice softer now, less teasing. “And because I pay attention.”
That gave you pause, something warm and uncomfortable settling beneath your ribs, but you pushed past it. “Even if I didn’t, it’s still a terrible idea.”
Jake’s smile faded just enough to matter. He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets, presence suddenly heavier, more grounded. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.
“I’m not letting you spend Christmas alone.”
The words hit harder than you expected, your breath catching before you could stop it. You stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes, by the absence of his usual bravado. This wasn’t flirting. This wasn’t teasing.
“You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “But I get to offer you somewhere to be.”
Silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft clink of glasses and the distant rush of the ocean. You searched his face for the joke, the punchline, and found none.
“I don’t want you alone,” he said again, gentler this time. “Not when you don’t have to be.”
Your defenses wavered, the weight of the season pressing in all at once — the empty apartment, the quiet nights, the way you’d already resigned yourself to pretending it didn’t hurt.
You exhaled slowly. “You’re impossible.”
His mouth curved into a small, victorious smile. “I’ve been told.”
“…Fine,” you said after a moment, voice softening despite yourself. “But if your family hates me, this is on you.”
His grin returned, bright and genuine. “They won’t.”
You weren’t sure you believed him.
But as he stepped back, satisfaction radiating from him, one thing was suddenly, undeniably clear.
You weren’t going to be alone this Christmas.
—
Jake showed up on the twenty-third like the decision had been settled for weeks, not days. You spotted his car from your apartment window first, parked crookedly at the curb like it didn’t quite fit the narrow street, and the sight alone made your stomach flutter with nerves you hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.
By the time you made it downstairs with your bag slung over your shoulder, he was already out of the vehicle, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, posture relaxed in that infuriatingly confident way of his.
“You know,” you said as you locked your door behind you, “I told you I could meet you at the airport.”
Jake didn’t even pretend to consider it. He reached for your bag without asking, fingers closing around the strap before you could protest, and lifted it easily. “Yeah,” he replied, already walking toward the car. “But then I wouldn’t know you actually showed up.”
You huffed, trailing after him. “I said I was going.”
“Mmm,” he murmured, popping the trunk. “You also said this was a terrible idea about fifteen times.”
He slid your bag in beside his — like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the plan — and shut the trunk with a decisive thud before opening the passenger door for you. The gesture caught you off guard enough that you paused, then climbed in without comment. He grinned like he knew he’d won a small victory and went around to the driver’s side, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb with easy confidence.
The drive to the airport passed in a strange, suspended quiet. Jake filled the space with low music and occasional commentary about traffic or the weather, and you answered when necessary, but your thoughts were already miles ahead. Four hours in the air. Four hours trapped with your own nerves. Flying had never been something you enjoyed — too much time to think, too little control — and you hadn’t done it often enough to pretend otherwise.
You kept that part to yourself.
The last thing you needed was Jake Seresin clocking your anxiety and turning it into ammunition.
By the time you reached the airport, the tightness in your chest had settled into something familiar, a low hum of anticipation and unease. Jake grabbed both bags this time, slinging his over one shoulder and tugging yours along beside him as if this, too, was just how things were done. You followed him through the automatic doors, the air inside cooler and smelling faintly of coffee and disinfectant, voices echoing overhead in a constant stream of arrivals and departures.
You lingered near the gate once you’d checked in, fingers twisting together as you stared out at the planes taxiing along the runway. The reality of it all — Texas, his family, the holidays — pressed in on you again, and you turned toward him with a sigh.
“This is still a bad idea,” you said quietly. “We can turn around. It’s not too late.”
Jake glanced up from his phone, unimpressed. “You’ve already said that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he replied, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “You’ll survive.”
You frowned. “Have you even told your family?”
That earned you a shrug, casual and infuriating. “I always bring friends home.”
“Friends,” you repeated, incredulous. “Jake, we barely tolerate each other.”
“That’s your version,” he said lightly. “Mine’s different.”
You opened your mouth to argue — to point out that this wasn’t normal, that families asked questions, that holidays came with expectations — but the overhead announcement cut you off, boarding call echoing through the gate. Jake stood immediately, grabbing both carry-ons without hesitation, then paused when he noticed you still rooted in place.
He turned back to you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face, eyes warm and steady in a way that made your pulse skip.
“Well,” he said, holding out a hand, “ready for a Texan Christmas, darling?”
You stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, nerves and doubt and something dangerously close to excitement tangling together in your chest.
Then you sighed and took his hand.
“God help me,” you muttered.
His grin widened as he led you toward the gate.
The plane smelled faintly of recycled air and coffee as you stepped into the narrow aisle, Jake moving ahead of you with easy confidence. He glanced down at the boarding passes in his hand, then lifted his chin toward the row on the right.
“Here we are,” he said, already reaching up to shove his bag into the overhead bin. “Looks like we lucked out.”
You followed his gaze to the seats and felt your stomach dip when you realized what he meant. The window seat waited at the far end, the curved wall of the plane already pressing in on the space like a quiet warning. Jake motioned toward it without thinking, stepping aside to let you pass.
You shook your head immediately. “Nope. You take it.”
He paused, frowning slightly. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Suspicion flickered across his face, but he didn’t push it — not yet. He slid into the window seat, long legs stretching out as he settled in, and you took the middle seat beside him, already focused on grounding yourself. The familiar click of the seatbelt felt louder than it should have as you fastened it tight, pulling the strap snug across your lap like it might anchor you.
You inhaled slowly through your nose, then exhaled, intertwining your fingers together in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. The cabin filled around you with quiet movement — bags shifting, seats creaking, voices murmuring — and you fixed your eyes straight ahead, determined not to let the nerves show.
You became aware of his stare before you saw it.
Jake wasn’t subtle when he was curious. His attention had weight to it, and you felt it settle on you like a spotlight. You turned your head, meeting his gaze.
“Can I help you?” you asked dryly.
He blinked, like he’d been caught mid-thought, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You’re afraid of flying.”
You scoffed. “Absolutely not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I fly all the time.”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to your still-clasped hands, the tight line of your shoulders. “Sure you do.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but it was already too late. Recognition softened his expression in a way that caught you off guard, the teasing dialed down just a notch.
“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning back in his seat. “Planes are basically just buses with wings. Statistically safer than driving.”
“That’s not helping,” you muttered.
He smiled anyway. “I could explain how lift works, if you want.”
You rolled your eyes. “Please don’t.”
“Suit yourself,” he said lightly. “I could always take you flying sometime. Show you how it’s done.”
You shot him a look. “There is no universe where I get into a tiny plane with you in charge.”
He laughed at that, real and unguarded, shaking his head. “Your loss.”
The cabin lights dimmed slightly as the doors closed, and the shift in atmosphere sent another wave of unease through you. As the plane began to taxi, your leg started bouncing on its own, nerves leaking out in restless energy. You rubbed your palms against your thighs, trying to will yourself into calm.
Jake noticed immediately.
Without a word, he reached over and took your hand in his, fingers warm and steady as they curled around yours. The gesture was so unexpected it stole your breath, and before you could react, he squeezed twice — firm, reassuring — then kept his hand there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Tell me something,” he said softly, like this was just another distraction. “What’s the worst drink you’ve ever served at the Hard Deck?”
Despite yourself, a laugh slipped out. “You, ordering anything with umbrellas.”
“Ouch,” he said, mock-offended. “That hurts.”
The engines roared louder, vibration humming through the cabin as the plane picked up speed. When it finally lifted off the ground, your fingers tightened reflexively around his hand, eyes squeezing shut as your stomach lurched.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice low and sure. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The words anchored you more than you wanted to admit.
When the ascent leveled out and the seatbelt sign blinked off, you slowly opened your eyes. Jake loosened his grip and let go, the contact ending as gently as it began. When you looked at him again, the softness was already fading, replaced by that familiar glint of mischief that lived permanently in his eyes.
“Well,” he said, smirking, “for someone who’s definitely not afraid of flying…”
You groaned. “Don’t even, Seresin.”
He grinned wider, clearly pleased.
Once the initial tension of takeoff faded into the steady hum of cruising altitude, your body slowly followed suit. You kept your seatbelt fastened out of habit more than necessity, the strap a quiet reassurance across your lap, but the restless energy that had been buzzing under your skin finally eased. Your leg stilled, your hands resting calmly now instead of gripping at nothing, and the tight knot in your chest loosened just enough for you to breathe normally again.
Jake noticed, of course. He always did.
He leaned back in his seat, stretching slightly, a satisfied look crossing his face as he glanced sideways at you. “You want me to put on a movie for you?” he asked, tone deliberately teasing. “Something animated, maybe?”
You shot him a look. “I am not an iPad kid.”
He laughed, head tipping back against the seat, the sound easy and genuine. “Could’ve fooled me. You were gripping that armrest like it owed you money.”
“Very funny,” you muttered, though the edge was gone now, replaced by something lighter. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that surprised you.
The plane settled into its rhythm, the cabin lights dimmed slightly, and the world outside the window stretched into an endless canvas of clouds. For a while, you sat in companionable quiet, the kind that didn’t demand filling. Then, almost without thinking about it, you turned your head toward him.
“So,” you said softly, hesitant in a way you hadn’t been before. “What’s your family like?”
The effect was immediate.
Jake’s expression shifted, the perpetual smirk softening into something real as a genuine smile spread across his face. Not cocky, not practiced — just warm. He looked forward as he spoke, like he was picturing them as he went.
“My mom’s… a force,” he said fondly. “Loud, opinionated, will feed you until you physically can’t move. My dad’s quieter, but he’s the kind of guy who fixes everything with his hands. Always has some project going.”
You listened intently, surprised by how easily the words flowed from him now.
“I’ve got two sisters,” he continued. “Older. Both of them think it’s their life’s mission to keep me humble. Didn’t work.” He smirked briefly, then softened again. “And three nieces. They run the house now. I’m basically just their personal jungle gym when I visit.”
Despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips, growing wider the more he talked. You could picture it so clearly — Jake in a loud kitchen, a child clinging to each arm, someone scolding him for tracking mud through the house. It felt… impossible. And yet, it fit in a way you hadn’t expected.
You’d always known him as infuriating, endlessly confident, ego first and feelings somewhere far behind. The man who flirted shamelessly, who never seemed to take anything seriously. You’d never once imagined him in a domestic setting, surrounded by family, soft around the edges.
Yet here he was, eyes warm as he talked about them, voice carrying an affection that felt deeply ingrained.
“They’re… everything,” he finished quietly. “Holidays especially.”
Your smile lingered, unguarded now, and you realized that there was so much more to Jake Seresin than the version he showed the world.
—
Two hours into the flight, the cabin had settled into a steady, subdued rhythm, the low hum of the engines blending with the occasional rustle of movement and muted voices. You pulled the book from your bag and opened it on your lap, fingers resting against the worn edges of the pages as you tried to focus on the words in front of you. The letters blurred together more often than they should have, your eyes skimming lines without absorbing their meaning.
Beside you, Jake had put on a movie — something loud and action-heavy, punctuated by explosions and dramatic music that filtered faintly through his headphones. You glanced at the screen briefly, a corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself.
Of course he’s into that.
You turned back to your book, but your thoughts refused to cooperate. They drifted, unmoored, pulled away from the page and toward everything waiting for you on the other side of the flight.
Your nerves had changed shape.
It wasn’t the plane anymore — the metal shell carrying you thousands of feet above the ground — that made your chest feel tight. It was Texas. Jake’s family. The weight of walking into something you hadn’t belonged to in a long time.
You hadn’t spent Christmas with other people since you were twenty.
After your parents passed, there hadn’t been anyone else to fill the space they left behind. No crowded living rooms or overlapping conversations, no shared meals or traditions carried forward. Holidays and birthdays had slowly become quieter things, marked by routine instead of celebration. You’d learned to make peace with it — or at least something close enough.
Most years, Christmas meant sitting alone in your apartment, the city outside your window moving on as usual. Sometimes you lit a candle, the soft flame flickering in the dim, and let yourself think about them for a while. About how it used to be. About how quickly it had all slipped away.
Family, to you, had become an abstract idea.
Something that existed in memories, and in movies you avoided because they hurt more than they healed. Scenes of people decorating trees together, of kitchens filled with warmth and noise, of gifts wrapped and unwrapped with laughter — all of it felt foreign, like a language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten over time.
You wondered what the next few days would look like. What Jake’s family would say when they met you, how they’d greet you, whether they’d ask questions you didn’t know how to answer. You wondered how they celebrated, what traditions they held onto, what expectations you might accidentally step into without realizing it.
You swallowed, eyes drifting from the book to the clouds passing slowly beyond the window.
More than anything, you hoped it would be kind. That it would be gentle. That it would feel less like an intrusion and more like… something you were allowed to be part of, even just for a little while.
Beside you, Jake shifted slightly in his seat, still absorbed in his movie, unaware of the quiet storm unfolding in your thoughts.
And for the first time since you’d agreed to come, you let yourself hope — cautiously, carefully — that this Christmas might be different.
Two more hours passed in a blur of cloud cover and steady descent, the captain’s voice crackling softly over the speakers as the plane began its approach. The shift in pressure made your ears pop, your stomach dipping slightly as the ground drew closer, and without thinking about it, you tensed again.
Jake noticed.
He didn’t say anything this time. He just reached over and took your hand in his, fingers closing around yours with the same quiet certainty as before, offering it without comment or expectation. You accepted it just as silently, squeezing his hand when the turbulence bumped the cabin, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his grip.
The wheels touched down with a jolt, followed by the familiar rush of deceleration, and relief washed through you so quickly it left you lightheaded. You laughed softly under your breath as you finally unbuckled your seatbelt, tension draining from your shoulders in one long exhale.
Jake squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “Told you,” he said lightly.
You shot him a look. “Don’t.”
The cabin filled with movement as passengers stood and reached for their belongings. Jake grabbed both of your carry-ons without hesitation, slinging them easily over his shoulder, and waited for you to step into the aisle before falling into place beside you. He guided you down the narrow walkway and off the plane, one hand hovering at your back as if to steady you through the press of people.
The moment you stepped into the terminal, the air felt different — warmer, heavier, carrying a faint hum of familiarity you couldn’t quite place. You slowed your pace, eyes drifting around as you took it all in: the wider corridors, the drawl in overheard conversations, the subtle shift in atmosphere that made it unmistakably Texas.
Jake disappeared briefly to grab the rental car, leaving you to linger near the exit, your arms wrapped loosely around yourself as you watched families reunite and travelers hurry past. When he returned, keys in hand, he led you through the parking structure and to a car waiting beneath the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. He popped the trunk, stowed the bags in the back, then rounded the car and opened the passenger door for you.
You paused, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” you said carefully, “you can drop me off at a hotel. I’ll meet you at your parents’ later.”
He straightened slowly and looked at you like you’d just suggested something wildly unreasonable.
“A hotel?” he repeated.
“I don’t want to impose,” you said quickly. “And what if your parents get the wrong idea? What if they think we’re… a thing?”
Jake chuckled, shaking his head as he closed the door behind you once you finally sat. He leaned against the roof of the car, arms crossed, completely unbothered.
“I’ve told you,” he said easily. “I always bring friends home.”
“That doesn’t make this normal.”
“It makes it fine,” he replied, already moving around to the driver’s side. “Relax.”
You watched him settle behind the wheel, the confidence in his movements both comforting and unsettling. As the engine started and the car pulled out of the lot, you glanced out the window, the unfamiliar roads stretching ahead.
Whatever waited for you at the end of the drive, it was happening now.
And there was no turning back.
The road stretched on longer than you expected, the airport fading far behind as open land took over. The drive to his parents’ ranch was quiet in the best way — the kind of silence that didn’t ask anything of you. The radio played softly, a steady stream of Christmas music filling the car without demanding attention. Jake hummed along under his breath, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with the song, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see.
You pulled your phone out briefly, more out of habit than necessity. A single unread message from Phoenix waited on the screen.
Have fun with Hangman 😏 Try not to fall in love or whatever.
