oh, well

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new chapter: may 28th

prologue

crow

barn

just like that

family

staring

kent

twenties

cult?

kevorkian

secrets

fantômes

eyes

jojo

princess

d.m.n

heart

elias

chabrier

war

memory

locket

care

laundry

old songs

honey bun

muppet

pink

bronco

bunny-bee

piano

dinner

journal

n.y.e

pamela

flask

horty

singing

liverleaf

goodbye

thirty

at-risk

hotel halcyon: day one

hotel halcyon: day two

hotel halcyon: day three

hotel halcyon: day four

hotel halcyon: day five

plum

frank

angels

cherlene

dented

A/N: Roadtrip shenanigans and a new banner, here's to the next ten chapters, I guess haha. Also, we have officially surprassed the 50k word mark with this chapter!

“Jackson Abbot!”

A wide, bordering on delirious grin split across Jack’s lips. He turned around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. He didn’t even try to put on an apologetic expression.

“I got a fake full name. This feels like a promotion.”

“It should feel like you’re about to get your ass kicked.”

You crossed your arms in front of your chest. Jack knew by your tone and expression that he messed up, though he could not quite figure out what or what to do about it now that he had already messed up, too busy staring at you.

You were wearing a black lace blouse with a corset belt wrapped snugly around your middle and skinny jeans. The plateau boots you favoured outside work had been swapped for your well-worn, beloved steel-toed combat boots for the sake of driving. 

A long leather coat hung down your frame, hiding parts of your silhouette, yet it only served to enhance that delicious confidence that oozed off you, no matter what you did.

Jack felt his knees go weak.

“We’ve been waiting for thirty minutes!” Marigold complained, crossing her arms just like you did. Next to you, looking as if you just stepped out of Lost Boys - god, Jack loved that movie as a boy - Marigold could almost be mistaken for a cotton candy cloud in her favourite pastel turquoise overall dress over a Fall Out Boy band shirt with ruffled white socks peeking out over the top of her brown boots.

“Is it that late-” Jack glanced at his wrist watch and cursed. “I’m sorry, Boots! I forgot the time. We had a trauma come in.”

You sighed, shoulders relaxing. You’d never truly been angry with him. You expected this. That was simply the way of the ER.

“Marigold?” 

Marigold did not share your inclination towards mercy.

“I waited for you!”

“She was sitting on the steps, couldn’t persuade her to come inside. She said she wanted to be the first to say hi to you.”

“I’m sorry.” Jack’s face bore all the heartbreak only a disappointed little girl could make a grown man feel.

Jack had been so kind to work last night’s shift alone to give you the chance to pack with Marigold and get her ready in the morning. You knew the day was bound to come when Gloria would come to collect what you owed her. It had come three weeks ago, when she showed up out of the blue at shift change to announce you’d be going to an emergency medicine convention in Florida.

Robby was a workaholic who never stepped away from work longer than twelve hours at a time, and Jack volunteered before Shen even made it into work.

You didn’t want to go, and you certainly were not looking forward to people possibly recognising who you were, but you’d been prepared for something like this to be demanded of you and didn't argue. 

At least Gloria had no issue with you taking Marigold, as long as you paid the expenses for her yourself.

And the prospect of getting to spend some time with Jack outside the hospital was nice. With you both working the night shift, there wasn’t really room for date nights or getting drinks together. When you weren’t working or sleeping, your time was dedicated to Marigold, and even though Jack kept insisting he loved spending time with Marigold, you sometimes couldn’t help but feel a little disillusioned.

Could a relationship develop the way you wanted this relationship to develop when all the time you and Jack ever got together was either shared with a little kid or dying patients?

The real trouble had come last week, when Gloria came down to deliver the tickets.

The plane tickets.

You stared at the tickets on the counter in front of you, wide-eyed, panic crawling up the back of your throat like a spider, hand trembling, and tried not to slip into a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of the department when Jack found you.

“I haven’t- I didn’t- haven’t been on a plane since- since Iraq-” You somehow manage to stammer out. Between heaving, laboured breaths and struggling to make any sound at all, you told him about how you’d stepped onto the landing strip, just to be met by the USMC Casualty Assistance Calls Officer informing you of your husband’s death. 

That flight had been the worst few hours of your entire life.

You hadn’t seen the inside of an airport, let alone of a plane, since.

“Okay.” Jack had whispered, brushing the hair from your face and pulling you into his arms. “We don’t have to fly. It’s okay, Boots. We’ll just go on a road trip. Marigold will love that. Roadside attractions and shitty gas station food and sleeping in a motel. Please don’t cry, sweetheart.”

He took care of everything from there.

He talked to Robby and Shen to rearrange shifts around the extra days you’d be gone because of the travel. He figured something out with Gloria about the plane tickets too. You didn’t know if the hospital could be reimbursed for them or if Jack simply paid for them. He got his truck to a mechanic for a checkup before the trip. He already told Marigold about stopping by the NASCAR Hall of Fame.

Marigold was very excited, which made up for your anxiety regarding the whole convention and the presentation Gloria had volunteered you for.

Needless to say, as big as her excitement was, her disappointment when Jack was late was even bigger.

“Oh, Marigold, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to be late!” Jack struggled to the ground, adjusting his prosthesis so he could kneel in front of her, and swiped some hair out of her face. “Don’t be mad at me, Peanut. Please.”

“Mommy says I don’t have to accept apologies.” Marigold huffed. You could see Jack deflate, and you wondered if this seasoned veteran, for whom no catastrophe was big enough to make him lose his cool, had ever looked so small.

“Of course you don’t.” He murmured and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

A smile cracked her frown. “But I accept yours.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. The relief washing over Jack was instant. “Don’t make me wait again!”

“Never.”

You clapped your hands. “Chop, chop, old man! Get your ass moving before the ER drags you back under.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack chuckled and forced himself back onto his feet. You offer your hand, which he only reluctantly accepts, letting you help pull him.

“Marigold and I finished our road trip playlist last night. You are in for an experience.” You grinned, and it did not bode well for him. “The best of Avril Lavigne, Black Veil Brides, Motionless in White, In This Moment-”

“Fall out boy!” Marigold chimed in.

“-Depeche Mode, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Sisters of Mercy, and not to forget, the greatest hits Disney has to offer.”

“I shudder.” Jack smirked. “I’ll be right back then. Can’t miss that.”

“And take a shower!” You called after him. “I’m not spending the day trapped in a car with you after a twelve-hour shift!”

“You sayin’ I stink?”

“Yes!” Both you and Marigold shouted at once, the latter giggling madly. Jack saluted and disappeared around a corner towards the changing rooms. You picked up Marigold and set her down on the counter. Dana pushed her glasses up into her hair and lowered her clipboard.

“You seem relaxed considering your travel plans are being delayed.”

“Oh please, I told Jack the wrong time on purpose. I know how the ER works. We’ve got another hour before we absolutely have to be on the road.”

“Mommy is smart.” Marigold swung her feet. “Do you want to see my snack box?”

“Of course, I do.” Dana flipped her glasses back down while Marigold dug the box out of her backpack. She listened patiently while Marigold pointed to all the different snacks and sweets she chose and why - “I wanted Snickers bars too, but I already had the M&Ms and mommy said I can only take what fits in the box and it has to last the whoooole ride. Well, I can eat everything now if I want, but then I have nothing left for tomorrow.”

“That looks like a very good selection, kid.” Dana commented, smirking up at you while she patted Marigold’s hat.

“These are for Jack.” Marigold tapped against the lid above the compartment she filled with Werther’s Originals.

“Are they?”

Marigold nodded. “He likes them. My grandpa likes them too.”

You could tell Dana was struggling not to laugh. “Well, that is awfully sweet of you. Did you pack something for your mommy too?”

“Nu-uh. Mommy has her own box. I don’t share with mommy anymore since she ate all my Halloween candy!”

“It was an accident, baby!”

“You ate all of it.”