You scoffed quietly, rolling your eyes as you typed back something dismissive and vague before turning the screen dark again. You set the phone aside and looked out the window, watching the land open up around you. Wide fields, fences stretching into the distance, ranches spaced comfortably apart like they needed room to breathe. Your chest tightened slightly as you realized you were probably close now.
You inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly, willing your nerves to settle. You didn’t want to be awkward. You didn’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons. These people were opening their home to you for the weekend — for Christmas — and the thought carried a weight you weren’t sure how to hold anymore.
Jake turned off the main road, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and suddenly his family’s ranch came into view. The house sat wide and warm against the land, lights strung along the roofline and wrapped around the porch railings, glowing softly against the early evening sky. A few cars were parked out front, and people moved easily in and out of the house, laughter drifting faintly through the air.
Jake parked the car and glanced over at you, something gentle settling into his expression. “You’re gonna love them,” he said quietly.
You managed a small smile, your stomach fluttering as he stepped out of the car. He walked around to your side and opened the door for you, offering his hand as you climbed out. Before you could even fully straighten up, movement caught your eye.
A woman came hurrying across the yard toward you both, her pace quick and purposeful, arms already lifting. Jake barely had time to laugh before she reached him and wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. It was almost comical — how small she was next to him — but Jake bent down instinctively, folding himself around her and returning the hug without hesitation.
When she finally let him go, she didn’t miss a beat.
Her attention snapped to you, and before you could brace yourself, she was pulling you into her arms too. “Oh, you must be,” she said your name warmly, squeezing you tight. “You’re even prettier in person. I’m so glad you’re here.”
The suddenness of it caught you completely off guard. You tensed for half a second, breath hitching in your chest — and then something in you gave way. You softened into the hug, resting your chin lightly against her shoulder and closing your eyes for just a moment longer than necessary.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” you said quietly. “Thank you for letting me crash your Christmas.”
Jake watched silently from beside you, noticing the way your shoulders had stiffened before relaxing, the way you seemed to melt into his mother’s embrace like it was something you hadn’t felt in a very long time.
She brushed your words off just as easily as Jake had earlier, pulling back only to keep her hands firmly on your arms. “Oh, honey, nonsense. You’re more than welcome here,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’m just glad Jake finally brought someone home.”
Jake huffed a laugh under his breath, but you barely noticed.
All you could feel was the warmth of the lights behind you, the steady presence beside you, and the unfamiliar — almost overwhelming — realization that for the first time in years, you weren’t arriving somewhere alone.
Jake’s mom barely gave you time to take another breath before ushering you inside, one hand warm and firm at your back. The house greeted you all at once — overlapping voices drifting from the living room, laughter echoing down the hallway, the hum of something baking in the kitchen. It felt lived in, full in a way that made your chest ache just a little.
You had just stepped fully into the entryway when the sound of small, hurried footsteps came thundering down the hall.
“Uncle Jake!”
Three little bodies barreled into him with zero hesitation, crashing into his legs and wrapping around his waist as if they’d been launched. They chanted his name between giggles and excited shrieks, climbing him like little monkeys determined to reach the top. Jake laughed, loud and unguarded, arms coming up automatically as he accepted his fate as a human jungle gym.
You didn’t realize you were staring until a voice behind you pulled you back.
“Alright, girls, give your uncle a break,” a woman laughed, amusement clear in her tone.
You turned to find Jake’s oldest sister watching the scene with a fond smile, clearly used to this chaos. She met your eyes and stepped forward, greeting you warmly, and you returned it — your smile softer, a little shier, but genuine.
Before you could say much more, another woman appeared at your side. Jake’s middle sister wasted no time before wrapping you in a hug, squeezing you like you were already part of the family. You laughed softly, returning it as best you could.
Once the girls were finally coaxed off Jake, they turned their attention to you instead. Three pairs of curious eyes studied you carefully, whispering among themselves before one of them asked, blunt and unapologetic, “Who are you?”
You crouched down slightly to meet them at eye level, introducing yourself with a small smile. Whatever answer you gave must’ve passed their internal test, because within seconds they decided they liked you — and promptly attempted to climb you next.
You laughed, surprised, hands hovering awkwardly as you tried to keep your balance. The tension crept back into your shoulders before Jake stepped in.
“Alright, alright,” he said gently, peeling one of them off with practiced ease. “Let her breathe, monsters.”
He guided you farther into the house, his hand resting briefly at your back as if grounding you. The walls were lined with framed photos — childhood snapshots of Jake and his sisters, crayon drawings proudly signed by the girls, old concert tickets preserved like treasures. It felt like a timeline of love, memories layered on top of each other.
The living room opened up around you, anchored by a tall Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner. Perfectly wrapped gifts sat beneath it, neat and patient, waiting their turn.
The back door opened then, letting in a rush of cooler air along with Jake’s dad, followed by two men you assumed were his brothers-in-law. Another round of greetings followed, easy and warm. Jake’s dad hugged you too — not as tightly as the Seresin women, but steady and sincere all the same.
Before you could get overwhelmed again, Jake’s mom swept you toward the kitchen, eager to show you what she’d been working on. Trays of cookies covered the counters — Christmas trees, gingerbread men, stars, every festive shape imaginable. The smell alone was enough to make your mouth water.
“Want to help decorate?” she asked.
You nodded without hesitation, and she guided you to one of the tall stools at the kitchen island, calling for Jake over her shoulder. When he appeared in the doorway, she immediately pointed upstairs.
“Sweetheart, take the bags out of the car and put them upstairs.”
You stood up instinctively. “I can help—”
She waved you off without even looking at you. “Sit.”
Jake smirked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said easily, sending you a quick wink before disappearing back outside.
You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself.
Soon his sisters joined you around the island, each grabbing a cookie and a handful of frosting. The conversation stayed light — where you were from, what you did, little things that felt safe. When one of them asked if you had a boyfriend, heat rushed to your cheeks and you shook your head.
“No,” you said softly.
You told them about your master’s program, about working as a bartender at a local Navy bar to support yourself — and how that was how you’d met Jake.
They exchanged knowing looks, smiling to themselves, while you focused very hard on piping frosting onto a cookie, hoping it would distract from the way your heart was suddenly beating just a little too fast.
One of his sisters looked at you thoughtfully as she smoothed frosting over the edge of her cookie, then smiled like she’d just connected a few dots.
“So,” she said lightly, “you must be a pretty special friend for Jake to bring you home for Christmas.”
You paused, piping bag hovering midair. Your brows knitted together as you tilted your head, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Doesn’t he bring friends home all the time?”
The question hung there, soft but heavy. The sisters exchanged looks — subtle, quick, loaded with meaning — eyebrows lifting, smiles turning knowing in a way that made your stomach flip. One of them finally spoke, her tone gentle but certain.
“Actually,” she said, “you’re the first person. The first woman he’s ever brought home.”
Your mouth parted, words lining up that never quite made it out. The thought hit you all at once, disorienting and strange, and before you could ask anything — before you could even process it — footsteps sounded behind you.
Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway, tall and relaxed, leaning casually against the island as if he hadn’t just walked into the middle of something important. He reached for a cookie, fingers already stretching toward the tray.
“Don’t even think about it,” his mom said, slapping his hand away with practiced precision. “Those are for Santa.”
You laughed softly with the others, the moment dissolving into easy chatter as Jake joined in, stealing a cookie anyway the second his mother turned her back. The conversation shifted, flowing around you, and you nodded and smiled where appropriate, trying to stay present.
But the words lingered at the back of your mind.
The first woman.
Why would he tell you he brought friends home all the time if that wasn’t true? The thought felt strange, almost unsettling, and you didn’t know what to do with it yet. You pushed it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of the kitchen, the laughter, the way you didn’t feel quite so out of place anymore.
Once the last of the cookies were set aside to cool and the kitchen settled into a quieter rhythm, you wiped your hands on a towel and excused yourself, asking where the restroom was. Jake’s mom pointed you down the hall with a warm smile, and as soon as you disappeared around the corner, the atmosphere shifted.
His sisters wasted no time.
“Well,” one of them said, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed, “she’s gorgeous.”
“And completely your type,” the other added, grinning. “Sweet, too. We like her.”
Jake scoffed, reaching for a glass of water like he hadn’t heard them. “You’re reading into it. We’re just friends.”
His sisters laughed in unison, clearly unconvinced. One of them nudged him with her elbow. “Then why have you been glued to her side all afternoon like a lost puppy? You usually disappear outside with Dad and the guys by now.”
He rolled his eyes, irritation creeping into his voice. “Oh my god, will you both fuck off.”
“Jacob Seresin,” his mother snapped immediately, shooting him a look that could stop him in his tracks. “Language.”
He raised his hands in surrender, muttering an apology under his breath while his sisters smirked, entirely pleased with themselves.
By the time you returned, the interrogation had dissolved into casual conversation again. You paused near Jake, suddenly aware of how tired you felt, the long day finally catching up to you.
“Hey,” you said quietly, tugging at the strap of your bag. “Can you show me where you put my things? I just want to change out of my airport clothes.”
Before he could answer, his mom clapped her hands together softly. “Of course. Take her upstairs, honey. Go freshen up.”
Jake nodded and motioned for you to follow him. The stairs creaked faintly underfoot as you climbed, the house growing quieter with every step. He led you down a short hallway and stopped at a door on the right, pushing it open to reveal a neatly made guest room, soft light filtering through the curtains.
“That one’s the bathroom,” he said, pointing across the hall. “Take your time.”
You thanked him, and he hesitated for half a second before closing the door gently behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet space. You stood there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the house below, your heart still doing that strange, unfamiliar flutter.
Whatever this weekend was turning into, it already felt different.
You changed into something softer, slower, letting yourself linger as you folded your clothes with care and set them neatly over the back of a chair near the door. In the bathroom, you washed your face and lifted your eyes to the mirror, pausing when you noticed the expression looking back at you. You looked… calm. Peaceful in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind of quiet ease that usually only showed up in fleeting moments before disappearing again. You held that version of yourself for a second longer, then turned off the light and headed downstairs.
Laughter drifted up from the living room, light and bright. When you stepped into the space, you found Jake’s three nieces sprawled on the rug, dolls scattered around them in colorful disarray. Emma, the oldest, looked up first and immediately pointed at an empty spot on the floor beside her.
“Sit,” she said, not so much asking as deciding.
Lily and Nora echoed her demand, patting the carpet enthusiastically. You laughed and obliged, lowering yourself cross-legged onto the floor and picking up one of the dolls. You smoothed its hair between your fingers, easily slipping into their game as if you’d always belonged there.
Emma watched you carefully for a moment, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Are you Uncle Jake’s girlfriend?” she asked, barely holding back a giggle.
You smiled softly and shook your head. “No,” you said. “We’re just friends.”
“Too bad,” Lily muttered, still focused on fixing her doll’s dress.
Nora nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Anyway,” she added casually, glancing up at you, “would you like to be?”
You laughed, startled and entirely unprepared for the interrogation. “You’re very direct,” you told them, earning a chorus of proud grins.
A moment later, a familiar voice sounded from behind you. “Well,” Jake said, stopping just inside the living room, “looks like you made some friends.”
You glanced up at him with a small spark of mischief in your smile. “I like them better than I like you.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow. That hurts.”
Still smiling, he dropped onto the couch nearby, stretching his arms along the backrest as if settling in for the long haul. Not long after, the rest of his family filtered into the living room, conversation blooming easily around you. One of his sisters handed you a mug of hot chocolate piled high with marshmallows, and you thanked her before taking a careful sip, warmth spreading through you instantly.
The room filled with overlapping voices and laughter, the kind that felt lived-in and real. Jake leaned forward, lowering himself closer to your level on the floor.
“You doing okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, smiling up at him. “Yeah. I’m great,” you said, then gestured toward the dolls. “I’ve been promoted to Barbie hairstylist.”
He chuckled softly and leaned back into the couch, but neither his mom nor his sisters missed the way his gaze lingered on you, steady and unguarded, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.
Dinner passed in a blur of shared dishes and easy conversation, the kind that lingered long after plates were empty. You insisted on helping with the dishes despite being waved off more than once, rolling up your sleeves and working alongside his mom and sisters while laughter echoed through the kitchen. By the time everything was clean and put away, the girls were already rubbing their eyes, yawns slipping through their excitement.
Jake’s sisters gathered their things, promising they’d be back first thing in the morning. The girls hugged Jake tightly, then you, their arms warm and sticky-sweet from dessert, before they were ushered out the door amid soft goodbyes.
And just like that, the house grew quieter.
It was only you, Jake, and his parents now, the hum of the heater and the faint crackle of the fire filling the space between words. Jake glanced at you from across the living room.
“Movie?” he offered. “Or something?”
You shook your head, exhaustion finally settling into your bones. “I think I’m going to head to bed, if that’s okay.”
He nodded immediately, no teasing this time. You stood and said goodnight to his parents, thanking them again for welcoming you into their home. His mom squeezed your hands warmly, telling you how happy she was that you were there, while his dad smiled and wished you goodnight.
Jake led you upstairs, one step behind you, ignoring the pointed look his mom sent his way from the bottom of the stairs. When you reached the guest room door, you turned to face him.
“Hey,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not as bad as I thought, Seresin.”
His face lit up instantly, pride and something softer flickering across his features. “I’ll take that as a win.”
“I’m glad you came with me,” he added after a beat.
You huffed quietly. “It’s not like you gave me much of a choice,” you teased. “You practically dragged me to Texas.”
Then, more sincerely, “But… I’m glad you did.”
The moment stretched, comfortable and charged all at once. You held each other’s gaze for a second longer than necessary before you finally looked away, reaching for the door handle.
“Goodnight, Jake.”
“Night,” he said, watching as you slipped into the room and closed the door gently behind you, leaving him standing in the quiet hallway, a small, satisfied smile lingering on his face.
—
You woke to the low murmur of voices and the steady rhythm of movement downstairs, the house already alive in a way you weren’t used to this early. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers, listening, letting the sound of it all settle around you. Then you sat up, changed out of your pajamas, and pulled on something soft and comfortable, still unsure what the unspoken rules were for Christmas Eve. You paused, wondering if today was meant for dressing up or if that waited until tomorrow, then brushed your teeth and splashed cool water on your face before heading down.
The smell of coffee and something warm filled the air as you reached the dining room. Everyone was already gathered around the table, plates half full, conversation flowing easily. You hovered in the doorway for a second before offering a quiet, slightly shy, “Good morning.”
Jake looked up immediately. “Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid a chair out beside him. “Sit.”
You did, settling into the seat next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Breakfast passed slowly and comfortably, the kind where no one was in a rush to finish. You listened more than you spoke, absorbing the way his family talked over one another while planning the day ahead — grocery runs, food prep, wrapping the last of the presents, small traditions mentioned so casually you could tell they’d been part of this routine for years.
Jake leaned back in his chair at one point and glanced at you. “Tonight we’ll have a bonfire out back,” he said. “We do it every year.”
You nodded, picturing it already — firelight, bundled layers, voices carried into the cold night. It sounded simple and warm and impossibly far from the way you usually spent Christmas Eve.
The morning slipped easily into afternoon as you helped wrap gifts at the dining table, folding paper carefully and smoothing down edges with more focus than strictly necessary. When the last ribbon was tied, you offered to help in the kitchen, and without much discussion you were handed a peeler and a cutting board, stationed at the counter with a small mountain of vegetables in front of you.
You worked quietly at first, listening to the low hum of conversation around you, chiming in now and then when something caught your attention. It felt comfortable, natural, the kind of shared space where no one expected you to fill every silence. Jake drifted in and out of the kitchen throughout it all, grabbing water, leaning against the counter for a moment, then disappearing again — only to return minutes later.
One of his sisters noticed first.
“You know,” she said, glancing between the two of you, “this is the most time Jake’s ever spent in the kitchen during the holidays.”
The other laughed. “It’s like he can’t leave you alone.”
You shook your head, smiling as you kept working. “He’s just making sure I don’t burn the house down or slice my hand off,” you said lightly.
Right on cue, Jake walked in.
“Oh, no, that part’s actually accurate,” he said, grinning. “You should’ve seen her at the bar. Cut her finger on a lime and nearly passed out at the sight of blood.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks instantly. “Jake, shut up,” you groaned, mortified.
He only winked at you, entirely pleased with himself, as his sisters laughed and you tried very hard to focus on chopping vegetables instead of the way your heart had started racing for no good reason at all.
The rest of the afternoon drifted by in that unhurried way that only holidays seem capable of. As dusk settled in, the men took over the backyard, stacking logs and coaxing the fire to life while laughter and the scrape of boots against gravel filled the air. You claimed one of the chairs closest to the growing bonfire, watching the flames begin to dance as the sky darkened above you.
Jake appeared behind you without a word, draping a blanket over your shoulders before disappearing back into the house as quietly as he’d come. You pulled it closer around yourself, the simple gesture warming you more than the fire ever could.
Before long, Lily, Nora, and Emma joined you, armed with sticks and a determined seriousness about their marshmallow roasting. You helped them hold their sticks just right, laughing as one caught fire and another slid straight into the embers. Around you, stories flowed freely — tales from past Christmases, inside jokes, memories so well-worn they’d clearly been told a hundred times before.
Emma turned to you suddenly, eyes bright in the firelight. “What do you usually do for Christmas?”
You hesitated, the question landing heavier than you expected. There was no way you could tell her the truth — about the quiet, the half-decorated tree, the way the day usually passed in silence. So you smiled instead, offering something vague and gentle, steering the conversation toward something lighter, something easier.
She accepted it without question and went back to her marshmallow, satisfied.
Jake, however, didn’t miss it.
From where he stood across the fire, he watched the way your shoulders dropped, how your gaze lingered on the flames a beat too long. His expression shifted, the teasing ease falling away as he studied you with quiet attention, the firelight catching in his eyes as if he were committing the moment to memory.
You lingered outside long after the others had gone in, the cold night air slowly driving them back toward the warmth of the house. One by one, goodnights were said, promises made to be back early in the morning to open gifts. Eventually, it was just you and the dying fire, embers glowing softly as the flames settled into something quieter.
You stared into it, lost somewhere between the present and memories you hadn’t meant to revisit. You didn’t hear the back door open, didn’t notice Jake until he took a seat beside you, close enough that his presence registered as warmth at your side. He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush you. He just stayed.
You weren’t sure what prompted it, but after a moment you broke the silence, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
“Your family is really nice,” you said softly. “It’s… been a long time since I’ve been around this many people during the holidays.”
Jake stayed quiet, afraid that if he interrupted, you might stop. He turned slightly toward you, listening.
You swallowed and glanced at the fire. “My mom used to do this,” you continued. “Roast marshmallows with me until my dad came outside and told us we were going to freeze.”
You let out a quiet, almost breathless laugh. “He was always the one who put the tree up too. Super particular about it. Colors had to be balanced, ornaments placed just right. None of us were allowed to touch it once he started.”
You shook your head gently. “But it didn’t matter. It always looked perfect.”
Jake’s chest tightened as he listened, the past tense impossible to miss. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. “They sound like great people.”
You turned to him, a sad smile on your lips. “They were.”
He scooted closer, slow and careful, and reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours the same way he had on the plane. “I’m really sorry,” he said quietly.
You shook your head. “It was a long time ago,” you replied. “But… this time of year still hurts. It opens the wound.”
He nodded, squeezing your hand gently. “I understand. And I’m glad you’re here — even if it brings stuff up.”
You looked down at your joined hands. “I am too. If you hadn’t insisted, I’d be working my shift at the Hard Deck tonight. Then I’d just go home and be alone, lighting up the same candle and thinking of them.”
He hesitated for half a second before teasing crept back into his voice, softer than usual. “What? I thought you had a cat to feed?”
That did it. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Seresin.”
The heaviness eased just a little. Jake didn’t let go of your hand, his gaze lingering on you as you turned back toward the fire, his feelings still sitting there between you — unspoken, waiting.
That night, Jake lay awake in his childhood bedroom, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling he’d memorized years ago. The house was quiet now, the kind of quiet that settled deep into your bones. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked softly as it shifted with the cold, and outside the wind moved through the trees like a hush.
His mind, however, was anything but quiet.
It kept circling back to you.
To the way you’d looked sitting by the fire, the glow catching in your eyes. To the way your voice had softened when you spoke about your parents, like the words themselves were fragile things you hadn’t meant to take out into the open. His chest ached at the thought of you spending so many years alone, of holidays reduced to survival instead of celebration. He’d always known you as strong — fierce, sharp-tongued, unafraid to call anyone out on their bullshit, especially him. Seeing the tenderness beneath that armor hadn’t made him think less of you. If anything, it made the feeling settle deeper.
He’d been drawn to you from the moment he first saw you behind the bar at the Hard Deck. You’d slid a beer across the counter without even looking at him while he leaned there, cocky grin in place, fully expecting you to melt like everyone else did. Instead, you’d rolled your eyes and muttered something about Penny warning you that pilots couldn’t keep it in their pants, then turned away to help the next customer.
He’d been hooked immediately.
At first it was a game — flirting, teasing, trying to get a reaction. But somewhere along the way, months in and completely against his will, it stopped being a joke. He stopped noticing other women at the bar. Stopped taking anyone home. The only person he ever tried to flirt with was you, and even then, it felt different. Less like a performance. More like hope.
You never gave him much back. A sarcastic smile here, an eye roll there. And still, he stayed.
Jake Seresin was a lot of things — arrogant, stubborn, infuriating — but he was also patient. And tonight, lying in the room where he’d grown up, listening to the quiet hum of a house full of people he loved, he made himself a quiet promise.
He would wait.
After tonight, after seeing you here, wrapped in his family’s warmth even while carrying so much of your own hurt, he knew one thing for certain: he’d make sure you were never alone again. No matter how long it took. No matter what it cost.
He turned onto his side, a small, determined smile pulling at his lips as sleep finally claimed him — your face the last thing on his mind.
—
The morning came sooner than you expected, sunlight spilling into the living room as Jake’s entire family gathered around the tree. Wrapping paper crinkled and ribbons flew as Emma, Nora, and Lily tore through the pile of gifts with unfiltered excitement, their laughter filling every corner of the house. Jake’s dad hovered nearby with a camera, capturing everything — the chaos, the smiles, the inevitable mess.
You sat beside Jake on the couch, knees almost touching, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you watched the girls. Every now and then, you felt his gaze on you, quick glances he thought you didn’t notice, his smile soft in a way you’d never seen before.
Nora reached for another present, this one smaller than the rest, wrapped neatly in navy blue paper with a little note taped to the top. She held it up proudly. “Uncle Jake,” she announced, “this one’s for you.”
Jake leaned forward and took the box from her hands, pausing the moment he saw the handwriting on the tag. His eyes flicked up to you instantly. You were already looking at him, your hand lifted to your mouth as you tried — and failed — to hide your smile.
“Sneaky,” he murmured, shaking his head as he started to unwrap it.
Inside the box was a polished brass aircraft compass, small enough to fit in his palm, the glass catching the morning light. The kind pilots used to keep close — a reminder of direction, of home. He turned it over slowly, clearly taking it in before lifting his gaze back to you.
“Thank you,” he said, voice sincere.
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I just found it online and thought it fit your… never-ending obsession with planes.”
The blush creeping into your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed, especially not by the Seresin women, who exchanged knowing looks from across the room. Jake smiled and shifted closer to you on the couch, his knee brushing yours as he kept the compass in his hand.
He stayed there until the last gift was opened and the excitement faded into contented exhaustion. Soon enough, his mom and sisters headed into the kitchen, leaving you and Jake behind to gather torn wrapping paper and empty boxes.
While you were distracted, Jake disappeared briefly and returned with a small, rectangular box of his own. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous as he held it out to you.
“For you,” he said.
Your brows lifted in surprise as you took it from him, carefully opening it. Inside lay a delicate gold necklace, simple and elegant, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch.
“Jake, this is too much,” you started, but he waved you off immediately.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted.
Before you could argue further, he took the necklace from the box and stepped closer, fastening it around your neck as you lifted your hair out of the way. His fingers brushed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the closeness heavy and unmistakable.
He said your name softly, eyes flicking between yours and your lips, leaning in just a little closer.
You opened your mouth to speak—
“Uncle Jake!”
Emma, Nora, and Lily burst into the room, calling out for him to come play. You both pulled back at once, the moment breaking as quickly as it had formed, leaving something warm and unresolved hanging in the air between you.
At some point in the afternoon, once the kitchen had been cleaned again and the house settled into a quieter rhythm, you slipped upstairs to shower and get ready for dinner. The door to your room closed softly behind you, and almost immediately, Jake found himself surrounded.
His mom and sisters wasted no time.
“That compass,” one of them said, crossing her arms. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”
“And the necklace,” another added, nodding toward the staircase. “You think we didn’t notice that?”
Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s Christmas. People exchange gifts.”
They laughed, entirely unconvinced.
“You two looked adorable on the couch,” his oldest sister said, smiling. “All cozy. Like you belonged there.”
His mom sighed dreamily. “Just imagine how cute your babies would be.”
“Mom,” Jake muttered, horrified. “Please stop.”
She only waved him off, unfazed. “I’m just saying.”
His oldest sister leaned closer. “It’s obvious, Jake. You’ve been glued to her side since you walked in the door. You’ve had heart eyes the entire time.”
He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re all reading into it. She’s just a friend.”
His middle sister raised an eyebrow. “Sure she is.”
Then she grinned. “Honestly, what better time to confess undying love than Christmas? It’s practically a Hallmark movie.”
Jake groaned again, but his silence said more than his words ever could.
Later on, Jake stepped out of his childhood bedroom, fingers busy with the last button of his dress shirt, his attention fixed on getting it just right. At the same time, you opened the door to your room across the hall, towel-damp hair falling loose around your shoulders, dress soft and carefully chosen. You nearly collided with him.
“Oh—sorry,” you murmured instinctively, already stepping back.
When you looked up, he was staring.
Jake’s hands stilled at his chest. His breath caught so quietly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so close. His gaze dragged over you, slow and reverent, taking in the dress, the way it hugged you, the faint glint of the necklace at your throat. Heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it. He’d flirted with you a hundred times before—lazy smirks, teasing remarks—but this was different. There was nothing playful in his eyes now. Just softness. Fondness. Something that made your chest tighten.
“You look… beautiful,” he said, voice lower than usual.
You smiled, shy despite yourself. “You clean up okay too.”
That earned you a grin, smaller than his usual one but warmer. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You slipped your hand around it, your fingers resting against his sleeve, and together you made your way down the stairs. The house was already full of voices and laughter. Jake pulled your chair out for you at the table, waited until you were settled before taking the seat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed.
Dinner passed easily—plates piled high, glasses refilled, stories traded back and forth. You laughed more than you expected to. Jake leaned in now and then, murmuring context when his sisters launched into stories from his childhood, his shoulder warm against yours. Every so often, you caught him looking at you, and when you did, he didn’t look away.
Somewhere between bites and laughter, something shifted. You realized you hadn’t rolled your eyes at him once. Instead, your pulse jumped every time he leaned closer, every time his knee nudged yours beneath the table, every time his voice dropped just for you.
After dinner, you wandered outside, ignoring the way the cold immediately sank into your skin. The air was sharp enough to sting, but you welcomed it. You leaned back against the wall, tilting your head up, letting your gaze drift across the sky. The stars looked impossibly bright out here, scattered like someone had been careless with glitter.
You heard the backdoor open behind you.
You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
Jake stepped outside and closed the door quietly, the sound soft and deliberate. You felt him stop beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned back against the wall the same way you were. When you finally looked over, you noticed the candle and lighter in his hands, the small glass catching what little light there was.
He didn’t say a word. He just flicked the lighter, shielding the flame with his hand until the wick caught. Then he turned and held the candle out to you.
Your breath hitched. Your chest tightened, eyes burning before you could stop it. You took the candle carefully, fingers trembling just a little.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick as you fought the tears.
Jake leaned closer, his voice low, meant only for you. “I don’t ever want you to forget them,” he said gently. “But I never want you to be alone again.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you rested your head against his shoulder, your cheek warm against him as you stared at the small, steady flame in your hands. It danced softly, stubborn and bright.
After a moment, you breathed out a quiet, “I have a feeling you’ll have something to do with that.”
He smiled, the kind that you felt more than saw. “I’ve been trying, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You just make it very hard for me.”
Something shifted then. The air felt heavier, charged. You lifted your head, slowly, until you were only millimeters apart. His breath mingled with yours, warm against the cold night. You smiled, understanding blooming between you.
“Someone has to, Hangman,” you teased softly.
He chuckled under his breath and leaned closer, noses brushing. “Do you believe in Christmas miracles?”
“Depends what you’re wishing for,” you whispered back.
He bumped your nose gently, once, twice, like a secret. “Baby,” he said, voice barely there, “there’s only one thing I’ve been wishing for.”
“And what’s that?” you asked, eyes locked on his.
“For you to let me kiss you.”
Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. His pupils were blown wide, the green in his eyes almost swallowed whole. He looked at you like you were everything — like you’d hung the moon and the stars and somehow convinced the universe to follow suit.
You didn’t overthink it. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a soft, careful kiss that carried everything neither of you had said. He kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it, like it was something he’d imagined and never quite believed would happen. His body relaxed into yours, warm and sure.
You lifted a hand instinctively, then laughed softly as you remembered the candle still between you.
Pulling back just enough, you giggled. Jake laughed too, leaning in to blow the flame out gently before smiling down at you. “Don’t want you burning down the house,” he said lightly. “Or worse — my hair.”
You rolled your eyes, setting the candle aside before wrapping your arms around his neck. “Now that,” you said, tugging him down toward you, “would be a tragedy.”
You kissed him again, surer this time.
And somewhere deep in your chest, you realized something warm and steady had finally taken root— you’d never be alone for the holidays again.
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Summary: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x teacher!Reader -> Jake takes care of you after you've had a long day.
Disclaimer: this does include smut so mdni. domestic fluff, jake cooks for reader, after-care, kissing, teasing, fluff, reader has had a long day as a teacher, nicknames, established relationship, mostly fluff with smut, gif is not a visual description of reader.
It had been a long day.
Which, when put on top of a long week, long month and an even longer semester, the day felt…longer.
Pulling into your driveway, you shut off the engine. The song that had been falling out of the radio, cut off mid sentence and you felt your brain say, “Thank god.”.
Usually, you loved the radio. But after the day you’d had, the common tune of the repetitive pop song had been slowly giving you a headache. You just didn’t have the energy to reach for the button and shut it off.
You took a few minutes before pulling out the key and hauling your body from the driver’s seat, locking your car and heading inside.
Feeling the cold, hard wooden floor underneath your sock-covered feet as you slipped your shoes off, you dropped your bag, keys and phone by the door.
Despite having finished for the week, your mind was still making an internal checklist of what you needed to do: eat, everything shower, laundry, wash bedding, mark books, check your planner—
“Honey?”
You hadn’t realised you’d paused in your hallway until you heard Jake’s voice. Looking to your left, into your living room, you saw him.
He was sitting with one arm stretched across the back of your sofa, the other loosely wrapped around a beer bottle. He looked so relaxed.
You wanted to cry.
You didn’t say anything. You just moved. Walking over to him, he sat forward and laid his cold beer onto a coaster, confusion and a small glint of worry in his eyes.
Without a word, he helped you straddle his lap before you sat back for a split second. Your hands rested on his chest whilst his own held you at your sides.
Jake ran his fingers through your frazzled hair. “Everything okay?”
Closing your eyes, you leaned into his touch and dropped your head onto his shoulder. Instinctively, he held the back of your head.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
You shook your head a little. “Not yet.”
Jake relaxed a little, lifting his other hand to run it up and down your spine. “Okay.”