“I was on my period. Daddy ate it too! And daddy didn’t even get his period, so he has no excuses.”

“I told you you can have a few! A few!”

“Yeah, and then it was really good.” You said sheepishly. “We replaced it!”

Marigold scrunched up her nose. She was still convinced the candy she collected herself tasted better than the things mommy and daddy bought to replace her loot with, and who knows, maybe she was onto something, because you had never again inhaled a huge bag of mini chocolate bars like that again since then.

Or maybe the stomach ache was to blame for that.

Marigold hugged her snack box to her chest as if she feared you might steal it too. You laughed and took her tiny face into your hands to press a kiss to her forehead. “I love you so much, my little gummy bear.”

“I hope you’re not on your period so you won’t eat me like you ate all my Halloween candy!” She muttered into your neck, but it carried no real ire.

“Gremlin.” You pinched her side, making her squeal.

Jack returned, droplets of water still clinging to his silvery curls, dressed in a - hopefully different - pair of cargo pants and a black, unfairly tight t-shirt - seriously, how were you supposed to focus on driving with him looking like that next to you? - and a bag slung over his shoulder.

“I hope the rest of your clothes are in your truck.”

Jack frowned. He looked from his backpack to you. “This is just my go-bag, sweetheart. How would I fit everything I need for almost two weeks into this thing?”

“Functioning adults are so attractive…” You hummed. Jack shot you an irritated look. You ignored it.

“Well then!” You picked Marigold up and swirled her around. She squealed and clung to you, wrapping her tiny limbs around you. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll see you guys in ten days! Try not to burn down the department!” You turned towards Jack with a wicked grin. “I hope you are ready for the musical education of your life, Jacky boy. Marigold and I plan to be insufferable.”

“And here I was hoping I’d get to sleep in the car after my shift.” Jack’s smile didn’t waver. He watched you jump on the spot as though you’d been transported into the middle of a mosh pit, with Marigold still in your arms, singing shamelessly, uncaring of the fact that it was seven a.m. and you in the middle of a busy ER.

“He was a boy, she was a girl. Can I make it any more obvious? He was a punk, she did ballet. What more can I say?”

You sang to Marigold, off-key, laughing almost as much as the giggling child in your arms, as if Marigold were the only one in the room. And Jack… Jack was simply staring at you.

“You know, I skate.” He heard himself call out to you.

You looked over to him, grinning. "Yeah?"

“But you only have one leg.” Marigold frowned.

“So?” Jack crossed his arms, grinning at her. “Nothing you can’t do if you’re okay with falling on your nose a few times and looking like a fool for a bit.”

“Hear that, babygirl?” You smirk. “Motivational speaker Jack Abbot. We should print that on one of those posters with the dolphins in front of the sunset.”

“Can you teach me?”

“No!” You said at the same time as Jack said yes. You glared at him, though it really lacked its punch. Jack shrugged.

You left with Marigold, belting the chorus. Jack chuckled to himself and turned back to the station to sign the last few charts waiting for him.

“I’m not sure what’s more chaotic, this Department or those two.” Robby muttered without looking up from his tablet. He had yet to take his jacket off since arriving for handovers.

“Yeah.” Jack looked like a man who was exactly where he wanted to be. Robby looked at him over the rim of his glasses.

“She’s really gotten to you, hasn’t she, man?”

“I love her.” Jack said, dragging his pen over the paper one last time before pushing down on the clicker and shoving it into his pocket. Robby was stunned to hear him admit it, though he wasn’t sure why. The way you two acted around each other made your mutual feelings very obvious to the entire department.

Ahmad was taking bets for your wedding date and how many kids you’ll have.

“Man, I’m fifty, and the thing I’m looking forward to most is the Disney World tickets I bought as a surprise for Marigold and Boots, because Marigold has never been, and Boots never really got the chance to take her to these kinds of things. I’m more than in love. I’m completely whipped.” And he didn’t look the least bit regretful about it.

“You bought Disney World tickets?” Robby raised a brow.

“Marigold is a Covid baby.” Jack shrugged. “Boots couldn’t even have her husband in the delivery room with her. She had to choose between her doula and him, and obviously she chose the one who would be most knowledgeable in advocating for her wishes.”

“Imagine giving birth during all that fucked-upness.” Robby muttered.

“Marigold can’t even swim because there were no infant swimming courses, and now that the swim courses have started back up, they are all booked out for the next five years or something.” Jack rolled his shoulders. “Thought I might teach her at the pool.”

“You’re not beating those girl-dad allegations, brothers.”

“What allegations?”

“I-” Mel stammered. “I just pointed out how good you are with Marigold, Dr Abbot. I didn’t know everyone would start talking about it.” She blushed.

“Don’t worry about it, Dr King.” Jack thrummed his fingers against the counter. “Well, you’re all set here, brother? I should get going then before Boots hotwires my truck and leaves without me.”

“She knows how to hotwire cars?”

“I would not be surprised if that woman knew the nuclear launch codes, brother. Don’t forget to feed my cat!”

Your complaints about the stick shift dwindled out once Pittsburgh was behind you. After three hours, your and Marigold’s private concert for Jack mellowed out as well, leaving you to turn down the stereo and humming along to the songs of your teen years as you drove. Marigold was out cold in the back. The poor girl had barely slept all night, too excited for the big trip with her Jack and mommy.

Jack sat sunken in the passenger seat, his arms crossed in front of his chest, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He should sleep.

In a few hours, you’d want to switch, no doubt. Probably move to Marigold on the backseat to give her some attention too, and keep her entertained. None of you would survive the next two days if Marigold devolved into a cranky, bored gremlin melting down at the slightest thing overwhelming her tiny nervous system.

Jack should really sleep.

It had been the plan all along. He worked the night shift alone so you could get Marigold ready and take the first shift driving. Jack would catch up on sleep in the car.

The problem just was… you were too damn beautiful to look away from.

You were at ease. Your focus lay on the street and the thinning traffic just the same as you’d concentrate on a gunshot wound bleeding out beneath you, but your posture was utterly at ease. Your hand lay casually against your thighs near the stick shift, the other curled around the steering wheel as you thrummed a rhythm that had nothing to do with the song playing over your phone.

Marigold emitted a soft sigh in her sleep. Immediately, your attention was divided between the road and your child. You glanced over your shoulder to make sure she was alright. Your eyes back on the road, you reached behind you, contorting in a way surely only a mother caring for her child could ever manage, and saved her favourite plushy from falling, tucking it back into her arm before returning your full attention to the road.

“What?” You murmur, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“Can’t I look at you?”

“You’ve been staring at me for the last hour.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t even want to deny it. “You’re beautiful.”

A red sheen spread across your cheeks, and the sight only made Jack’s grin grow wider. He loved it when he managed to get you all flustered.

“Haven’t taken more than two days off from the hospital in forever.” He stretched with a low groan just to slip back into the same back-killing position as before. You’d called him a shrimp earlier, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“We are going to a medical conference.” You pointed out. “Shit will be boring as fuck. I think. Never been to one before.”

“Really?”

“When?” You laugh. “When would I have had that time? When I was pregnant during residency? Or when I went to Haiti? This is the first time since I took the boards that I’ve been working in an actual hospital.”

“I keep forgetting how young you are.”

“You callin’ me old, old man?”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “You just seem to have it all together. Shit, I was a mess at your age. I just lost my leg. You wouldn’t have liked that man very much. It’s a wonder Nicole stuck around… or that Robby could even stand to talk to me after meeting me.”

“She will have known that that wasn’t really you. Just the result of an extraordinarily difficult situation.”

“Mh. Yeah, I guess. She was a saint.” Absentmindedly, he played with the black wedding band curled around his finger. The same place it had sat in for the past thirty years. Never before had he thought about taking it off, but recently the thought snuck up on him more and more. 

He looked back at you, your hair tucked behind your ears, revealing a sliver of your side cut. Some of your purple strands rested against your shoulder. The dramatic black eyeliner accentuates your irises.