Time slipped away as you sat in his lap, breathing him in and finding peace in his arms. Somewhere between his hand running across your spine, and his lips kissing your temple, he pulled your hair-tie loose and slipped it over his wrist.
Eventually, you spoke up.
“How was work?”
Jake hummed. “It was good. Training, mostly.”
Jake smiled as you finally sat back and he got to see your face. You looked exhausted. But still beautiful.
“Ready to talk about yours?” He asked, tucking your hair behind your ear.
“It was just…a lot. The usual. But somehow…more.”
Jake smiled. “How are the kids?”
You smiled. “Good. Really good. I think the practice questions for their Math test finally clicked, but I marked them on my break.”
“Have you eaten?” Jake asked, his gaze concerned.
You shrugged. “I don’t really remember. But, I’ve still got thirty four creative stories, and thirty four science…things to mark. And I still need to check my planner for next week’s–”
Jake cut you off with a searing kiss. He’d known you long enough to know that when your mind was still on teaching and list-making, there were very few things that could pull you away.
You couldn’t help but smile as Jake pulled away. “What was that for?”
“To make you stop,” he said. “For now. Because I don’t like when you can’t remember when you’ve eaten. So, no school-talk or marking or thinking until I have made you some food and I’ve seen you eat it.”
Jake shifted himself forward, keeping you in his lap. But the minute he went to stand, you stopped him.
“Wait.”
“What is it?”
“You’re comfy,” you said, leaning closer to him. “I don’t wanna move.”
A loving smirk spread across Jake’s lips as his fingers pushed through your hair, cradled your head and pulled your face closer to his.
He took his time, kissing you. You were malleable under his touch. With your own nails raking through the back of his hair, he let out a small groan before he nipped your bottom lip with his teeth. Granting his tongue access, you melted under his hungry kiss as he practically devoured the taste of your mouth.
Carefully, he moved you until your back was pressing against the cushions of the sofa. Jake’s hands moved from your head and softly trailed down your sides. For a moment, one of his hands crept back up, underneath your top and squeezed at your side.
As his hips pressed against yours, you let out a small, weak, moan. If the hands he started running down your thighs creeped back up and slipped under the band of your trousers, he’d realise just what he did to you without trying.
Except, they didn’t.
Instead, just as you were melting into the sofa and Jake sat up, he hurried away.
“I’m making you some food.”
For a moment, you managed to catch your breath. “No fair!”
Although his frame disappeared into your kitchen at the end of the hallway, you heard his laughter.
You took a moment before standing up and following him into the kitchen, where he was standing by your stove making you a pasta dish.
“Tease,” you pouted a little, wrapping your arms around Jake’s waist from behind.
“You need to eat,” he said. “But,” Jake turned in your arms and held you closer to him. “Once you have,” he kissed you. “Then we can get back to,” Jake’s voice trailed off as you kissed him again.
Just as he had done with you, you took your time. The tension eased in his shoulders as your fingers trailed across them and down his chest.
Gently pressing your palm against the straining of his jeans, his shoulders tensed and a brief moan escaped the back of his throat. Only, just as his hands went from squeezing the soft flesh of your hips to trailing down your body, most likely to grip your ass, you took your chance and moved away.
Then he groaned. “And you accuse me of being a tease.”
You hummed, innocently, holding up a hand to stop him from moving and following you out of the room.
“I’m gonna have a shower. And you are gonna stay here.”
“Oh, come on.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “Nu-uh. You don’t get to tease me like that and leave. Even if it was to make me food. So, now, you’re gonna have to wait, too.”
Jake had never wanted tomatoes and pasta to cook faster in his life. He could hear you, upstairs, turning the shower on – blatantly leaving the bathroom door open so he could hear every single one of your movements.
The stream of water, the flick of a bottle cap; he knew your shower routine so well, he could practically picture it. The lather of soap running down your neck, over your bare shoulders, sliding slowly down in between and under the curve of your breasts. He could almost taste the water running off your back, down your spine and over the curve of your ass.
He could imagine your thighs trembling, if he was in there with you. His fingers doing the work for you; gently pinching at your exposed nipples, watching them harden and pebble before he lowered his mouth and flicked his tongue over them. He’d let his hands trail down your sides, one firmly gripping your ass whilst the other skimmed down your front before his fingers gently pressed against your clit. He’d make sure your eyes were fixed on his before he would start circling, softly and slowly.
Eventually, when you were almost begging for it, he’d slip his fingers inside your slick pussy and curl inside just enough to keep you on the edge. He’d take his time with you, helping you unwind from your long day, but keeping you just tense enough to enjoy the way he would bury his cock deep inside of you, pulling and pushing you towards the edge.
By the time you had finished and come back downstairs, Jake had practically finished himself off without even touching himself. Or having you touch him.
It was almost torture, waiting for you to finish eating. But once you finally did, Jake realised he wasn’t the only one who had found the length of cooking, shower and eating time torturous.
A few hours later, as your short and silk nightgown had long been discarded on the kitchen floor, a few extra handprints had been added to the glass window of one of your kitchen cupboards, you had a lot of evidence to show at the trial of ‘Jake Seresin knows how to drive you insane’, and you could still feel yourself and him dripping inside of you; Jake’s hips were slowly rolling and snapping against your own, as he held one of your thighs higher over his hip, both of you lying on your side.
“Feeling better, baby?”
You were pretty sure you’d never been so relaxed in your life. Unable to talk, you just hummed and closed your eyes, laying your head against his bare chest.
“I don’t think I can walk.”
You felt his chuckle vibrate across his chest before he leaned in and kissed your temple, cheek and neck.
“Stay here,” he said, quietly, pressing another kiss to your neck. “I’ll clean you up.”
By the time the sun had risen the next morning, and Jake had woken up, he found your side of the bed empty.
He found you downstairs, sitting outside on the porch swing, half way through marking the thirty four creative stories that had been written the day before.
“Hey,” he smiled. “Brought you coffee.”
“Thank you.”
Sitting beside you, he laid an arm over your shoulders and pulled you in. “How long have you been up?”
“About an hour. I wanted to let you get some rest.”
“You should be getting some rest, too.”
You smiled. “I got plenty. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed before going to bed.”
Jake smirked a little, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Oh, really?”
“Really.”
A small noise escaped you before he deepened his kiss. “I really wanna get these marked.”
Jake nodded. “How are they?”
“They’re stories written by second graders. They’re mostly about dragons and super-powered robots.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
You nodded. “But, there are a couple with this…mystery character.”
Pointing at the current page you were marking, you found the paragraph and showed him.
…really cute…tall…green eyes…is a super cool pilot…
“They’re not all descriptive as this, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got a couple of fans.”
Jake did blush a little. “Do you talk about me in your class?”
You shrugged, a little. You knew why he was asking. The kids had great memories, but they’d only met him once. And that had been at the start of the year when he was a guest-reader. There was one week left before summer break started.
“Maybe. Just a little. When they ask. And sometimes when they don’t.”
Jake smiled, leaning closer to you to kiss you.
“Give me half of these,” he said, nodding to the pile of green science books on the coffee table beside you.
“Why?” You asked, handing them over along with the marking-spec.
“Because I want to help. And because what I want to do with you right now is not for the eyes of your neighbours. But that also won’t happen until you’re finished.”
You chuckled, “Such a gentleman.”
Jake smiled as he opened the first book. “Their handwriting has gotten neater.”
You nodded in agreement. “They’ve all worked really hard on it.”
By the time you were both finished with work, as well as with your unmade bed, Jake made you some breakfast.
Summary: Aaron Hotchner x fe!Reader -> Your friendship, and working relationship, with Hotch starts to feel like something more.
Disclaimer: mentions and descriptions of in-field injuries, flirting, friends/co-workers to lovers, domestic fluff, hotch wants to date you, slow dancing.
It was odd, really. Being friends with the guy who was also your boss.
Well, Unit Chief.
Yourself and Aaron Hotchner had bonded over day-old take out, dressed in paint splattered clothes, whilst sitting on your very empty living room floor.
You were relatively new to the team at the time so you didn’t exactly feel like you could ask for their help in decorating your new place. Hell, they didn’t really know you’d bought your new place to begin with.
But Hotch did.
Which was something you didn’t know until there was a knock on your front door one day; he brought supplies and beer.
“I know what it’s like to move in and do…all of this. Figured you could use some help.”
From that day on, you seemed to be one of the select few who got to know more about Aaron outside of work. The guy who he was when he wasn’t Agent Hotchner.
Truthfully, there was really only one issue with it.
When you got hurt, and tried to hide it, the one person who you wanted to confide in…was also the guy you had a duty to tell due to the nature of your work.
“Why are you standing like that?” Hotch had chuckled a little, waving his pen at you as he accepted your finished paperwork.
But the second you hesitated in your answer, his gaze was snapping back to you and he was standing to close his office door.
“Are you hurt?” He asked. “Tell me quickly.”
“Nothing too bad.”
With a deep sigh, the door closed and he turned towards you. “Show me.”
“Hotch-”
“I’m not being your boss, right now,” he said, although his tone was ringing alarm bells in your head. “Show me.”
Keeping your eyes on his ones, that were slowly turning to daggers, you sighed and carefully lifted your t-shirt.
Your collared shirt had torn whilst in the field. And, in your defence, you did go to the medic and he cleared you.
It was a simple cut that just had to be cleaned. They did warn you that it probably would continue to bleed, but it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches or even glue.
All of which you told Aaron, whilst his fingers delicately reached out and ran across your exposed skin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.
Although his tone sounded brash, he also sounded hurt.
“I’ve got it handled,” you shrugged, your voice quiet.
His gaze softened as he looked up at you, from where he was crouched at your side. But that same gaze quickly hardened when he looked at your scar. It was still bleeding.
Not that the deep navy blue t-shirt you were wearing showed it visibly.
There was a damp patch, but nothing drastic.
“It just…”
“It's just, what?” Aaron asked.
You shrugged, trying to hide the grimace of your face. “Hurts when I stand a certain way.”
Aaron noticed the deeper breaths you were taking through your nose, trying not to concentrate so much on the pain when that’s all you could do.
“Okay, sit down.”
“I can’t.”
“Then lean on my desk,” he told you as he stood. “But stay here.” He looked at you directly, making sure you were listening to him. “I’ll be back.”
And he was. With a first aid kit.
Shutting the door behind him, he laid the box down and removed his jacket.
“Lift your shirt, again.”
Following his orders, you did as he told you and sat in the quiet of his office whilst he cleaned your wound, covered it in a couple of adhesive bandages before wrapping a full bandage around your middle.
“A little over-excessive, don’t you think?” You asked as he leaned into you, unfurling the bandage in his hands as he ran it around your back, across your middle and back around again.
You tried to ignore the way he leaned into you so close that you could smell his fading cologne, made you feel.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”
Then, tying off the bandage but remaining close to you, his gaze fell on yours. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“It didn’t start bleeding till a couple of minutes ago,” you admitted. “I had it handled.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Slowly, you nodded. “Because I didn’t want you to worry. Because the first thing I did was check with the medic and get it sorted. Because I was okay.”
Aaron sighed, hanging his head. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
You nodded. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I always worry.”
“I know. Hence, why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“You should have.”
You nodded. “I know. And, I would have.”
He looked back at you. “When?”
“Eventually.”
“Y/n-”
Before he hanged his head again, you held it in your hands and made him look at you.
“You spend your days working with your team, and then you spend your nights doing all of the paperwork about the day. You barely take five minutes to breathe, let alone just…be still,” you told him. “So, even though I might have to tell you of my injuries, I also know you’re my friend. And my friend, like the rest of us,” you pointed out, “has had a very long day and is somehow managing to make it longer. So, if me not telling you about my injury gives you one less thing to worry about, then I’m not going to tell you.”
“But I found out anyway.”
You hummed. “I think I failed to take your profiling skills into account.”
For the first time in thirty seven hours, you heard Hotch laugh. Again, he dropped his head, but your hands lay loose on his face before moving to his shoulders.
“I’m sorry I ruined your masterplan.”
You shrugged. “It’s alright. I had a secret plan to get you away from your desk. I didn’t fully think it out, but you patching me up seemed to do the job.”
As you watched Aaron physically calm down, his gaze locked on yours softly, he smiled. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
Rather than deal with the quiet but tension-built moment that followed, as you and Aaron didn’t move from his desk and just kept your eyes on each other – you broke it.
“Make me a promise?”
“Anything.” He said, before quickly adding, “Within reason.”
You smiled. “Tomorrow, you don’t come into work.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
You nodded. “And I know you.”
You had him there, and he knew it.
“Don’t come in tomorrow,” you repeated. “And don’t think about work. And, if you get bored, come to mine. I’ve got a shed that needs building and it’s not a one woman job, no matter how many times I attempt to balance the roof board on my head.”
Aaron chuckled a little. “Okay. How about ten?”
“Bring coffee and you’ve got yourself a deal,” you told him.
With a smile, he nodded. “Okay, then.”
By mid-day, yourself and Aaron were finishing your garden tool shed. And you couldn’t help but notice as the sun got higher in the sky, the more layers Aaron had ditched by your backdoor.
First his jacket, then his fleece, and then his collared shirt.
Which just left his t-shirt.
That he lifted from his front in order to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
An hour or so later, the shed was finished and you were sitting inside your cooler kitchen with Aaron as you made fresh lemonade and zapped the ice inside your blender to make it smaller.
“And your dating life?” Aaron asked since you’d covered all the other topics.
You forced a smile. “Oh, you know. Stale – as usual.”
“Dating apps not working out?”
You grimaced. “I deleted it after three weeks. That amount of information that anyone can have about you? That’s scary enough. Nevermind the amount of guys that are ‘looking for a girl with no sense of direction’.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m a profiler! And even I don’t know what the hell that means!”
Aaron chuckled a little. “If it helps, I don’t either.”
You nodded, your chuckle soft, as Aaron looked at you. “Ever thought about finding someone…naturally?”
You looked at him. “If this is a ploy from Garcia to get me back to that ‘singles-only-fun-night-extravaganza’ thing then you better stop talking unless you wanna find yourself locked inside that garden tool shed out there.”
He wanted to laugh, but his curiosity and slight concern overruled his expression. “The…what? No. This is me– I’m asking.”
“Oh.” You stood back a little. “Uh, if I’m being honest, I didn’t think it was possible.”
“You didn’t?”
You looked at him with sincerity. Since the moment you met Hotch, you’d understood many things about him. One of those things was that he was a gentleman. He knew to buy flowers, and not just for special occasions. He knew when a woman said she was ‘fine’ she probably wasn’t.
And he wasn’t ashamed to buy period products from the store. That was something you knew first hand.
“Aaron, it’s not like I see the world as a safe place,” you told him. “Being a woman taught me that. And my job proves it. I don’t trust very many people in this world. Meeting someone out there, in the world, if it is possible…it’s most likely rare. And getting rarer every day.”
“That’s…sad.”
You nodded. “Tell me about it.”
Aaron didn’t ask you about it, again. At least, not in depth.
Not until his curiosity peaked one night, whilst everyone on the team was out for drinks one night.
Penelope had been whispering for weeks about how she thought you had your eye on someone. It took almost all of his control to try and not appear like he was completely invested in Garcia’s theories.
Except, as she had sat at the bar with JJ, trying to convince her of the new theory that it was someone inside the bar, Aaron’s eyes immediately found you amongst the crowd of Friday night patrons.
To him, it was like a superpower being able to find you in a crowd. The others had witnessed it so many times, whenever they lost you, they’d simply pull him by the arm and ask him to point you out.
You’d done some undercover work before joining the Bureau full time. It was something that you were excellent at because, for whatever reason, you had a natural talent at blending in with a crowd and disappearing right before people’s eyes.
Except Aaron’s.
When he found you, you were sitting at a tall table in the corner whilst a fairly handsome stranger approached you. But Aaron knew your body language.
You were polite, but he wasn’t the guy you were with.
Selfishly, he was relieved when you turned the guy down and he walked away.