Your hand reached across the center console to put your hand on his thigh, your thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth.

“People don’t deserve having their loved ones walk out on them when they are at their lowest, Jack.”

“She didn’t deserve the things I said to her.”

“And I am sure once you started digging yourself out of your crisis, you made sure to show her every day how sorry you were. That’s just the kind of man you are.”

Jack threw a glance over his shoulder. Marigold slept with her mouth open, sitting slack in her car seat like a bag of water strapped into a seatbelt.

“Was she very sad? When I didn’t show?”

“She’s five, Jack. She’s heartbroken whenever she misses an episode of Bluey or that time she had to come to terms with the fact we aren’t Australian! Oh! Or when we found a dried-up earthworm on the sidewalk.” You glanced at him briefly. Your expression softened. “You’re such a softie. She’s fine! Kids get sad when things don’t go the way they anticipated, but you’re here now, and that is what truly matters.”

“I don’t want to be the first man in her life who disappoints her.”

Your heart ached at the easy vulnerability in Jack’s voice and turned to goop at hearing just how much this man you’d let into your life adored your daughter. Would just any first boyfriend after becoming a widow embrace your daughter like this? Worry for her happiness?

“You want to be ‘a man in her life’ then?”

“I want to be the last in yours.”

You stared at Jack, eyes wide.

Jack didn’t quite know what had gotten into him today.

“Eyes on the road, darlin’.”

Traffic had only continued to die down as the morning moved into early noon, with most people at work and only the long-haul truckers bypassing you from time to time.

Jack sat in the quiet, your playlist running in the background, Marigold sighing in her sleep from time to time, you next to him. Your hand still lingered on his thigh.

“Too much?” He asked softly, barely daring to let the words fall into the space between you that suddenly felt more terse than before.

You shook your head.

“I kind of don’t know whether to believe you.”

“You could never be too much for me, Jack.” You whispered. “I’m just afraid of wanting too much too fast and messing everything up when I realise too late I’m in over my head.”

“Baby, you could come at me with a knife, and I’d apologise for bleeding on your shoes.”

You snorted. “That’s not toxic at all.”

Jack placed his hand over yours, nudging his fingers in between yours and closing them around you. “I’m serious. I’m all in.”

“I never doubted your commitment, I’m just… you’re too important to me to take this lightly.” You turned your hand in his grasp and intertwined your fingers again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jack shook his head and brought your hand to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it. “You could never.”

“Go get some shut-eye. I don’t wanna be driving the next ten hours straight.”

“Your wish is my command.” Jack chuckled, though despite his words, it took him another fifteen minutes to be able to tear his eyes from you and finally lean his head back against the headrest and catch a few hours of sleep.

Marigold was wide awake by the time Jack woke up again.

The candy wrappers littering the center console alongside the empty energy drink illustrated the passage of time better than the position of the sun in the sky ever could.

“Morning, sleepy hat. Can you check Yelp for some decent truck stops?”

“That goes against the very spirit of the road trip, Boots.” Jack yawned and stretched as well as he could in the passenger seat.

“Well, I don’t want to arrive at the conference with food poisoning.”

“Touché.” Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket and wondered how he hadn’t thought of that. He’d planned every second of this trip, especially the time he would get with you and Marigold alone, but not once had he considered checking where they’d best stop for food on the way from Pittsburgh to Florida. You and Jack would not mind driving until the evening and getting some shitty burgers or pizza delivered to the motel, but Marigold needed a proper lunch.

Jack found a decently rated roadside diner and slid his phone into the holder attached to the dashboard, letting the GPS guide you there.

A book poked his arm.

“Can you read to me, Jack?”

“Sure, kiddo.”

Jack still wasn’t entirely awake. He forgot his water bottle in his duffle bag on the truck bed, and he really needed to take a piss.

“Let me just find my readers.”

Next to him, you snorted, muttering something about him being old. Jack bit back a smirk. Why did it endear him so much to hear you call him old?

“You got a problem with my readers?”

“They make your eyes look huge.”

“What?” Jack stared straight at you, and sure enough, the lenses of his reading glasses magnified his eyes comically. You burst out laughing. Marigold asked why mommy was laughing from the back, prompting Jack to turn around to her. She doubled over with laughter.

“You’re so blind, Jack!”

“Oh, that’s just great. Bully the old man, why don’t you?”

Marigold’s giggles were delightful.

“Stop looking at me!” You lifted a hand and put it in front of Jack’s face. “My bladder isn’t what it used to be since that one.”

“Perhaps that’s just the kind of payback you deserve for being mean to me.”

“Pissing myself because you look like a giant house fly with your readers on?”

“Yeah!” Jack flipped open the children’s book. “And hey! You hear that, Marigold? Hear how mean mommy is to me?”

Marigold was still giggling. You grinned, eyes pinned to the road. Jack cleared his throat and looked down at the book-

“I want to see the pictures!”

Jack was left to figure out how to hold up the book so Marigold could see the picture, while also being able to read the story to her. His neck cramped up with the first two pages, but if Jack could endure the heat of the desert, sand that somehow made its way into everything, and heavy gear pulling him towards the ground, then reading to a child was, well, child's play.

You arrived at the diner and parked the car. Jack kept micromanaging you and telling you to be careful with his truck until you slapped your hand over his mouth and told him to shut it.

Marigold obviously found it all hilarious. You grabbed your purse before exiting the car and opening the back door to lean over the seat and try to contain some of the chaos Marigold had created. Jack kept his truck in pristine condition, but now there were finger and nose prints all over the window and crumbs covering the floor.

Jack just shrugged. “Nothing a vacuum can’t fix. Seriously, Boots! Leave it. It’s not a big deal.”

You still felt bad for leaving his car ransacked by a preschooler.

You gathered Marigold, a book, some crayons and an activity booklet before letting Jack lock up and heading towards the diner. Jack sprinted ahead so he’d get to hold the door open for you.

“Coffee?” He asked you.

“Coke.”

“I want lemonade!”

“You got it, Peanut.”

You headed to the bathroom with Marigold first. You returned to the booth Jack had chosen at the same time as he. Marigold insisted on sitting next to him, and getting to not sit next to a five-year-old, thus being forced to be the one helping her with her food? You weren’t going to complain.

You sipped your coke and enjoyed not having to sit behind a wheel.

“Travelling?” The sweet older lady asked you when she brought the menus over.

“Yeah. Florida. For a conference.”

Jack had the habit of chatting with random people. 

At the register. In the park. In the line waiting for tickets to the cinema. He found something to talk about with everyone he met.

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m an emergency physician.”

“Oh, and the missus comes along so the little one doesn’t have to miss her daddy, that’s precious.” She didn’t say it to be condescending. Just an old lady stuck in her view of the world, endeared by what she perceived. 

You were content to let it pass.

Marigold wasn’t.

“He’s not my daddy. Daddy was shot by evil men after they wanted to kill mommy. Mommy operated on him in the back of a car in the middle of the desert! He’s my Jack!”

“Not my wife either.” Jack smirked. “Sadly.” He turned back to the waitress. “She’s the real deal here anyway. The conference people want her presentation, I’m just the plus one.”

The poor lady was too stunned to speak. Her eyes fell on the rings you were both still wearing, no doubt assuming the worst.

“Ignore him. He’s impossible.” You shot him a playful glare. “We are both widowed.” You didn’t quite know why you added that part. It certainly wasn’t any of this stranger's business, but she was sweet and innocently assuming you were a real family travelling together, just to now no doubt assume you were both having an affair with each other and pulling an innocent child into the middle of it.

And how terrible would you be if you let this poor woman’s positive view of the world die like that?

“I’d like the grilled cheese with tomato soup, please.” You closed your menu and handed it back. Marigold wanted chicken fingers and - for some reason - coleslaw? Not fries, not mashed potatoes. Coleslaw. She was such a weird kid, and you adored it. Jack, never beating the old man allegations, ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich. With a side of fries. Fries that he slid towards you the second they arrived, and you started eyeing them greedily.

“I knew you’d want fries.”

“I would have ordered them had I wanted them.”

Jack merely raised a brow.

“Yeah, okay, fine. I didn’t realise I wanted them until they were here.”

Jack smiled at you fondly and nudged the ketchup over to you as well.

Marigold was done eating first, inhaling her food like a goddamn vacuum before asking for dessert (being told she had to wait for Jack and you to finish), just to promptly lose herself in solving a maze in her activity booklet.

“They stare any harder, their eyes gonna get stuck like that.” Jack hissed suddenly out of the blue. It took you a moment to realise he was referring to the two older guys sitting at the counter. His knuckles had gone white around his fork, as if he meant to stab his banana cream pie (yuck, by the way).

“Let it go.” You mused. “Really, Jack. It’s not worth it. I’m used to it. When people see me with Marigold, they usually assume I’m the mistress, or that I’m an addict, or a terrible mother for some other made-up reason just because of my ink and piercings. You’re not going to change their minds by making a scene either.”

“I’m surprised you, of all people, would let that shit go.”

“What am I going to do? Start a fight with every dickhead? I’m a twenty-nine-year-old single mom, one of the youngest emergency attendings, pursuing my career in a very competitive field. Women make up about 70% of the global healthcare workforce, yet only hold roughly 25% of the senior executive roles. In 2019, only 17,8% of department chairs in US academic medical centers were women. With even lower representation in surgical subspecialties. And even less women of color. My whole existence, everything I do pisses those small-minded people off, and the work I do is so much more effective in not letting that shit go than starting fights in some small town diner ever will, baby.”

Jack felt his face flush at the casual way that pet name slipped off your tongue.

“Now, if those dickheads come over here to start shit? I’m breaking their fucking nose. I’m not a violent person, but I don’t roll over for the hurt ego of some small-dicked assholes. These rings? They are not just pretty. They hurt almost as much as brass knuckles.”

“You get more attractive every time you open your mouth.”

“Widespread societal and systematic change does not happen by antagonising every person with outdated, prejudiced views.” You stuck your fork into your pie to carve out a huge bit to pop into your mouth. “It happens when people like me continue to exist, loud, bright, unapologetic. It happens when we continue to put pressure on lawmakers to do better, and it happens when we continue to show up to show the world they are wrong in all their assumptions, and when girls like Marigold are raised to know they can be whatever they choose to be.”

“Yep… it’s not just in my head. You just got more attractive.”

“Stop.” You laughed and looked down at your table to hide the blush rapidly spreading across your cheek.

“What do you think, Marigold? Mommy is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“Mommy is the prettiest, nicestes, amazing mommy ever!”

Jack grinned at you. “She’s right. You are the nicestes.”

You lifted your fork threateningly. “I’ll chuck this cake at you, Jack.”

“You wouldn’t. You’d never waste dessert!”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Jack?” You popped your head out of the bathroom. Jack, sitting on one of the rather shitty motel beds, lowered the TV remote and disregarded the evening news to look at you.

“Can you watch Marigold in the tub for a bit? The conference coordinator tried to call me, but I don’t have any service here. Only- only if you’re comfortable with that. I asked her, and she’s okay with it.”

Jack hesitated. He didn’t like that he hesitated. Marigold was a child, and she was just sitting in her bubble bath. He cut the clothes of injured people at work all day long. He’d worked on children before. The human body was just that, a body.

“It’s-” Jack cleared his throat. “That’s okay for you? I’m not her dad. Or even her uncle.”

“Jack.” Your expression softened. “If I had any concerns or doubts about you, you think I’d let you near my child? But it’s totally fine if you want to set a boundary here. You’re right, she’s not your daughter and not your responsibility. I won’t ask you for help with parenting tasks if that’s what you want.”

“No, that’s not it. I just- I want to do everything right. I’ll- I’ll watch her.”

Jack set the remote aside and got up.

“Ten minutes, tops.” You murmur, setting your hands against his shoulders.

“Take your time.”

“Thanks.” You press a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re doing so well, Jack. You have all the makings of a great dad.” You kissed his cheek. “And I hope you are aware that if you - or anyone - ever did anything to my baby girl, I will kill you and nobody will ever find the body. My grandpa worked for the CIA and then the NSA after leaving the Corps.”

You stepped back, grinning, and clapped him on the shoulder before calling a goodbye to Marigold over your shoulder. You headed outside to find a place with better reception.

Jack slipped into the bathroom.

Marigold's wet hair was a mess, and the ground already bore the evidence of a rowdy preschooler. Soaked towels littered the ground in a rather desperate attempt to contain the flood of splashing water he’d heard earlier, accompanied by shrieking laughter from his two favourite girls.

“You’ve made quite the mess here.”

“I made a potion.” Marigold declared without looking up from the bubbles she trapped in front of her chest with her arms. Jack lowered himself onto the edge of the tub. “It summoned a storm and - whoosh - the waves got soooo big.”

“Oh my.”

“The boat sank.” She pointed at an empty, travel-sized bottle of shower gel she held under water with her foot.

“I see.”

“The crew drowned.”

Jack chuckled. “Jesus, kid.”

“What? That’s what happens when boats sink. People drown.”

Jack sat on the edge of the tub while Marigold played, making up stories about pirates and fairies and mermaids saving drowning seamen. She had such a vivid, bright imagination. It was genuinely such fun to listen to her wild muttering.

“I want out.” She said out of nowhere, dropping the shampoo bottles she’d been playing with.

“Let me get a towel.”

“Mommy didn’t wash my hair yet.”

“Right.” Jack blinked down at Marigold.

“I can’t do it.”

“Oh.”

He sat back down on the edge of the tub. “Did you leave any shampoo, or did it all go into the potion?”

Marigold pointed at a bottle filled with pink, glitter soap and a princess on the label. “That’s mine.”

“You sure? I think that’s mommy’s.”

“No! Mommy’s has bats on it!”

“Ah.” Jack reached for the princess shampoo.

“Don’t put it in my eyes.”

“I wasn’t- planning on doing that.” Jack frowned. Her confidence in him was truly staggering.

He did his best to massage the shampoo into her hair without tugging or pulling on it. Memories of helping his wife when her muscles had been too badly atrophied to permit her to do even something as mundane as this resurfaced with a bitter violence he had not expected.

Jack hadn’t thought about the time he spent as her caregiver before accepting that there was no way around employing a full-time nurse anymore in years.

Marigold hummed and played with the bubble swirling around her, unaware of the tears suddenly burning in Jack’s eyes. He cleared his throat and held the back of Marigold’s head in his hand gently while she leaned back. He washed the shampoo out, taking extra care to ensure none of the soapy water dribbled down her forehead before picking her up and out of the tub to wrap a giant towel around her.

By the time you returned, Jack and Marigold had snuggled up in the bed, Marigold with her hair combed and braided, wearing her pyjamas and holding her plushie in her arm. They were watching a nature documentary.

“All sorted out?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Just the same old administrative bullshit.” You groaned and slumped down on the bed, pressing a kiss to Marigold’s temple. “Time to sleep, baby. Mommy needs a shower. I smell like car.”

“My car doesn’t smell.”

“All cars have that car smell.”

“Mine doesn’t.”

“Hm-mh. Sure.” You picked Marigold up and carried her over to the other bed to tuck her in. Jack watched you read to her, smiling softly at the silly voices you came up with for all the different characters. Marigold was too tired even to laugh at them. She spent the last five minutes yawning ceaselessly, but she had insisted on waiting up for you.

“I think I need a shower too.” Jack hummed, stretching. “We could conserve water.” His voice dipped into a suggestive, playful purr.

“Smooth.” You laughed as you gathered your things and headed to the bathroom. Jack watched you disappear. He listened to the sound of the water turning on-

“You coming?”