“Hotch, has she said anything to you?” JJ asked him.
“Y/n?”
JJ nodded before Garcia jumped in. “Is she seeing anyone?”
“Uhh, no. I don’t think so. Excuse me.”
Somehow, in the time it took him to buy two beers, cross the bar and reach you, a further three people had approached you.
And you’d turned them all down.
“What did they want?”
“To dance, mostly.”
“And you said no?”
You shrugged. “I didn’t want to dance with them.”
Taking a leap he didn’t know he’d been preparing for, Aaron asked you: “Would you want to dance with me?”
You smiled at him. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Beers in hand, Aaron and yourself walked over to the sawdust covered dancefloor and simply danced together. It was mostly a relaxed two-step to the familiar country song that someone had punched into the vintage jukebox in the corner of the room.
It wasn’t long before the rest of the team were on the dancefloor doing the same. Emily with Spencer as Morgan called out for his ‘babygirl’ and brought her onto the dancefloor.
Will, very quickly with JJ, subtly showed off their ability to dance a two-step around the dancefloor as naturally as breathing.
By the time Shania Twain started playing, Penelope had pulled all the girls into the middle of the dancefloor as their lyrics were yelled out at the top of everyone’s lungs.
For a moment, you felt every guy in the place quake in their boots.
Soon enough, you found yourself back in Aaron’s arms, gently travelling across the sawdust covered floor.
“Garcia thinks you're dating someone, by the way,” he told you, quietly, against the shell of your ear.
“So I heard,” you hummed.
“Something I should know?”
You looked at him. “Is there something you want to know?”
He nodded, just a little. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Well,” you started. “To answer Garcia’s question for the thirtieth time this week, no. I’m not seeing anyone. I think that also answers your question, too. Am I right?”
He tried to hide his relief. “Yes.”
“Answer my question?” You asked him, watching him nod.
“Why did you want to know?”
“Because…” Aaron paused. “Because I’m your friend.”
Your brows furrowed a little. Not in contempt, but in curiosity. “Is that what we are?”
He nodded. “I’d say so.”
“Would you ever want to be more?”
You both kept dancing around the floor, but no words passed between either of you as he kept his eyes on yours.
“Yes,” he answered. “But it’s complicated.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“Then I’d ask you on a date,” he told you, without hesitation.
“Then ask me,” you said.
Aaron paused, waiting for the punch line. But there wasn’t one.
“I think I’ve felt something changing between us for a while,” you said, quietly. “And, not to sound dramatic but, I know in my soul that we’re meant to be in each other’s lives. What capacity is that in? I don’t know. But I’d like to try and find out.”
“So would I,” he agreed.
“Then ask me,” you repeated. “Ask me on a date and we’ll see where it takes us.”
You spotted the playful scrunch in his brow. “Doesn’t it defeat the purpose of me asking if you’re telling me to?”
“Then ask me when you’re ready,” you told him. “There’s nothing against two agents dating. It can be a headache but, considering the amount of migraines we’ve suffered through, I’d be willing to risk it.”
Aaron nodded. “So, if I said that I would pick you up tomorrow at seven, to take you on a date?”
You nodded, “I’d say yes.”
Then he smiled. “Will you go on a date with me tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Leaning into him just a touch, you smiled. “Yes. I can’t wait.”
Description: You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.
or, Cristina Yang slips and gets saved by Owen Hunt in uniform, but make it The Pitt ✨
Tags/Warnings: Nurse!reader, you're so down bad for him, descriptions of a concussion and a mild icicle injury to the stomach, suggestive comments, banter and flirty Abbot.
Note: Once again a Grey's anatomy inspired fic lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one, enjoy!
Masterlist
You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad,
You make me so happy, it turns back to sad
Jack Abbot is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know.
He goes to work every day completely unaware that somewhere across the hospital, you, a licensed, very mature and very competent nurse, is being driven insane by the simple fact that he exists. And quite frankly, you hate him for that.
Because he’s kind and smart. Annoyingly smart. Calm in a crisis, quick on his feet, always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what to do. Patients love him. Nurses love him. Residents love him. Dr. Robby loves him. You lo–no, no you don’t.
And to make matters worse, he just had to be gorgeous too.
That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And don’t even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or his…everything.
It’s infuriating.
He’s the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said ‘Good night, you did a good job today,’ during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you.
You’re a day nurse, he’s a night attending. That’s your 13th reason.
No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. We’re all thinking the same thing here.
That uniform.
That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget you’re a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps.
So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.
By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to you…or maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says it’s because he likes you.
But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest.
And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but it’s not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.
All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason you’re stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break.
You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacket’s pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but there’s still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt.
“There you are,” a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. “You’re gonna freeze yourself out here.”
“I’m just excited it’s Friday,” you say, but there’s no actual enthusiasm in your voice. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Ohhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?” She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. “Someone to warm you up?” That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back.
“I wish. It’s just me and my couch…and my dog.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“That bad,” she teases, but you know there’s no malice in it. “Tragic,” she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. “Me however…”
“Oh the firefighter?” You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. “You’re seeing him tonight?”
“Third date,” she sing songs. “You know what that means.”
“Hmm. Bunch of cardio.”
“It keeps me healthy,” she shrugs, beaming. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.”
You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, you’ve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time.
“See, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,” she starts.
“What little situation?” You don’t even turn to her, but you know she’s glaring at you. “What?” you say again.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending you’re into.”
“Princess!”
“What? Honey you’re already halfway through a shift switch petition.”
“So what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,” you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth.
“I never said Dr. Abbot,” she drawls.
You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air.
“It’s not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,” you excuse yourself, very poorly.
“Uh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,” she says, less teasing than you expected. “Have you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?”
The sole idea of it makes you snort. “Yeah, sure.”
“I am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,” she reassures.
“No, he doesn’t,” you shake your head.
“He always asks for you.”
“Because I’m good at my job.”
“I’m good too, but he smiles at you differently.”
“Princess,” you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs with a little smile. “One day you’re gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.”
Oh he is. And you know it very well.
“Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now let’s go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,” you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement.
You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you don’t have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could.
For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.
“Ouch…” you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. “No, no. Don’t touch it! Hey–are you…are you okay?”
You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why you’re on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her.
Red flag.
“Alright, alright, don’t move Cristina Yang. I’m getting you help, just wait for me babe,” she says, already getting up and running inside.
“Nooo, don’t gooo,” you say softly, but it sounds more like you’re amused than an actual cry for help. “Help…” you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound.
You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospital’s McSteamy, like you’re part of some medical drama.
You giggle again.
Yup. That can't be good.
You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but they’re not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one you’ve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about.
“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant.
He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. It’s only when he’s closer that you notice he’s not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest.
You can’t really find yourself to complain in your hazed state.
“Oh no…” you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head.
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he coos, oblivious. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Of course I know my name, silly,” you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding.
“That’s good. Do you know what day?”
“...Wednesday?” You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly.
“Already went through that one this week. Come here.”
He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesn’t bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once he’s got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you.
“What about my name?” He asks playfully. You huff in offense.
“Oh Dr. Abbot. You’re a hard one to forget,” you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. “With that face…and those eyes…and that uniform clinging to that bod–“
“Okay, honey. That’s a concussion speaking for you,” he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. “I’m gonna get you inside, alright? We’re gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.”
If your head wasn’t in wonderland right now, you would’ve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey.
“Mmm. Whatever you say, doc,” you hum, resting your head on his chest. He can’t fight the smile this time.
“You day shift girls really know how to make an exit…” He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him.
“Dr. Abbot! There you are,” she yelps. “We were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctor–actually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers you–”
“I got her, Princess,” Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an ‘oh my god’ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesn’t see her expression.
The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. That’s on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? It’s free real estate!
“Oh shit, is that an icicle??” Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. “Can I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.”
“You’re off the clock, Santos. Go home,” he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. “Lena, what’s free?”
“Trauma two,” Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. “What the hell happened?"
“Winter hates me…” you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jack’s chest. “Or maybe it did me a favor…” you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look.
Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you can’t really manage to read right now.
“Winter assault indeed,” Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles. “Penetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.”
“Are you sure you want Shen here?” Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight.
“Oh, he’ll be offended if I don’t call him for an icicle,” he says, pocketing the penlight. “Mild concussion, no need for a CT.”
“Alright,” Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. “How are you doing, kid?”
“Booored,” you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. “Ow ow–”
“Hey, hey. Easy,” Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. “Stay still for me, alright?”
“Just get it out already!”
Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle piercing your side. “Uh-uh, what did I say?” he scolds. “We’re not doing an extraction yet.”
You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks.
“What do we have?” Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. “Wow. I don’t wanna see the other guy.”
“Don’t worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,” you huff out a weak laugh.
“Of course he did,” Shen glances between the two of you, amused. “Our noble SWAT doc.”
Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things don’t seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly.
Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process.
“Hold your breath,” he whispers, way too close to your ear. “Just for a few seconds. You’ve seen a hundred patients do this, right?”
“Have I?” You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him.
That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. “Maybe you do need that CT...”
You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. “Stop with that–I’m okay, just let me take a nap here…” you say, already closing your eyes.
“No, no. Eyes open,” Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. “Stay with me, trouble.”
Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. It’s easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Jack tells you, so serious that you’d debate if he’d just picked you up from a dumb fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. “We’re gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?”
You nod, managing a small tired smile. He’s leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.
That’s when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought.
You absolutely say the thought.
“Dr. Abbot, you’re so gorgeous,” you announce, loud and clear.
The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shen’s eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“I–“ Jack starts, then stops. Why’s he getting so flustered? “Once again, concussion talking,” he clears his throat, looking around him.
“But I mean it,” you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. “Look at your face.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing.
“And your stupid SWAT uniform,” you continue, groaning dramatically. “Out of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. You’re so–you’re so gorgeous it makes me so mad.”
Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for “charting purposes” but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospital’s logo on the screen.
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he mumbles under his breath.
Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.
“Abdomen films are back,” a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack.
He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. “Good news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.”
“Boring,” Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him.
“We’ll do it here,” Jack decides, handing the iPad back. “Local and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?”
“I’ll just watch,” Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case he’s needed. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“Okay, little pinch,” Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.
His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like that–
“You’re doing great,” he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.
You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. It’s the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you.
“God, that hurts,” you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore.
“The icicle?” he asks, ready to order more anesthesia.
“No,” you say, a little breathless. “Your face.”
Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time.
“That’s a new one,” Shen says.
“Alright,” Jack smiles at you. “Before you say anything else that’s gonna end up in the groupchat, let’s get this thing out.”
He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further.
“Deep breath in. I’m gonna count to three, okay?” he says. You do as you’re told, trying to avoid his gaze. “One–keep looking at me. Two–“
And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.
“You took my icicle out before three!” you gasp, scandalized. “That’s not nice!”
“We’ll get you another one next Christmas,” Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side.
“You did amazing,” Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. “That was so cool. I mean–not cool that you got stabbed, cool that you–uh never mind. You’re very brave, babe.”
“Best story at the nurse’s station,” you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign.
“Easy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.” Shen says, managing a little snort from you.
“Oh the group chat will hear about this,” Princess adds.
Jack shakes his head, but there’s fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. “Okay, here’s the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?” He smiles down at you, winking playfully. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve.
No, you’re so not going to be okay.
You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, there’s harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesn’t help.
What on earth happened?
You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today.
“Shit,” you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Easy there.”
That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants.
There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.
He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw.
“Here. Small sips,” he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says.
“Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. “So…what happened?”
Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if there’s a chance you’re messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. It’s normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains.
“You were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.”
…???
“An…icicle?” You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. “Like in Grey’s??”
“Ehh–you’re gonna have to ask that to Princess,” he chuckles. “I wish I was joking, but there’s nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. You’re a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robby’s gonna have to give you a few days off, though.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. “Out of all the ways I could’ve gone down in hospital lore…”
“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, biting back a smile.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. “I just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.”
Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face.
“Wow–” you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. “What are you doing, Dr. Abbot?”
“Shhh,” he mutters, “just checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.”
His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating.
Guess the butterflies are flying very low today.
He finishes the exam, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, it’s making it substantially worse.
Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, “God, that hurts.”
“What hurts?” He asks, tilting his head.
The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face.
“My head,” you say instead. Good girl…or not? Because something you can’t quite point out flashes in his eyes.
“Mmm, well, for what it’s worth…” he says–did his eyes just flicker to your lips??? “I think you’re gorgeous too.”
5@$%)#&
Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if you’ve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain.
“Did…I said that out loud?” You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Oh no…” You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth.
“Oh no?” He laughs.
“Oh no,” you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. “What did I say, Dr. Abbot?”
“...Enough,” he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. “More than enough, actually.”
“Dr. Abbot,” you insist, more serious now. “What did I say?”
“Mmm, not a chance,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.
“Please.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Jack.” That slips out before you can stop it.
His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didn’t even happen.
“You slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like you’ll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but you’ll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.”
You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face.
“What?”
“I uh–don’t have anyone to call,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. “Princess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me and…my dog.”
He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something.
“Good thing I’ll be out in a few hours too, then,” he says, casual, too casual.
“…What?” You let out a weak laugh.
“I’m taking you home,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Pets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so I’m making sure you don’t pass out unsupervised.”
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Jack,” you try again, weaker now. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know…trust me, I want to.” He says it so…certain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. “Try to rest for a bit, drink your water and don’t try to escape. I’ll come get you when your paperwork’s done,” he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. “Just wait for me, gorgeous, okay?”
Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reached for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.
There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.
That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.
And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you can’t help but smile.
Girl whatever.
If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🤍✨
Summary: Clark Kent x fe!Reader -> When your family is in town, Clark offers to be your fake-boyfriend. Only, things take a slightly stressful turn (for you), and a shocking twist (for both of you).
Disclaimer: light swearing, fake-dating, friends to lovers, might do a part two, platonic!jimmy, fake-dating but also not...sorta, fluff, rom-com vibes, sitting in Clark's lap, reader loves their family but they can be...a lot.
You gasped, quickly, before jumping behind Jimmy who seemed confused and concerned as ever. “Quick! Hide me.”
“W-What? What’s happening?” Jimmy stuttered, turning around, but standing in front of your desk.
From across the bullpen, near the elevator, a woman dressed in a loud blouse and a neutral pair of trousers was looking around the place.
“Pretend to be working,” you whispered, before reaching for a random file and thrusting it into Jimmy’s hands.
“Who is she?”
“My mother.”
“That’s your mom?”
You nodded, though he couldn’t see you. “My family are in town.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“Of course, I’m happy,” you whispered, packing up your things to try and make it look like you hadn’t been at your desk all day. “They’re my family. I love them.”
“But?”
“But they’re a lot, all at once. And I’ve been avoiding their…questions.”
“Questions?” Jimmy asked, looking over his shoulder. “Questions about what?”
Looking up, you almost squealed and pushed Jimmy’s face away from you. “Don’t look!”
“Sorry. Questions about what?”
“Where do you wanna start? My city life, my love life, my career, my choice of colour in my living room?”
Jimmy chuckled, pretending to pay attention to the file in his hands. “That’s usually what families are like. My sisters do the same-”
“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no. Not like mine. They are relentless. So, just– if anyone asks where I am-”
“I don’t know you and you don’t exist?”
Jimmy heard you take a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Jimmy smiled. Placing a kiss against your fingers, you touched his shoulder.
As you scooted away, trying to avoid your mother, you managed to make it to the elevator successfully before you saw your mother almost accost Jimmy.
You made a silent prayer for him as you watched the doors close on the bullpen and you were sent to the ground floor of The Daily Planet.
Managing to make it as far as two blocks, it wasn’t until you reached a small diner and found a corner booth that you managed to take a breath.
And ran into someone you knew.
“Clark?”
Seeming just as shocked as you, Clark turned around and looked at you.
“What are you doing here?” You both asked.
“I’m…getting food.” Clark seemed a little shifty, but he was almost always like that. Fixing his tie, he walked closer to your booth.
“I’m…also getting food.”