His heart did a somersault in his chest before promptly plunging to his stomach.

“You- serious?”

Your head popped out. A pretty pink plush grazed your cheeks. “Wouldn’t have asked otherwise, big guy.”

Jack was up faster than his mind could process all the contingencies.

You pushed the door closed after he slipped inside, leaving it ajar so you could hear Marigold if anything happened.

“I’m not having sex with you tonight.” You said firmly. “Not with Marigold just next door.”

“Wasn’t expecting it.” His mouth felt dry. His eyes fell on the shower, and as if someone dumped a bucket of cold water over his head, he froze.

You were already unlacing your corset belt and shrugging off your blouse. You took off your husband’s dog tags and set them aside carefully, your fingers resting against the metal bearing his name.

“Boots-”

You looked up, frowning at his strained tone.

“Fuck-” Jack whispered under his breath, wishing he hadn’t let his cock do the thinking. “I-”

Everything inside him revolted against the mere notion of saying the words shower chair out loud in your presence.

“Do you need help?” You stepped closer, and Jack tried to resist looking down at you, only in your bra and tight jeans.

Another man would be able to just hop into the shower with you.

Another man wouldn't have to first take off his leg.

Another man, a younger, better, complete man-

Your lips brushing against his overrode his thought spiral. Your hands settled against his chest, stroking softly up and down until some of the tension oozed off him.

“The tub.” He managed to croak out between two kisses, but he didn’t need to explain further.

You undid his belt and the button of his cargo pants. Jack pulled his shirt over his head. You pushed him towards the edge of the tub to sit down while you slipped out of your jeans.

“Fuck…” Jack whispered again, eyes roaming over you. He cursed his failing eyesight for making it so he struggled to make out all of the intricate works of art unfurling across your skin. He could scarcely find a patch of skin that wasn’t covered in ink. He wanted to trace every line with his tongue, map out this obscure, breathtaking collection you’ve curated over the years.

You lowered yourself to your knees between his thighs and reached for his prosthesis.

“Boots-”

“I don’t care.” You whispered, forcing yourself to smile through the pain the vulnerability and fear in his voice caused in you. As if to emphasise your words, you bent down to press a soft kiss to his thigh, just above his knee. With your help, Jack tugged the prosthesis, the socks and liner off. You set the leg aside carefully before stabilising Jack so he could swing his leg over the edge of the tub.

Jack watched you shimmy out of your panties and bra, utterly in awe over the fact that a creature of such painful beauty would ever choose to be with his geriatric ass. You closed the shower curtain and turned the water on.

“I can hold you.”

“I can stand on one leg.” Jack huffed. “The tub just gets slippery and then…” He trailed off, shrugging, unwilling to relive the humiliation of having to relearn how to take a fucking shower.

“You can hold onto me anyway.” You murmured and reached for his arms to put his hands on your waist. Perhaps it was good that humiliation and embarrassment were burning in his veins like acid, or he would have melted into a pathetic little puddle and been swept down the drain from finally feeling your bare body pressed up against him.

He didn’t even care about the stream of hot water scorching his skin.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Jack?”

“I’m trying not to lose my balance and break my neck.” Jack leaned back against the wall and lifted a hand to your face to brush the soaked hair out of your face.

You smiled and wrapped your arms around his middle. “I’ll catch you, old man. Finally, all that pilates is useful for something.”

“I love you.”

That was not how Jack had planned for this to happen.

Not at all.

He hadn’t planned on telling you at all yet, but certainly not while he was struggling to not lose his grip in a dingy motel shower and end up bleeding on the ground with the shower curtain wrapped around his ankles.

Ankle.

“You don’t have to say it.” Jack whispered into the awkward silence. “Just- I wanted you to know.”

You looked up at him with a sad smile on your lips and leaned forward to nuzzle his jaw with your forehead.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

The distinction was gentle, but he could tell it was important.

Jack pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. He held you in his arms, basking in the feeling of your body pressed against his, your warm skin sliding against his, and for a moment, the world shrank down to this. 

You and him, and Marigold sleeping peacefully in the next room.

Next Chapter

A/N: The glasses stay ON (peepaw wants to be able to see the tats)

Morgan is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that his knuckles have gone pale. He looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning. 

“He woke up once,” he says quietly. “Couple seconds. Doctor said that’s good.”

You nod without looking away from Spencer. “Good.”

“He’s gonna be okay.”

You try to hum some sort of acknowledgement, some half-hearted agreement you don’t entirely mean because at this point you can’t really know if that’s true, but no sound comes out. Instead, you reach for Spencer’s hand.

His fingers are warm. The plastic hospital bracelet brushes your wrist when you thread your fingers through his, and you feel almost burned by it. Spencer is supposed to have ink smudged on his hands and paper cuts from case files and maybe chalk dust from a man impromptu lecture no one asked him to give. He is not supposed to look fragile under a hospital blanket.

Morgan studies your face for a second, then stands.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” he says.

You don’t point out the fact that he already has a half-full coffee cup in his hand. You just nod.

At the door, he pauses. “He was asking about you earlier. Before they brought him here.”

Your grip tightens around Spencer’s hand.

“Just thought you should know,” he says.

Then he leaves, and the room gets even quieter.

You sit there with Spencer’s hand in yours and stare at his face until the anger sharpens again, because anger is a much easier emotion for you to deal with than fear. 

“You absolute idiot,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

—

You had been with Rossi and Emily when you found out.

The day had already felt a bit off-kilter since it started. Anthrax in a park in Annapolis. Dead civilians, sick children, hypermasculine military personnel taking over the BAU and breathing down everyone’s necks. Dr. Kimura from the CDC explained the intensity of this strain in a voice so calm it made the information hard to process. The team had swallowed Cipro in a lame attempt at some sense of control, then scattered across the Washington metropolitan area trying to build a profile before the unsub executed another attack.

You went with Reid and Dr. Kimura to the hospital earlier. You noticed the way his inflection turned clinical as he talked about infection rates and symptom onset, the way his eyes stayed focused on the numbers in the patients’ charts because if he let himself see them as people for too long, he’d feel all of it. You saw the way his focus faltered around Abby, a young woman who just wanted to go on a bike ride around the park and was now experiencing aphasia and severe respiratory distress as she tried to stay alive long enough for a cure to be found. You desperately wanted to touch the back of Spencer’s wrist as you walked beside him in the hallway, but you chose not to, because you were surrounded on all sides by sick people and your relationship did not belong in the middle of it.

You regretted that choice later.

Of all the stupid things to regret, that was the one your brain kept returning to. The touch you hadn’t taken. The two seconds of warmth you’d decided could wait.

By early afternoon, you and Emily were with Rossi following a lead away from the rest of the team, chasing down information on Dr. Lawrence Nichols, a disgraced military scientist who’d been downgraded to working on the flu. Emily was having a tough time with the casual deception a case like this required, so you were talking with her beside the parked SUV when Rossi got a call from Hotch. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as his expression changed and his gaze flicked quickly toward you before it shifted away again.

It was small. Practically nothing. A slight narrowing of his eyes. An almost imperceptible shift.

But still, your stomach went cold.

“What?” you asked.

Rossi lifted one finger, still listening to Hotch on the other end.

Your voice came out sharper. “Rossi.”

He lowered the phone. “Morgan and Reid went to check out Nichols’ house.”

You waited.

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “Nichols is dead. The house is contaminated with anthrax.”

For a second, your hearing went thin, and the whole street seemed to drop underwater. Emily shifted beside you. A car passed behind the SUV, tires hissing against pavement, and all of it reached you half a second late. Emily said something, but you didn’t catch it. Your eyes were fixed on Rossi because you knew there was more coming. You’ve been around the block enough times to know that people always pause before saying the worst part out loud, as if a few seconds of silence can soften the impact of devastation.

“Reid discovered the body and the exposure site inside,” Rossi said. “He sealed himself in before Morgan could enter.”