“Really?” He asked.
You sighed. “And avoiding my family. I left my mother with Jimmy.”
Clark gave you a warm smile and slid into the other side of the booth. “Why are you leaving your mother with Jimmy?”
“Because I’m avoiding her.”
“And why are you avoiding her?”
“Because I don’t want to answer any more questions.”
A waitress appeared at the end of the booth, a pad and pen in hand. “Can I get you folks anything?”
You and Clark looked at each other. “Uhh. Sure. I’ll have the lunch combo and an iced tea, please.”
She wrote it down and then looked at you.
“I’ll have the same, please.”
“Coming right up.”
As the waitress walked away, you and Clark turned back to each other.
“What questions?”
Over the next hour, you told Clark about what had occurred in the last forty-eight hours since your family had landed in Metropolis.
They had heavily judged your choice of colour in your living room: you didn’t take offence, but it was annoying to listen to.
They continued to tell you the difference between the city and home, constantly repeating that it was too fast, too loud and too much. They told you stories of home that you had already heard about several times before in the same sitting.
Then they questioned your love life.
Which was the worst of all.
To them, if you still lived closer to home, you would have time to find someone nice. Someone you could have a white-picket fence dream with. They might have grandchildren from you. You would be happy.
“I thought you were happy here,” Clark said.
“I am! I really am. Does it get hectic? Yeah. But there isn’t a thing I would change about it. And sure, maybe it would be nice to have that whole nuclear family dream. But…I don’t like the standard. I like my job. I like…my life.”
Clark chuckled a little as he watched you, visibly more stressed than you were when it came to interviewing criminals and billionaire psychopaths.
“But they’re stressing you out?”
You nodded, tired. “Yes. Very much. I love them. But…I needed an afternoon away from the questions and the random strangers my family say they’ve met during the day and showed my picture to.”
“They actually do that?”
“They’re really desperate for more grandkids.”
“Have you asked them to lay off?”
You just gave Clark a stare. Your face said everything your mouth didn’t.
“Right.”
“Is there anything that you could do that could get them to lay off?”
“Have someone,” you mumbled. “Not that I’d subject anyone to that kind of torture. Plus, fake dating leads to fake break-ups. So, it really just postpones the ‘why are you still single?’ questions and brings forward the ‘see, I told you, you would be happy if you found someone’ and the ‘when are you getting married?’ questions.”
“What if I did it?”
“Clark. No.”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“First of all, you’re my friend. I do not want to ever subject you to that kind of torture. Secondly…no.”
Clark chuckled. “I’d make a great-fake boyfriend.”
“I don’t disagree. But, no.”
“It would get them off your back?”
“Clark, I’m not forcing you to be my fake boyfriend just to make my life a little easier. If you don’t hate me now, you will once they finally leave.”
Clark smiled, warmly. “I could never hate you.”
“Clark,” you said, your tone serious. “I’ve had boyfriends break-up with me after they’ve met my family. My high school boyfriend – the day he broke up with me was the day before he moved away for college. He told me that he wanted to break up twelve months earlier but was too scared because of my family.”
“That they would…kill him?”
“No,” you shook your head as you took a sip of your drink. “Just that they would pester him into getting back with me. They really laid it on thick about the whole picket-fence family thing, when they met him.”
Clark frowned a little. “Did you love him?”
You shrugged. “It was young love. I do wish he had told me, though. We were good friends outside of our relationship, before it. Last I heard he was getting married to his college sweetheart.”
“I’m guessing your family…”
“I never mentioned anything to them. I liked the relationship we had and, other than at the end, I don’t think badly about it. He was nice.” You shrugged. “My point is, I’m not introducing you to my family as my…fake-boyfriend.”
“But they wouldn’t know it’s fake.”
“No, they’d think it was real. Look, Clark, I love you. And I appreciate the thought but…I’m not putting either of us through that.”
Clark nodded. “Fair enough. But, if you change your mind-”
“I won’t.”
“If you change your mind, just tell me,” Clark smiled.
Although your mind didn’t change much on the matter; Clark was your friend and, despite whatever other feelings were lurking inside the locked room where you kept them, you cared for him too much to subject him to your family’s interrogation strategies.
It was three days later, however, that you found out neither you or Clark had much choice in the matter.
“My mother thinks we’re dating,” you said, quickly, your voice coming out panicked as you reached Clark’s desk.
Clark chuckled. “Did you finally tell her?”
“No! She told me.”
“What’s going on?” Jimmy asked as he approached the desk. “You’re…dating?”
“No.”
“No. But I offered to be Y/n fake-boyfriend whilst her family’s in town.”
“Really?”
Clark nodded, and Jimmy just accepted his answer. Then they both looked back at you.
“My mother, told me, that we,” you gestured frankly between yourself and Clark. “Are dating.”
“She told you?”
“She told me.”
“She told you?” Jimmy asked, to confirm.
“She told me!”
“Okay, okay. Take a breather. What do you mean she told you?”
Jimmy rolled a seat over for you and you sat down, letting Clark reach out and roll you closer to him and Jimmy.
“She’s been acting strange for, like, the last two days. Stranger than usual. Then, this morning, at breakfast, she blurted it out. She wanted to know when I was finally going to tell her that I was seeing someone.”
“And…she thought it was-”
“Clark.”
“Why?”
“Hey!”
Jimmy panicked a little. “Not like…eww why you? Just, like, why?”
“Because someone told her Clark was my partner, but didn’t clarify which kind.”
That was when realisation washed over Jimmy. “Oh.”
“What ‘oh’?”
“When she was here, she asked if anyone would know where you are. I mentioned you and Clark…I didn’t think I had to clarify. I’m so sorry.”
You nodded, a little relieved to find out who had told her.
“Okay, okay. Right. Okay.”
“What did you say to her?”
“That we just worked together,” you told Clark. “But she wouldn’t believe me. She’s convinced I’m lying and now she wants to meet you.”
“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”
“Clark – you don’t know what they’re like.”
“Do you want me to play your boyfriend?” Clark asked, once more, keeping his gaze fixed on yours.
Your mind was running a million miles an hour. He was your friend. Your friend. Friend.
“I-I don’t know.”
“You guys better agree on a solution.” Jimmy said, his gaze fixed on the bullpen.
“Why?” You asked.
Barely two seconds later, you heard your mother and sister’s voice.
“Mom-”
“There she is! Y/n!”
Trailing after your mother, your sister shot you an apologetic look.
“Mom,” you stood up quickly and accepted her hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a mother visit her daughter at work? It’s such a lovely building- hello again, Jimmy.”
“Mrs Y/l/n,” Jimmy smiled. “I-I uh, I think I can hear- yep. Coming, boss!”
Coward, you thought as Jimmy ran away.
“And you must be…Clark,” your mom gave you a knowing side-glance which everybody saw. “My daughter’s ‘partner’.”
Clark looked at you, a little uncertain, but he laughed along. “Yes, ma’am. Y/n and I work-”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey,” you mom whispered. “I already know.”
“Know…what?”
Your mom chuckled before bringing Clark in for a hug. “You’re family, now, honey. It’s so lovely to finally meet my daughter’s partner.”
“Mom-”
“So, tell me, Clark. Where did you grow up?”
As Clark told her, you stood beside your sister.
“I did try and pull her away, but she was determined,” your sister whispered to you. “Have to say, though…he’s cute.”
“We’re not dating.”
“He’s still cute,” your sister said. “Even better looking than you described. I can see why you like him so much.”
“I don’t-”
Your sister shot you a look and your voice died away. You hadn’t ever said it outright, but she knew. You knew she knew.
“Shut up.”
“Just saying,” your sister whispered before she nudged your shoulder lightly.
Your mom’s voice suddenly grew louder in her excitement. “Are you free tonight, Clark? I would love it if you’d join us all for dinner. I’m cooking.”
“Where are you cooking?” You asked.
“We can use your apartment, sweetie. I’m sure Clark knows where it is.”
Clark chuckled. “Yeah, I know where it is.”
“See! Then it’s set. And, since most of us are here, you can meet the family.”
That was how, despite your disagreement with the arrangement, you were practically yanking Clark into your apartment.
“Please save me,” you whispered. “I think if I have to endure any more this evening, I might explode.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“How’s your appendix?” You asked him, as he removed his coat. “Inflamed? Those need to be checked out, you know.”
“My appendix is fine. Or so I hear. It was removed when I was twelve.”
“Fever?”
“I'm at a normal temperature.”
“Feeling nauseous?”
“Nope.”
“Really? I am.”
Clark chuckled, hanging up his coat and pulling you into a hug. “We’ll be fine.”
Then it began.
From round the corner, your mother broke out into a loud cheer. “Look who’s here, everybody!”
Credit where credit was due, Clark was an excellent dinner guest and, after giving up on correcting your family for the seven thousandth time, played an excellent boyfriend. He was kind, had manners, and kept you calm.
Though, the part he played wasn’t a far cry from his usual actions when he was around you. Or most people, really.
But then came the time for sitting down at a place that wasn’t your dinner table.
Returning from the bathroom, you found no seat available. Your parents were sitting together, side by side, on your sofa. Your sister and her husband were together on the arm-chair, their two children were on the floor, playing together surprisingly well-behaved. Your other sister was lounging on the beanbag she’d pulled from your hallway closet – and Clark was sitting in the final armchair which was just a little too small to completely fit his large frame.
“Darling, it’s okay. You can sit like your sister does,” your mother said, gesturing to your sister and brother-in-law. “It won’t be awkward.”
Yeah, maybe not for you.
Clark looked at you, trying not to laugh out of nerves and your reaction to your mother’s statement.
You glared at Clark whilst your sister, who was sitting in the beanbag, held her laughter back.
Thankfully, whatever conversations had been taking place when you were in the bathroom started back up again.
But your internal awkwardness remained.
Finally reaching Clark, you let him take your hand.
“Go on, Y/n,” your sister chuckled. “Sit with your boyfriend.”
“I hate you, both.”
Clark pulled you round and opened his legs a little, letting you slide between his lap and the chair before hooking your legs in between his.
“Comfortable?”
You hummed, trying to avoid the awkwardness. Then, quickly, Clark’s hand came to your hip and pulled you into a slightly more comfortable position.
“You okay?” You felt Clark’s breath on the shell of your ear.
“Tired,” you answered, honestly. “You’re more comfortable than I thought.”
You felt Clark’s chest under your hand as he chuckled. “Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?” You asked him, your eyes finding his gaze.
“Good,” he told you, his eyes landing on yours. “Happier, now.“
“Really? How?”
You watched as Clark’s eyes took in every inch and curve of your face as you spoke.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice soft and his gaze landing back on yours.
Unable to hold his eye contact in fear he’d realise those buried feelings – the ones you kept locked away, and for good measure – were banging, trying to knock down the door. You looked away.
But he didn’t let you go.
As the sun set, and night started to creep into your apartment, your family started disbursing. Eventually, it was just you and Clark, alone in your apartment.
“Thank you, for today,” you smiled at him, tiredly. He’d already got his coat on and you were sending him home with leftovers.
“You’re welcome, but you don’t have to thank me. Good food, good company. Nothing to complain about.”
“Really?”
Clark shrugged. “Well, I guess your mom could have tried to be a little more subtle but– I’m kidding. You can tell she’s doing it out of love. They love you. They just want to see you happy with someone, too.”
You smiled, a little, and nodded. “I know they do. And, just so you know, even if she does eventually accept our fake-break-up, you will still be receiving an invite to my sister’s wedding as my date.”
“I’m sure you’ll have someone real, by then.”
“I doubt it, but thank you for the hope.”
Clark chuckled. “You’re welcome. I guess, goodnight and see you on Monday?”
You smiled, watching as Clark opened the door. “Goodnight and see you on Monday.”
Sharing a quick kiss, then a hug, and another kiss, you and Clark said goodbye to each other and you closed the door behind him.
It wasn’t until you were walking back towards your kitchen, to put the rest of the leftovers away, that you stalled in your tracks.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss again.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss again.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss again.
“Oh, fuck.”
Turning back quickly, you rushed towards your door. But then stopped. Maybe Clark hadn’t noticed. It was innocent. Friendly.
But you and Clark never kissed.
You hugged. You didn’t kiss.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss.
“Don’t be stupid,” you mumbled to yourself as you turned away from the door.
Then you turned back.
Only to turn away again. Clearly, Clark hadn’t noticed. And what would you say to him if you did open the door, when he didn’t notice? No. It would just end up awkward.
You were friends.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss.
It was innocent.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss.
It meant nothing.
Kiss. Hug. Kiss.
Someone knocked on your door.
Deep down, you knew who it was. But you still tried to convince yourself it wasn’t him. Maybe it was your neighbour, coming to ask to borrow a cup of sugar?
Taking a breath, you opened up the door to find Clark standing on the other side.
“Hi,” he said, a little out of breath.
“Hi,” you replied.
“Am I…I’m sorry.”
He walked away, quickly and in a state of confusion.
“Clark?”
He stopped in his tracks before turning, slowly, to face you.
Neither of you said a word. You didn’t have to. It was what made you both such good work partners. You didn’t have to communicate using just words. Most often, a look would do the trick.
Within seconds, Clark’s hands were cupping your face and his lips were kissing yours. A small, breathy moan came from the back of your throat; and it made Clark weak at the knees.
“Oh, my god.”
You didn’t realise until Clark pulled back for a moment that you were both back inside your apartment, the door closed, and the small of your back was braced against the back of your sofa.
“Please tell me we can do that again?” Clark asked, his hand running from your hair and down your neck.
You nodded, a little breathless. “Yes. Yes, we can do that again.”
Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> The four times you and James kissed, and the one time you finally talked about it.
Disclaimer: fluff, undercover couple,undercover kiss, dislike to lovers, platonic!sherlock, four times this-one time that, little yearning, little pining, one bed trope, historical inaccuracies, lots of italics for the past, swearing, mention of minor injuries, dramatic but happy ending.
(gif is not mine)
James Moriarty had held the same opinion of you since the first day he met you; you were a pain in his arse.
You just seemed…to get in the way.
In his defence, you’d first met on a case that Sherlock had asked for his help with. You’d tackled him to the floor, blocking his fighting body until you had him pinned.
“Stop! Stop fighting me! We’re on the same side!”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Between the flying bullets and smell of sugar, you didn’t have time to explain. But when Sherlock finally caught up to both of you, he did.
“Ah,” Sherlock smiled. “I see you two have met.”
“Who is she, Sherlock?”
With an out-of-breath smile, you’d stuck your hand out for him to shake it. “Y/n Y/l/n. Nice to meet you.”
James didn’t shake your hand. He needed more explanation about your existence. “Sherlock.”
“Yes, I probably should explain.”
“You think?”
Despite James’ opinion of you, Sherlock seemed to have a different one. He liked your company. You were also his friend.
Sherlock, of course, knew neither of you really got along. Mostly because of James.
“Why does she have to be here?”
Sherlock smiled as he watched his friend stand tensely as he poured the drinks. “It is your fault, you know. She’s tried being nice to you.”
“You call tackling me, nice?”
“She saved your life, James.”
James handed him his drink. “I was doing just fine before she showed up.”
“Well,” Sherlock sighed. “I want her here. We both need her here. So, you’re just gonna have to deal with it, I’m afraid.”
But part of him hoped that one day, maybe, James might also become your friend.
What Sherlock didn’t expect was to find out you had kissed James.
For four days, yourself and James had been nothing more than incredibly awkward around one another. Sherlock found it a nice break from the constant bickering, but after the first couple of hours, he suspected something much worse was at play.
Though, it wasn’t until the case was finished that Sherlock found out what had happened.
“Unbelieveable!”
James was still pacing, running a hand down his panicked face, speechless.
“I-I mean it’s just…” Sherlock was certain he was dead. He had to be. James’ information had practically killed him. “Unbelievable!”
“Well, you best believe it.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?” Sherlock asked from his seat on the chair, as James continued to pace.
He’d been pacing long before Sherlock had entered the room. His mind had been running a hundred miles an hour since the first time it had happened. But after accidentally touching and, sort of, maybe, holding your hand for a moment that could be considered more than brief…well!
James had tried his best to leave the situation as normally as he could; and so had you.
But that hadn’t stopped the panicking.
And he never panicked.
Not this visibly, anyway.
“I didn’t think I needed to! She’s-she’s…” James grunted, unable to find the words he was looking for. “She’s…her!”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes, Y/n is Y/n.”
“Don’t mock me.”
Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “I’m not mocking you, James. I’ve just…I don’t know how to react to this. To you.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re pacing, for one. And you clearly are having a hard time grappling with your changing feelings for-”
James stopped pacing for a minute, and laughed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. Changing feelings? There are no feelings. Zero. Nill. Fucking…none!”
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Sherlock mumbled, sitting back in his seat.
“Sherlock.”
“What?! Oh, come on! Seriously, James? Even you can’t be blind to this! You’re in denial.”
He started pacing again. “I'm in no such thing!”
“Says the man who hasn’t been able to look a woman in the eye after she made the first move! I can see it in your face, James. Just admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“You like her. Your feelings have changed.”
James shook his head. “They’ve not changed.”
“But there are feelings?” Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk.
James stopped and glared at him before grumbling. Then he kept pacing.
“Look,” Sherlock sat more comfortably. “Just…start from the beginning again.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear it again. Because I, quite frankly, still don’t fully believe it. And because I think you need to realise something because, clearly, you don’t want to hear it from me.”
James stopped pacing, breathing heavily.
“Sit down,” Sherlock told him, calmly.
And, eventually, he did.
“I need a drink first.”
“Pour me one, too.”
Situated with the drinks, James took a seat and eventually started over again. This time, more calmly.
Four days ago, Sherlock had told James to go with you to the Library to see if there were any records on housing leases in the area.
James had questioned why you couldn’t do it on your own, but Sherlock was adamant. So, eventually and reluctantly, he complied.
You’d both been combing over the records for at least three hours before the library had grown quieter than usual. People had gone home, students had returned to their accommodation. Really, there were only a few stragglers left.
But from the slam of the door, James had turned to check who it was; the rival family son, and his friends, who were desperate to prove he was the rightful heir to a family fortune.
In a panic, yourself and James had cleared up the records and shoved them back into their places. But there was no time to escape the incoming men who, by the sound of their voices and footsteps, were ready for a fight.
And, considering James was still healing from a black eye and bruised cheekbone from when he’d fought (and won) against the rival son’s friends, you didn’t fancy getting caught in the middle of it.
“We’ll be fine.”
“No. I didn’t come this far to watch you get beaten up.”
“I’ll have you know, I won last time.”
You rolled your eyes. “And what do you plan on doing when their bruised egos get added into their anger? Besides, Sherlock would kill me.”
“We can just slip past them-”
Taking James by the lapel of his jacket, you pulled him towards you. “Do you trust me?”
“What?”
“Just answer the question.”
James hadn’t really thought about it before. Yes, you were a pain in his arse. But…there wasn’t anything telling him he couldn’t trust you.
“Yes.”
“Then just trust me.”
“Why should-”
James got his answer before he finished asking his question. Because, within a mere five seconds, you were pulling him towards you, backing yourself against the shelves on the library, and kissing him.
God help him, he kissed back.
With his hands firmly on your waist, you kissed him deeper. And when you heard loud voices, you made sure your hands remained on his face.
“Stop staring,” one of them told another. “We’ve got no business with them.”
One of them chuckled. “I remember me and my Rosie being like that when we were young.”
They followed their pack leader, still talking. “You’re still like that now.”
“Can you blame me?”
One of them grumbled. “Doesn’t mean I have to walk in on it.”
“We were just kissing!”
As the voices faded, James felt your hands push him back a little. And it wasn’t until he was trying to catch his breath and asking you to wait, that he realised just what had happened.
And he liked it.
And, from the hazy look in your eyes, you had to.
Over the course of the following hours, neither of you really knew what to do. The longer the silence lasted, the deeper the memory started to bury into your memories. Even the quick agreement you’d both made outside on the Library steps hadn’t stopped you from thinking about it.
“We don’t talk about it?”
“Agreed.”
“Great.”
“Grand.”
Only, a day and a half later, a similar situation occurred that resulted in James being the one to initiate the kiss.
James would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about that kiss since it happened.
In truth, he’d been trying his hardest to understand why; why it happened, why it had felt the way it did, and why…why he wanted to do it again.
After all, he’d considered you a pain in his arsesince the day he met you. So…why? Why you? Why now?
But even after kissing you for the second time; he still didn’t have his answer.
It had started out innocently enough; a simple search through an abandoned property landed you and James in a relatively small predicament – you and James had to convince a copper that you were married.
“You should know if you two aren’t married, I shall have to inform your-”
James stepped forward, putting on an accent. “I am terribly sorry for the mistake, sir. But, you see, my wife and I must have gotten a little lost.”
Stepping forward, taking his arm, you plastered on a smile. “Yes. I- Sir, you must know-”
“We were given an address for a small hotel. You see, our coachman was meant to take us back home – we’re in London for the day, you see.”
“But he got rather drunk,” you quickly added. “He did give us an address but it seems his memory isn’t what it usually would be, if you understand?”
The copper nodded, giving a visible sigh of relief. “You’re looking for the Bluebird House. This is the Blackbird Inn. Well, it used to be.”
Both you and James nodded. “Yes!”
The copper held out his arm, guiding you both out of the house. “I’ll take you, myself.”
Yourself and James kept the act up the entire way towards the Bluebird House. Only, for as much as the copper was convinced you were both a happily married couple, the landlady wasn’t so convinced.
Glaring at you both, she hummed. “Sure you’re married?”
“Do you not get a lot of married couples?” You asked.
The lady nodded. “We do. We also get a lot of fake ones. Those who over-act. Who doesn't act enough. I know ‘married’ when I see it.”
“Miss-”
“Mrs.”
“Mrs,” James smiled, stepping forward. “What would it take to convince you? You see, we’ve both had a very long day and I’d rather go to bed with my wife and get some much needed rest.”
The landlady looked to the copper who just shrugged. “They seem married to me. They smile like one. Bicker like one, too.”
Looking a little shocked, you looked at the copper. “You heard that?”
The copper shuffled on his feet, nervous. “I-I-. Yes, ma’am, I did. And, I must say…I’m on your side.”
Looking towards James, you smiled. “He’s on my side.”
James looked at the copper. “Are you sure about that?”
He chuckled. “I’ve had the argument more than a few times with my wife and, if she’s taught me anything, it’s that she’s right. A-and that’s not just me saying that. She’s actually provided some pretty substantial evidence.”
“See, darling. I was right.”
“Well, I still need to see some proof for myself-”
“As do I!” The landlady called out. “Kiss her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kiss your wife.” The landlady said. “Kiss her. And then I’ll know.”
Due to the shock, neither you or James knew what to say. The copper just shrugged and agreed with her. And, just before you regained full control of your mind and body again – managing to tear it away from the memory of James kissing you back – he kissed you.
It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds; but it felt like a lifetime.
Suddenly, there was a racket of a key being placed on a desk. “Okay. You’re in room four.”
James managed to steady himself, and he didn’t let go of your hand until you let go of his a brief moment after the door closed behind you both.
Neither of you talked about the kiss. Nor did you turn over in the one bed you were both forced to share since there was barely room to stand, let alone sleep elsewhere.
All of which just added to the awkwardness.
Waking in the morning, James found his hand in yours as you slept side by side. And, rather than remove his hand and turn away, he pretended to stay asleep.
Whether it was just a few moments, or a few more hours, something pulled in his gut and his heart when he thought about removing his hand from your own.
Little did he know; you were awake, thinking the same thing.
James was yet to touch his drink.
As he re-told the story to both Sherlock, and himself, he couldn’t do anything other than stare at the amber liquid in his glass. The quick shot he’d done before he sat down had given him the courage to admit every detail out loud to his friend: as well as himself.
But the thought of taking a second drink felt like he’d burn away the taste of you. Something that, even after the first kiss, had seeped so deep into his memory, he could still feel your lips when he thought about you.
“You said there was a third and forth?” Sherlock clarified. “So, what happened next?”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Sherlock just shrugged. “I’m a romantic, James.”
James took a breath.
“Better kiss your fella goodbye, love.” One of the brothers told you.
James could have killed Sherlock before he realised he might have an opportunity to kiss you again. Even if the circumstances weren’t all that great.
Splitting up had resulted in yourself and James nearly killing each other when you thought it was someone else; before followed by sudden relief.
Only to be stuck up on by the very people you were both trying to avoid.
“Because, by the time we’re finished with him-”
“Point is; you won’t get the chance again.”
Looking at James, you had only a few seconds to decide what to do. So, following their orders, you walked over to James.
Pulling him close to you, you leaned up and whispered in his ear; “There’s a pin in my hair, at the base of my bun. Take it.”
Looking in his eyes to make sure he understood, he nodded, before taking his hand and laying it at the base of your skull.
And whilst he took the opportunity to kiss you like his life depended on it; and it kind of did; he pulled the pin from behind your bun.
You felt him reach out for you, pulling you in at your waist when you went to step back. If he really was about to be in danger, he wanted it to be worth it.
And it was.
By the time he had a chance to look up and actually take in a breath, the wind was knocked out of him.
You were hurt, but standing. You were bleeding, but you looked…irresistable.
For a moment, James was sure you were looking at him the same way, until you looked past him and your face dropped.
“We’ve gotta go.”
James turned and saw what you had seen. A poorly made bomb. A poorly made bomb that still had too much danger in its name.
Taking James’ hand in yours, you pulled him with you. Making a break for it, Sherlock found you both frazzled and able to look at each other, but couldn’t speak a word to one another.
“What happened to you two?”
Sherlock helped you both up as you and James explained, sharing your lines, until you were both dusted off.
“Well, you’re both bleeding. Mycroft should still be awake. You can both get cleaned up, there.”
Neither of you spoke on the way there, or whilst yourself and James got cleaned up by the Holmes brothers.
“I feel I should tell you,” James said. “The fourth almost happened at your brother’s place.”
“What?”
“Those twenty minutes felt like a flash in the pan,” James admitted. “Too quick. But also not enough time. We were just talking and…”
Sherlock studied his friend for the few silent minutes that followed. James’ mind was clearly focused on his memories; the kisses and the almost one. Slowly, James’ thumb swiped back and forth over the bumps in his glass.
His mind was well and truly on you. The soft question of ‘are you okay?’, the quiet replies and quick sentences that followed, the feeling of the tense air that somehow created a bubble you both felt safe in, the catch in his breath when he felt you take his hand, and the loud burst of the bubble when Mycroft swept into the room with fresh water and clean towels.
“So, if the fourth didn’t happen at my brother’s home…when did it happen?”
James swallowed just before he looked across at his friend.
“Sherlock’s looking for you!” James called out as he approached you. “What with the case being finished and all-”
“Fine.”
Turning around from where you’d been standing, looking at seemingly nothing, you stomped past James.
“Did I do something?” He asked, noticing the shift.
You’d both spent the last three days unsure of what to say to one another. He wanted you both to get back to normal as much as he suspected you did. But he didn’t expect the turn around to be so quick.
Not when he was starting to think of ways he might be able to kiss you, again.
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“Whoa, slow your horses!”
You stopped walking and turned around to look at him, keeping your arms folded. “What?”
“You know I never know what you’re talking about when you ask me that,” James pointed out. “And I thought you were above asking me. You usually just tell me to my face. Why the change?”
You seemed to study him. And for the first time, he had a word for the feeling you gave him; nervous.
“What?”
For a brief moment, he saw you stop building whatever concrete wall you were trying to fix around yourself.
“Do you feel something, too? A change?”
James stood back. “A change?”
You nodded, certain. “Yes.”
“A change to what?”
“You know what.”
“Enlighten me.”
You sighed, heavily. Rather than fight him on the thing you both knew, you stepped back. “Knew it.”
“Knew what?” He chased after you. “Knew what? Hey, wait a minute.”
Jogging in front of you and stopping you in your tracks, he looked at you.
“Is there something…” James tried to search for an answer on your face. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“There’s something I want to know.”
“Then just ask me. Ask me. That’s all it takes.” He told you. “Just…ask me.”
As your eyes flicked over his, he felt relief when he saw your arms unfold. Then, suddenly feeling your lips on his once more, he felt a rush across his entire being.
“I won’t be a game to you, James Moriarty.” You told him.
He felt genuinely offended. “You’re not a game to me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He nodded. “Yes. And, for the record, you’ve kissed me first more than I’ve kissed you.”
Setting yourself back on your feet, you rolled your lips as you lowered your head. Finding the courage to look at him, you took a breath.
“And I’d do it again,” you told him. “But would you? If I hadn’t kissed you first, would you have kissed me?”
James felt something punch his gut, harsh and deep. He’d never felt more empty than when you pulled yourself from his arms and left him standing in the field.
And yet…he started to question it himself.
Sherlock smiled. “So…there are feelings. And they have changed.”
James looked from his whiskey filled glass, to his friend. “I don’t know.”
Sherlock’s face dropped into a deadpan expression. “You’re an idiot.”
“Whatever I feel for Y/n…I don’t know how to describe it. I’m not a poet.”
“Says the man who quotes Shakespeare from memory.”
Laying the glass on the table, James stood and started pacing again. “I’m being serious, Sherlock. I don’t know how to describe it. Y/n went from being a pain in my arse to…I don’t know. All I know is that if she kissed me, I’d kiss her back. And I wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“Do you still think she’s a pain in your arse?”
James paused for a moment. “No. Yes. I don’t know. She’s a pain I’d miss.”
“The poet, ladies and gentlemen,” Sherlock stood up. “‘She’s a pain I’d miss’. Just what every woman wants to hear.”
“I told you; I’m not a poet.”
Sherlock laid a hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. “No, my fine friend, a poet you are not. But you are a man in denial.”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock just chuckled before stepping in front of James to hold him by both of his shoulders.
“Aside from the fact that I can see it in your eyes, James. You’ve just told me that she’s not a game to you. You’ve also told me that you wanted to kiss her again. James,” Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know what’s going through your head but, as your friend, I am begging you to tell her how you feel.”
“What if it’s a trick? What if she is a game to me? How can I trust-”
“What are you so scared of?” Sherlock asked, abruptly. “Genuinely. Tell me. What is it, truely, that you are so scared of?!”
“That I’ll lose her!” James shouted. “People I care for…people who care for me…there is a reason why life is a game we have to win.”
Sherlock took in what he was saying, and also what he wasn’t. James had lost before; and he didn’t want to lose again.
For a moment, Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts. He wanted to say something profound; something that would break through the barriers that James had built for himself, long before he’d met either Sherlock or yourself.
But he didn’t know what to say.
Turning to the window, he could see you.
Dressed in a long cloak, with the sleeves of your borrowed dress pushed up. You seemed to be in a hurry.
“And what if you lose her because of that very same reason?”
“What?”
James hurried to stand beside Sherlock. Now, the pair of them watched as you hurried towards the horse that Mr Crowle had brought round for you.
Sherlock looked at James, who looked every shade of terrified.
“I’d catch up to her if I were you,” Sherlock said, calmly.
Grabbing his jacket, James made a break for it.
“Where is she going?!” James called out as he ran down the stairs.
Mr Crowle seemed confused, but answered him anyway. “Said she needed to clear her head. She’s gone up through the hills, most likely. Have to say; never seen her this…frazzled. That has something to do with you, son?”
Sherlock managed to smile. “Uh, we’ll have to explain later. Is there, perhaps, a horse James could borrow?”
Mr Crowle nodded. “Sure! There’s one just-”
“Thank you, Mr Crowle! We’ll handle it from here!”
Within a matter of minutes, James was hurrying along the broken grass paths around the Holmes Estate in order to find you.