All at once, heat rushed up the back of your neck. Your hand went tight around the car door handle you hadn’t realized you were holding. Somewhere at the edge of your vision, Emily went still.

“Is he in decontamination protocol now? Or is he already at the hospital?” 

Rossi didn’t answer fast enough, which was an answer in itself.

You turned away from both of them and walked three steps before bending forward, hands braced on your knees as you searched for breath.

Emily approached cautiously.

“I’m fine,” you snapped automatically.

“That’s not what I asked. I said Hotch wants to talk to you.”

You straightened slowly, smoothed your hands down your blazer, and took the phone from her.

“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” you said too fast as soon as you got the phone up to your ear.

Hotch did. He gave you all the facts he had: Nichols had been dead for days. There was anthrax spilled in the lab and the AC was blasting it through the house. Definitely a homicide, and whoever killed Nichols was likely responsible for the recent attacks. Reid had gone inside and accidentally stumbled upon the scene, shutting Morgan out before he could follow him inside. Kimura and the CDC team were on their way with protective equipment and a decon shower, but Reid was refusing to leave, instead insisting on working the profile from inside since he was already exposed. 

Already exposed.

Those words had a sharp, horrible finality to them. 

“What do you mean, he’s refusing to leave? You’re his boss, Hotch. Make him leave.”

Hotch’s voice stayed even, but there was strain under it. “He believes there may be an antidote or identifying information on the partner inside the house. He’s continuing to work the scene until one or both of those things are located.”

You pinched the skin between your brows. “Get him on this call for me.”

Emily turned fully toward you then. Rossi was watching with the careful stillness of someone standing near a live wire. Hotch said nothing.

You swallowed hard. “Hotch, transfer me to Reid’s phone, now. I think we all know he won’t answer if I call him myself, and I need to talk some sense into him.”

“He’s working.”

“Hotch. Please.”

The silence that followed was very, very loaded.

Then Hotch said, “Give me a minute.”

You lowered the phone a little and stared at nothing for a second. Your chest felt too tight, your blood too loud, every part of your body braced for impact. Emily came to stand beside you, but she didn’t try to touch you, and you appreciated that more than you could say.

“He’s going to do everything he can to find the cure and track down the unsub and get out of there,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s Reid. If there’s something in that house to find, he’ll find it.”

“I know.”

And you did know. That was the problem. You knew him so well there was no room to be surprised. Spencer would knowingly stay in a room full of anthrax because people were dying and he had a chance to stop it. He would put his lungs and brain and life on the line to prevent the person responsible for the prior attacks and Nichols’ death from taking any more lives. You’d expect nothing less from Spencer Reid, and right now, you hated him for it.

A muffled voice came through the phone before you could fully catch your breath.

When you lifted it back to your ear, you heard movement first. Then Spencer.

“Hi.”

He sounded too normal.

You gripped the phone so hard your fingers hurt. “Do not hi me right now, Spencer Reid.”

A tiny pause. Then, softer, “Okay.”

“Are you symptomatic?”

“Not really.”

“Spencer,” you said.

“I’m okay right now,” he said, before you could ask again. “Kimura’s team is coming in soon. We’re currently in a limited window where I’m still useful and the scene is still viable.”

“Oh, goodie. Well, as long as you’re useful, everything’s just fine then,” you bit out.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you know what I mean.”

Emily looked away. Rossi did too, like they were granting you privacy by pretending not to hear the sharpness in your voice.

Spencer was quiet for a second. You pictured him inside Nichols’ house, phone held close, hair falling in his face. You pictured powder on the floor, sealed doors. You pictured him alone in there.

“I found a second workspace,” he said. “There’s a bunch of notebooks filled with different handwriting, so it definitely doesn’t belong to Nichols. Whoever this desk belongs to is probably our unsub.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you leaned your forehead against the SUV door and forced yourself to breathe through your nose. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I will.”

“Now, Spence.”

He paused. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Your throat tightened. 

“You do realize you’re a person too, right?” you asked. “Not just a brain with a badge and a duty to uphold.”

Despite everything, you heard the faintest breath of a laugh. “I’m aware.”

“Great. Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it,” he said, and there it was, his signature stubbornness. “Leaving now wouldn’t make me safer in any meaningful way if we still can’t identify the unsub and still don’t have an antidote for the strain. If I can figure it out from in here, there’s a chance we can save the patients at the hospital, and me.”

You pressed your free hand over your eyes.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make sense.”

His quiet inhale caught slightly. Maybe from the anthrax, or maybe from you. It was hard to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“But you’re still staying.”

“For now,” he said.

You sighed softly and rubbed your temple with your free hand. “You’re so frustrating.”

“I know.”

“And arrogant.”

“I can be, on occasion.”

“And so ungodly, unbelievably stupid.”

“Well, technically, I’m quantifiably a genius, although I don’t believe—”

“Spencer.”

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said quietly.

“You have no idea how much.”

“Well, I think I have some idea. I know you.”

“No, you really don’t.” You looked down at your boots. “Because if you did, you’d be walking out of that house right now.”

His voice went softer. “If I thought walking out was the thing most likely to get me back to you, I would. I promise you, I would.”

That took every bit of air out of you.

Spencer didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just let the words sit there, awful and sincere and completely unfair.

Then he said, “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Well, you’re doing a damn good job for someone who isn’t trying,” you replied. You blinked hard, furious at your body for even considering tears when rage was so much more useful.

“Listen to me,” you said. “Find what you need to find, and then you get the hell out. No extra detours or noble self-sacrificing bullshit. Got it?”

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

There was more noise on his end now. Another voice. Hotch, maybe, through the sealed door closing him inside. 

“I have to go,” Spencer said, pausing before he added: “I love you.”

You dug your fingernails into your palm.

“Don’t say it like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re only saying it in case it’s the last thing I hear from you.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said firmly. “And because I want to say it. That’s all, okay? I love you.”

You swallowed, and when you spoke again, your voice was steadier than you felt. “I love you too. Stop being a hero and get back to me.”

“I will.”

The line clicked dead a second later.

You kept the phone against your ear long after there was nothing left to hear.

—

The next time Spencer let himself think about you, really think about you, he was sitting on the floor with poison in the air and sweat cooling at the back of his neck.

By then, his body had started showing signs of distress. The cough had come first, small enough that he tried to classify it as irritation from the environment, from dust, from the pollen in the garden outside. Then came the ache behind his eyes, the heat under his skin, the faint tremor in his hand that he could ignore if he kept it busy, if he kept turning pages, pulling drawers open, reading notes, forcing pieces of Dr. Nichols’ life into order.

He was aware of each symptom with miserable precision. He knew exactly what they meant. He also knew the unsub was still out there with a larger attack planned, so his personal awareness changed nothing. His body could be evidence later. Right now, he had work to do.

Still, there came a point when he had to step back and admit how serious things had gotten.

Garcia’s voice shook through the phone when he asked her to record a message for his mother. She tried to be brave about it. He could hear the effort it took, could picture her sitting at her desk with all that color and joy around her while despair leaked through anyway. 

He recorded his message to Diana as steadily as he could.

He said all the things a son should say when he’s trying very hard to say goodbye without sounding like he’s saying goodbye. He kept his voice gentle. He tried not to cough in the middle of it. He nearly failed once, clearing his throat to get the urge to pass. When he finished, Garcia was silent for a few seconds.

“Okay,” she said finally, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Okay, I got it.”

Spencer swallowed. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His throat hurt. Everything hurt, actually, in a diffuse, widespread way he disliked for its lack of specificity. “Garcia?”

“Yeah, boy wonder?”

He closed his eyes.

He had been trying not to ask. He had been trying to tell himself that the message to his mother was already indulgent enough, that he did not have the right to take more time away from the case for something that served no immediate operational purpose. But the thought of you never getting to hear his voice again if this went badly kept pressing against the inside of his ribs until it became impossible to ignore.