Meanwhile, as you were hurrying your way across the familiar paths, you let down your hood and felt the wind rush around you. It pulled at every worry and anxiety filled thought you had.
You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t feel something for James Moriarty. What that was…you didn’t have a word for it just yet. Mostly that was down to him.
For a short while, you thought maybe he felt the change, too. But you couldn’t be sure. He kept so much of himself locked away, you couldn’t even figure out the thing that you couldn’t figure out!
A part of you thought he thought you were a game; something to figure out, some rivalry to win against. Another part of you thought he didn’t know what you were to him; were you a game? Were you still a pain in his arse? Were you both? Or were you neither?
Action and words could only go so far on their own. Coming from him, you needed them together. You needed him to tell you what he was feeling – even if he hadn’t figured it out yet. And you needed to see it in his eyes that, what he was telling you, was the truth.
For a moment, you thought you heard him call your name. But between the last few days and the not-so-dreamless sleep, you figured it was just another trick of your head.
Until you heard the heavy hooves of another horse.
“Jesus, woman! Don’t you ever slow down?”
Pulling at your horses reins, you pulled your horse into a harsh stop and watched as he practically flew off his own.
“Are you crazy?!”
Dismounting your horse, you pulled your cloak away from you and tried to meet him halfway.
“What the hell were you thinking, pulling in front of someone like that?!”
“Well, I was calling you! You were the one who didn’t slow down!”
“I came out here for a break! To get away from you!”
“I know.”
“Then why the hell are you out here?!”
James finally reached you, out of breath. And with a brief warning, he pulled you in.
“Because of this.”
With his hand on your neck, he practically yanked you towards him and kissed you. Despite the desperation, it didn’t take you long before you were melting into his touch. And, from the way his arms wrapped around the rest of you, you figured you’d have a hard time escaping him.
Not that you wanted to.
“Did I ever tell you, you are a pain in my arse?”
Holding your hands against his shoulders, you tried to catch your breath. “About half a dozen times a day.”
“Well, you are.” James said. “You are a pain in my arse. And I wouldn’t change you for the world. And to answer your question; yes. Yes, I would. I don’t know when it would have happened, but I would have kissed you. And I’ll keep kissing you. For as long as you let me.”
Taking a moment, you kept your gaze on his.
You needed to know.
James felt his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for you to reply. On the ride up, he didn’t really know what he was going to say. Just follow your heart, someone in the wind told him.
Just follow your heart.
Very faintly, he felt your thumb swipe across his cheek. And then a smile broke out onto your face.
“Prove it.”
With a chuckle, James didn’t need to be told again. It would take some time for everything between yourself and James to find a label – some kind of word, that existed, that could explain your feelings for each other.
Yet, despite people declaring it unbelievable that you were together, there was no denying that your connection with each other was, most certainly, something else.
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Petition to replace uptight Enola-verse Mycroft with babygirl "okay FINE I will participate in your sleuthing shenanigans because I love you 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄" Young Sherlock Mycroft she deserves him as her big brother I'm just saying
The amount of combined chaos would be astronomical 🤣
Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> After you get hurt on a case, James helps patch you up. And others start to notice that, though neither of you say anything, the gentle touches between yourselves seem...familiar.
Disclaimer: mentions of injuries, blood, investigator!reader, fluff, (sorta) established relationship, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic fluff, a french saying pulled from google translate, probably historical inaccuracy.
(gif is not mine)
“Jesus Christ!”
As you stumbled through the wooden back door to Appleton Manor, you heard the Irish-laced curse come from across the kitchen. A scrape of wooden legs followed, just before you felt someone’s hands on your arms.
“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock pointed out, worry laced in his voice. “Why are you bleeding?”
His voice was further than the one that followed. “Let me look at you.”
James hissed in sympathy as he took in the state of your injuries; a black eye, a marked cheek and a bloody nose.
“Here,” James pulled out a seat for you and gently placed you in it. “Sherlock, grab me a towel. And some water.”
“What the-”
“Sherlock!” James shouted, pulling Sherlock out of his worrying trance. He wasn’t used to seeing you injured, let alone still bleeding.
“Right. Yes, right.”
Running down the hall to grab the items, James pulled a seat in front of you and sat down.
“Is it broken?” You asked.
He surveyed it for a moment. He was tense, but considering Sherlock was already panicking and you were trying to hold yourself together, he tried to follow your attitude.
He calmed himself. “No. Are you alright? What happened? Who did this?”
“It’s a long story,” you told him. “And I’d rather not repeat it twice.”
James just nodded in reply, deciding to hold onto your hand as you both waited for Sherlock to come running back in. Which he did, barely a minute later.
“Here.”
James took over cleaning away your blood, trying his best to be as gentle as he could, whilst you explained how you’d ended up with such extensive injuries.
Mycroft had asked you to look into a few things for him. When Sherlock inquired why his brother hadn’t thought to ask him, you explained that he did. Until he realised he needed someone who wouldn’t be as easily detected.
Being wanted for murder, once, meant his face had been plastered across London. Mycroft didn’t want to risk Sherlock being recognised. So, instead, he’d asked you.
The case had taken you through Oxford; looking into underhanded government schemes that weren’t even remotely legal and could result in serious damage to a lot of people.
Only, someone must have spotted you. And followed you.
They gave you a warning; keep your nose out of business where you weren’t wanted. From the way they talked, there wasn’t a single chance they knew who you were or who you were working for.
“They’re just hired fists,” you assured them both. “I got a couple of hits in myself, but there were too many of them.”
“How many?”
“Three?” You said, not too sure. “Maybe four. It all got a little fuzzy after they threw me across the floor.”
“Are you injured anywhere else?”
You nodded, but then stopped. Simply moving your head made you feel dizzy. “Yeah. Probably.”
James sat back, scanning his eyes over your body. You were tense; holding yourself in order to avoid more pain.
“Can I look?”
Opening your eyes, you saw where his hand was wandering to. “Yeah.”
You tried to help him, but he just held your hand for a moment. “It’s alright. I’ll be gentle.”
“Okay.”
As Sherlock continued to question you, James took a look at the injuries underneath your clothes.
There were a few dried blood stains surrounding a giant rip. Whatever you’d been thrown across, it had been sharp enough to rip through your jacket, shirt, corset, and under-dress.
Between the gap, James ran his finger across it to try and judge its size.
When he pulled his fingers away, they were dry. But the scar was at least eight inches long.
“I’m gonna need to clean that,” James told you.
“Shouldn’t you wait for Mrs Crowle?” Sherlock asked.
But you were the one who spoke up. “I don’t want it getting infected. Do you know how long she’s gonna be?”
Sherlocked hummed. “She’s usually in the village for a few hours.”
James helped you stand and gently wrapped an arm around your waist whilst your own arm went around his shoulders.
“Send for the doctor,” James told him. “I’ll help Y/n.”
As Sherlock hesitated, you confirmed your agreement with James.
“We’ll take it slow, okay?”
You closed your eyes and hummed, trying to ignore your pain. “Okay.”
Upstairs, James helped you out of your garments until you were down to your shift.
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he told you.
As he tended to your wound, his eyes travelled to your face throughout. You didn’t say much, but he knew when you could stand the pain and when you couldn’t.
To help, he talked through every movement he was taking. It helped keep you calm, whilst also managing to shift the awkwardness of the moment away from the room.
Under the circumstances, the doctor wouldn’t pay much attention to the fact you were in a room alone with a man, dressed down to your shift.
And, thankfully, he didn’t.
“Up here!” James shouted from the door, just before the doctor and Mrs Crowle came rushing inside.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Mr Moriarty,” the doctor said before he left. “Y/n will need a lot of rest. No strenuous activity for a while. Do try and keep her from over-exherting herself; though I suspect that may be a challenge. She seems…spritly.”
Sherlock and Moriarty nodded. They knew you too well. Being confined to your bed would not suit your mind, no matter how much your body needed it.
“I’ll make sure she rests,” Mrs Crowle told him before walking with him to the door.
“Thank you for helping her,” she told James when she came back. “But you ought to be more careful. If the circumstances were different-”
James took hold of the hand Mrs Crowle started pointing at him. “If the circumstances were different, I’m sure Y/n would have knocked my lights out before I even had a chance to think of anything else.”
Mrs Crowle hummed. “I’m sure. But, please, do be more careful.”
James kissed her hand. “You have my word.”
To his word, he was more careful.
He just had to make sure, when he snuck up to see you, Mrs Crowle was in the village or - at the very least - far enough from the house to give him a couple of minutes to see you.
“If you’re planning an escape, I can tell you,” Moriarty’s voice drew from the door behind you. “There’s much easier ways than climbing out of a window.”
You smiled, keeping your back to him. “Just when I think I’m unreadable, you show up.”
James clicked his tongue as he strolled inside. “Nobody is ever as mysterious as they seem.”
“Even you?” You asked, feeling him standing behind you.
“Ah, well, you’ll find I’m a different matter entirely."
You chuckled, turning to look at him. “Is that really so?”
James nodded. “I’m sure.”
You hummed, turning to look back out of the window. “I’ll let you believe that. For now.”
You heard James laugh, but rather than ask follow up questions, he leaned behind you and followed your eyeline out towards the rolling fields.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, really,” you said. “Just wondering.”
Faintly, you felt his hand graze down your side. “How’s the injury?”
“Painful,” you admitted. “But I refuse to lie in bed any longer.”
“It’s been two days.”
“Exactly my point. Have you heard from Sherlock?”
James took in a breath, pulling the telegram from his pocket and showing it to you. “I have.”
Plucking it from his fingers, you stayed in front of him and read it.
“Are we meant to decipher this?”
“You know what he’s like,” James pointed out. “Can never keep something, even a sentence, simple. But, from what I gather, he’s found the fellas that thought beating you up was a bright idea.”
You hummed before quietly hearing James add: “Better him than me.”
Looking up at James, you didn’t have to ask him what he meant by that. You could see it in his eyes, though he wouldn’t look at you. Instead, he kept his eyes on the telegram that was held in your hand.
His own hand came and held the back of yours.
“He’s staying with Mycroft,” James told you. “He should be back tomorrow or the day after.”
“James?”
He turned and looked at you. “Yes?”
Unsure of what to say exactly without bringing up the fact that if he had gone with Sherlock, the men that had beaten you up probably wouldn’t live to see another clear day, you searched for the right thing to say.
“Thank you,” you settled on. “For staying.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he told you.
Taking a hold of his hand, you kept your gaze on him. “But I want to. So…thank you.”
James tried to hide the fact he felt himself blushing. “Then, as a gentleman, I will say you’re welcome.”
With a brief smile, you leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.
Suddenly, from the door, someone cleared their throat.
“If my wife catches you in here again, she might just string you up by your ankles,” Mr Crowle said, setting the tea tray down. “But, since I like you, I won’t say anything.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But she’s gonna need help outside so you better make yourself available,” he added.
Still holding your hand, James traced his thumb across your knuckles as he looked at you. “I’ll see you later?”
You nodded, trying to hold back your smile. “Yes.”
As James left the room, Mr Crowle handed you a cup of fresh tea. “You should be in bed.”
“I know.”
“You need to heal.”
“I know.”
Mr Crowle smiled at you as your gaze drifted to the door James had just walked out of.
“I suppose he is helping in his own…uncoventional way.”
“What?”
Mr Crowle lowered his voice. “You like the fella, no?”
You started getting hot from your feet to your head. “I- uh- well-”
Mr Crowle just chuckled as he added a teaspoon of sugar. “Helps with the nerves. And, don’t worry,” he said. “He has the same starry look in his eyes when he looks at you, too.”
Unable to speak, you watched as Mr Crowle left the room and left you with the slight nervous embarrassment at the first vocal question of how deep your feelings actually were for James Moriarty.
*~*~*~*~*~*
“And how is the patient?”
A hand landed on your shoulder as James strolled across the grass towards where yourself and Cordelia were sitting.
You smiled, looking up at him. “On the mend.”
“She’s bored out of her mind,” Cordelia said with a knowing smile.
James gave a fake gasp. “Y/n? Never!”
“Ha, ha.”
“Well,” James took a seat. “You’ll be glad to know I’m not just here for Mrs Crowle’s delicious tea and toast.”
From his jacket, he pulled out a three-fold piece of paper.
“Why am I looking at the Last Will and Testament of Mister Jones?”
“Because Sherlock has a case.”
“Of course he does.”
“And he needs your help. Well, he needs our help.”
You looked him over, carefully. “Okay?”
“Fancy a little entrée par effraction?”
Cordelia raised her brow. “Break-in? Where?”
“Oh, trust me Mrs Holmes-”
“Cordelia, James. Please.”
He graced her with a gentle smile. “Cordelia. It will be very light. I hardly need to call it a ‘break’. More of a little…shove.”
Cordeila sat back with a hum. “She’s not to complete any strenuous activity.”
“I’ll be fine. When do we leave?”
Two hours later, James was helping you step out of the carriage and walk down the streets of London until you reached the decommissioned office of Mister Jones.
“It’s locked.”
Before he could slam his elbow through the glass pane, however, you reached for him.
“Hold on.”
Searching around the building, you found what you were looking for.
An open window.
“Give me a boost.”
“You’re meant to be resting. No strenuous activity, remember?”
You simply looked at him. “James, I am fine. Now, give me a boost.”
Following your orders, he helped you climb up towards the window before you pulled yourself inside. You could hear him calling your name as you rushed through the house to get to the front door.
“Are you okay?”
You nodded, a smile on your face. You felt alive for the first time in three weeks. “Perfect. Now, come on. I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”
Taking James by the hand, you pulled him throughout the house before you got to a locked door at the top of the stairs. After the second shove with his shoulder, the door busted open.
Several hours, a few Shakspeare quotes and one minor injury later, you were collapsing onto a lodging house bed beside James.
He had managed to convince the landlord that you were both newlyweds whose honeymoon had been delayed by an engine failure on board one of the boats by the docks.
“Remind me again why we’re friends with Sherlock?” James laid an arm over his eyes.
You groaned. “Ask me when I don’t feel like killing him.”
James lifted his arm to look at you. “Your side?”
You nodded, pulling at the hooks on your skirt and lifting your shirt.
Sitting up, James helped you until he was able to slip his hand under all the fabric of your clothing.
“It’s burning.”
You nodded. “Probably aggravated it when…when we crawled through the basement.”
“It’s not infected, is it?”
You shook your head. “No. It can’t be.”
Rather than ask anymore questions, James took the feeling of your hand laying over his as an answer all on its own.
So, simply spreading his hand over the hottest part of your wound, he felt you relax into his touch.
And, somewhere between the feeling of his thumb rubbing gently against your skin and the ache in your bones from running across London, you both leaned back on the bed and fell asleep.
“James? James!”
Shaking his shoulder, trying to keep your voice low so your neighbours didn’t wake up, you called his name til he finally sat up.
“What? What’s going on?”
“It’s almost six. We’ve gotta go.”
“Where?”
Showing James the newspaper, he rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the blurry print. A message in the social column; from Shirley.
Twelve hours later, the case was solved and yourself and James were slowly falling asleep at the dinner table, leaning on each other as Sherlock told the wild story of the latest case.
“Though, I can only speculate as to what these two got up to in the missing hours of our case.”
“Speculate all you want,” you told him.
“We’re not telling,” James finished.
Sherlock leaned forward. “What did happen?”
Cordelia leaned forward, laying a gentle hand on her son. “Sweetheart, why don’t we let them get some sleep?” Then, laying another gentle hand on James’ arm, she told him as much.
“Your rooms have been made up,” she told you both. “Get some sleep.”
“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”
“Goodnight, darlings.”
Neither Sherlock or his mother said anything about the way James reached for your hand, or the way you willingly clasped yours into his. They didn’t say anything about how you took his arm and you both climbed the stairs, completely shattered and in need of sleep.
But, they both knew something had changed – grown between both of you.
Even more so when the mornings became recognisable by James’ hand on your leg at the breakfast table, or your lips pressing against his cheek in a quick ‘hello’ or ‘see you later’ before either one of you left to help complete a case.