“Can you, uh, record one more message for me?”

Garcia inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she whispered, understanding immediately. “Of course. Yeah, of course I can.”

Spencer opened his eyes and looked around the room. Papers were spread across the floor in front of him, Dr. Nichols’ handwriting scrawled across margins and folders and binders. Somewhere outside, people were moving around in protective suits, building a perimeter, preparing to come in as soon as they could. Out in the field somewhere, you were trying to work despite your fury and fear. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name, the same certainty with which he could recite the periodic table in order by atomic number. You were angry because you were scared. You were scared because you loved him. That thought — that you loved him — probably should have brought some comfort; instead, it made his chest ache worse than the cough did.

“Ready whenever you are,” Garcia said, softly enough that it almost didn’t sound like her.

Spencer tried to take a breath deep enough to steady himself. It caught halfway down. He turned aside, coughed hard into his elbow, and waited for the room to stop tilting.

Then he looked down at his hands, at the pale dust along his cuffs, at the pulse ticking too fast beneath his skin, and began.

“Hi,” he said simply, because every other possible opening sounded wrong — either too formal, or too casual, or too final. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried again. “You’re going to hate this. I know that. You’re probably already furious with me, and you’ve got every right to be, so if this message makes you even more furious, I’m sorry.

“I just need you to know that I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I know you’ll think that’s what it was, some ‘noble self-sacrificing bullshit’ like you called it earlier, but that’s not what this is for me.” He paused, eyes stinging. “I keep thinking if I find the right thing fast enough, if I can connect the dots, then maybe we can stop the next attack and everyone at the hospital would have a chance. Maybe I would, too.

“And I keep thinking about you. I don’t know if that helps or makes it worse, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I thought about you being mad at me, and about the way you must’ve been rolling your eyes when we were on the phone earlier, and about your apartment, and the coffee you pretend to like when I make it too sweet, and the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

A cough broke through him. He bent forward, eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced against the floor. It took too long to stop. When he lifted the phone again, his voice had gone hoarse around the edges.

“I wanted more time with you,” he said. “I wanted more ordinary days. That’s— that’s what I keep coming back to, which is strange, because technically, ordinary days are the least remarkable kind, but I think those are the ones I’ll miss the most. You at my desk stealing pens, and you pretending not to smile when I say something you think is ridiculous, and you falling asleep before the end of a movie and denying it in the morning. 

“And if you’re hearing this, I know you’re going to want to do the thing where you decide this proves some terrible theory you’ve always had about what happens when you let people matter too much, but…”

His eyes burned. Because of the fever, maybe. Heartbreak, definitely.

“Don’t do that. Please, please don’t do that. Don’t let this be the reason you shut everyone out. I know it took a lot for you to let me in, and I know asking this is unfair, and I hate that I can’t say it to you in person, but I need you to keep letting people love you. You have to let them stay.”

He coughed again, violent enough this time to make his whole chest seize. 

“The team loves you,” he said. “You know that. Garcia will smother you with affection and care packages. Morgan will check on you constantly and won’t even pretend to act cool about it. JJ will know when you’re lying about being fine before you can finish a sentence, so don’t try. Emily will sit beside you casually and pretend she isn’t worried, because she knows you hate being handled.” A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth. “Rossi will feed you, so get ready to eat a lot of pasta. Hotch will give you space and somehow still make sure you’re never truly alone.”

He swallowed hard.

“And Elle… Call her. Please. She was there once when you needed her. Let her be there for you again.”

The words felt intrusive, maybe, as if he was reaching into parts of your life he had no right to touch. But if this was all he got, if this recording became the last shape his love ever took, he needed it to be honest.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t want you to decide that losing me means you were right to keep the door locked. I can’t bear it, so please, do this for me.”

He pressed his thumb into the crease of his palm until the tremor in it settled.

“I love you. I know you know that. I know I say it all the time now, probably too much, and if I get out of here you can complain about that for the rest of our lives and I won’t argue with you. But if I don’t,” he said, forcing himself through it, “then I need you to know that loving you was never something I regretted. Not for one second. And being loved by you was… it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

A sound came suddenly from outside the room. Movement. Voices. The heavy plastic rustle of protective equipment. He looked up and saw shapes gathering beyond the doorway, bright orange suits and face shields and Dr. Kimura’s focused eyes as her team entered the house.

He looked back down at the phone. There was so much more he wanted to say. There would always be so much more. That was the terrible thing about loving you — no matter what he said, it could never be enough to cover it.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m going to try very hard to make sure you never have to hear this.”

Then, quieter:

“I love you. I really, really love you. Keep letting people in, okay?”

Garcia made a tiny broken sound through the phone, then cut the recording and the call before he could hear her cry.

—

The day stitched together in pieces after that.

Rossi and Emily kept you updated as information moved through the team, and Morgan called whenever there was a concrete update on what was going on in the house. Garcia called once too, telling you they had a name now — Chad Brown — and that Reid had been right about Nichols not working alone. There was a protégé. A student. A man with knowledge and access and ideology and rage.

You remember standing with your arms folded so tightly across your chest that your shoulders started to ache. You remember Emily offering you water and you pretending not to hear her. You remember Rossi telling you to sit down, not as an order, but in that low, paternal way of his that made you want to be even more difficult on principle. You remember staring at your phone until your eyes burned, as if your fear could force Spencer’s name to appear on the screen.

Mostly, you remember waiting.

When Hotch finally called, his voice was steady. They had Brown. The attack on the Metro had been stopped. Reid and Kimura’s team found what they needed. Reid was out of the house and had been decontaminated. Paramedics had transported him to the hospital where the treatment was being prepared, and Kimura was hopeful, and they would know more soon. 

“Is he conscious?” you asked.

“Last we heard, yes,” Hotch said, and the words scraped through you. “Morgan is on the way to Walter Reed now to see what’s going on.”

You wanted to ask if Spencer had asked for you, but you didn’t. It felt too naked, somehow. Too pathetic. So you just said, “I’m on my way,” and Hotch didn’t waste anyone’s time pretending he could stop you.

Garcia found you before you made it out of the building.

She looked wrecked. Her mascara had smudged at the corners, and she had one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee she clearly hadn’t touched. She stopped in front of you like she wanted to hug you, then thought better of it, although it looked like that decision pained her immensely.

“He really, really loves you,” she said quietly.

The words were so abrupt, so earnest, that for a second you could only stare at her.

“I know,” you said.

Garcia nodded too fast. “I know you know. I just—” Her mouth trembled, and she pressed it together. “I just needed to make sure. I wanted you to hear it.”

Something about her face made your chest tighten. There was more to it — something she wasn’t saying, something she was holding back. You could see it in the way she looked at you, nervous and guilty and gentle all at once.

But Penelope Garcia, for all her usual glitter and gossip and inability to mind her own business, could keep a secret when it really mattered.

So you let her.

You just reached for her hand, squeezed once, and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.

—

Now, as you sit in an ungodly stiff chair next to his hospital bed, Spencer’s fingers move against yours.

It’s small. Barely anything. An involuntary twitch, maybe. But it’s enough of a movement to assume it could mean something bigger if you’re desperate enough, and apparently you are, because you go still so suddenly Morgan looks up from the cup of red Jell-O he’s been eating with a plastic spoon.

“Reid?” Morgan says.

Spencer’s brow furrows.

For a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first. He blinks up at the ceiling like he’s trying very hard to decipher what type of room the ceiling belongs to.

Morgan moves, relief breaking over his face. “Hey, kid.”

Spencer’s gaze shifts toward him. It takes effort. Everything about his movements right now looks like it takes effort.

His voice comes out rough. “Are you eating Jell-O?”

Morgan cracks a wide grin. “Man, you almost die from a bioweapon and this is what you wake up concerned about?”

Spencer blinks slowly. “Is there any more Jell-O?”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. It’s small and wet and humiliating, and Spencer’s eyes move immediately toward the sound.

The drowsy confusion in his face shifts, turning into something so relieved and so sorry that all the air you just got back leaves you again.

“Hi,” he says.

You swallow. “Hi.”

Morgan looks between the two of you for half a second, then pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna go tell Dr. Kimura that Sleeping Beauty here is awake,” he says. “And apparently find more Jell-O.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches faintly. “Green, if they have it.”

“You’re lucky I’m pretty much obligated to be nice to you right now,” Morgan tells him sarcastically, but his hand lands on Spencer’s shoulder for a second before he leaves, firm and warm and full of things he’ll probably never say out loud.

Then the door closes behind him and the room is quiet again, but it isn’t the same quiet as before, because Spencer’s awake now. His eyes are open. His fingers are caught between yours, weak but there, his thumb making the smallest attempt to move against your skin.

There’s too many feelings to parse through. Relief, first. Relief so enormous it can barely fit inside your body, but somehow it does, pressing against the anger and terror and frustration you also feel, against all the miserable little aftershocks of the day. 

For a moment, you just look at him.

He looks terrible. Pale, sweaty, hair mussed, lips dry, throat probably raw from coughing and whatever else his body has been through. He also looks alive.

You want to kiss him.

You want to hit him.

You settle for tightening your hold on his hand and saying, very evenly, “I’m so mad at you.”

Spencer closes his eyes for a second.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, because the calmness is already slipping. “You really, truly do not. I possess levels of anger right now that are previously unrecorded in modern psychiatry.”

His mouth curves faintly, but it fades almost immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

Spencer looks at you for a long second, too tired to dress the truth up into anything gentle. “I’m sorry for what it did to you,” he says. His voice is rough and low, dragged out of a throat that still isn’t ready to cooperate. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, and I’m sorry that when I did, I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.” He pauses, breathing carefully. “But if I had left before we found what we needed, people could have died.”

You stare at the bed rail.

You know the exact reason behind the choice he made, because you’ve made choices with the same bones. Spencer’s been on the other side of this with you before. Not with anthrax in your lungs, obviously, but in basements and alleys and warehouses and too many places where you put the job before your own safety without a second thought. 

You hate that. You hate him a little for making it impossible to be purely angry.

“I know,” you say, voice quieter now. “I know you’re right. Or close enough to right that I can’t even enjoy being mad at you properly.”

Spencer gives you a weak, exhausted almost-smile. “I’m sorry for that too.”

You look back at him, and the sight of him ruins you all over again.

“You could have died, Spencer,” you manage to say in a hoarse whisper.

His expression changes. The humor disappears, what little there was of it. His fingers tighten around yours with visible effort.

Your voice shakes, and that irritates you enough to make your eyes burn. “I know you. I know you weren’t actually trying to be some self-sacrificing hero, even though you have a very irritating talent for landing there by accident. I know I probably would’ve done the same thing, which is frustrating because it makes my moral high ground very unstable.” You inhale, careful and shaky. “But I was so scared, Spencer. I was so scared I couldn’t pretend to be normal about it.”

He looks at you like that sentence hurts him worse than anything else.

“I thought about that too much,” he says.

You frown. “About what?”

“You. Being scared.” His eyes drift down to your joined hands. “I thought about you being angry, and about you pretending you weren’t afraid because Rossi and Emily were there. I kept thinking…” His brow creases faintly, concentration pulling through the haze. “I kept thinking if I could just find the answer, then maybe I’d get back to you before anyone else could see your fear. I knew you’d hate it if they could.”

You let out a breath that breaks in the middle. Your free hand lifts before you really decide to move, fingers hovering near his face. He watches you do it, quiet and trusting, and that almost makes it worse.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes close.

The simple trust of it dismantles you a little. You had spent the whole day imagining him behind sealed doors, breathing poisoned air, making logical arguments while his body betrayed him by degrees. Now he’s here, under your hand, alive and exhausted and still somehow trying to be gentle with you when he’s the one in the hospital bed.

“I love you,” you say. “And I genuinely hate you right now.”

Spencer’s eyes open again, slow and soft. “That seems pretty fair.”

Your laugh comes out wet. You look away, but he squeezes your hand before you can get far.

“I love you too,” he says. “And I know it doesn’t make it better, but I was trying to make sure I could get back to you. That was the point. I know it looked like I was choosing the work over everything else, but I wasn’t. The work was my way out.”

You turn back toward him.

He looks exhausted by the length of his own words, breaths a little uneven, but his eyes stay on yours. 

“I know,” you whisper, because you do. “I know, Spence.”

You lean forward carefully, giving him time to shift away if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He tilts his face up the smallest amount, and you press your mouth to his.

The kiss is soft by necessity. There’s no heat in it, not really — not the kind the two of you are used to. His lips are chapped and warm and careful beneath yours, and for one long, holy second, all you can focus on is that you get to do this again. You get to kiss him in a hospital bed and hate the reason for it, but you still have him here to kiss. You get the fragile press of his mouth, the weak squeeze of his fingers around yours, the proof that his body is still a living thing and not a memory you’ll spend the rest of your life surviving. It isn’t enough to undo the day, but it gives your fear and love somewhere to go. It’s a promise made with whatever energy he has left.

When you pull back, your forehead rests near his temple.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you murmur.

“I know.

“If you ever do that again, I will murder you myself.”

“I know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

You pull back enough to glare at him. “Normally you’d argue with at least one of those.”

His tired smile is tiny and perfect. “I’m conserving my energy.”

The door opens after a soft knock, and Dr. Kimura steps in with Morgan hovering behind her, a green Jell-O cup in one hand and a fresh coffee in the other.

“Look who I found,” Morgan says.

Spencer nods at Dr. Kimura before his gaze flicks to the Jell-O. “Is that for me?”

Morgan chuckles. “Yeah, kid, it’s for you.”

You wipe quickly under one eye with your thumb and try to regain whatever dignity you can scrape off the floor.

Kimura checks Spencer over. Vitals, pupils, lungs, cognitive questions he answers with enough impressive precision to make Kimura’s eyebrows lift. Morgan stays near the doorway, and you don’t let go of Spencer’s hand the entire time.

Eventually, the room settles again.

Morgan leaves the Jell-O on the tray and tells Spencer not to be a pain in the ass to you or any of the nurses. Dr. Kimura tells him he’s on the mend but needs a lot of rest, and Spencer nods, probably because he knows you wouldn’t give him a choice anyway.

Once it’s just the two of you alone in the room again, your anger has gone a bit quieter. It’s still there, and knowing you, it’ll probably stay there for a while, tucked stubbornly behind your ribs, ever-present but currently overshadowed by disgusting amounts of relief and love.

Spencer’s eyes are already slipping closed.

“Sleep,” you say.

“Will you stay?”

You sit back and wrap both hands around his. “Yeah, genius, I’ll stay. Obviously.”

The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked, sleepy smile. “Good.”

It takes less than a minute for him to fall asleep again.

This time, watching him sleep doesn’t feel like waiting for the floor to disappear beneath you. His breathing is still rougher than you’d like, and his face is still too pale, but the monitor keeps a steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive. His fingers are warm under yours, and there’s a green Jell-O cup sitting unopened on the tray because, apparently, even near-death experiences cannot kill Spencer Reid’s bizarre snack preferences. You know he’ll ask for a spoon as soon as he’s awake again and his appetite comes back.

You do not know about the recording.

You do not know that somewhere, locked carefully behind Garcia’s cyberdefenses, there is a version of his voice trying to love you through the worst possible outcome. You do not know that he spent the better part of what might’ve been his last hour on earth trying to make sure you would be okay. 

But maybe it’s better you don’t know.

You don’t need the version of him that said goodbye. You need this one: alive, stubborn, fever-warm, breathing steadily with Jell-O waiting untouched beside him.

His fingers twitch against yours again in sleep.

You keep holding on. You hold on, and you stay. ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️