His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.

The Joker had called it “light acid.”

As if acid could ever be light.

As if anything about it had been.

After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.

Jason never got that stage.

He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.

Until now.

At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.

There is hair there.

Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.

It doesn’t.

The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.

It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.

Not that time.

“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.

He looks dreadful.

That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.

He leans closer.

At least his skin looks better.

That part softens something in him.

You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You  just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.

He grumbled the whole time.

You ignored him the whole time.

In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.

Jason had fallen asleep like that.

Just like that.

He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.

“I knew it was hair!”

Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.

He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.

You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.

Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.

Like you belong here.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.

“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.

He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.

“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.

You hum, pretending to consider it.

One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”

Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.

Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.

“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”

The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest. 

Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.

“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”

He stills.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.

“I…” he starts, and the word drags.

Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.

“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t have to.

The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.

“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.

Jason watches you through the mirror.

Why now?

It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.

He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.

Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.

Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.

He doesn’t say that.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.

Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.

The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.

But you didn’t run.

The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.

If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.

You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.

“C’mere,” you murmur. 

You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.

“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.

“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.

He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.

You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.

Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”

“You’re flexing.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.

He forces his shoulders to drop.

Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.

But this?

This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him. 

You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.

Your touch changes when you reach the scars.

Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just attentive.

You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”

He snorts quietly despite himself.

The razor touches his skin for the first time.

It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Jason feels it more than he expected to.

Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time. 

That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.

The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.

He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.

“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

The answer is simple. Immediate.

Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek. 

His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.

You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.

“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.

Jason’s eyes close for a second.

He lets them.

There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.

When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.

“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”

“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

You grin. “Sure, baby.”

You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.

He watches you again.

The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.

When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.

“There,” you whisper.

You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“Much better.”

Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.

The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.

He looks at himself in the mirror again.

The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.

But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.

He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.

Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Thats the goal,” you say.

And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.

jason peter todd tag-list : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata

Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too

(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)

His voice sounded rough through the phone, sleep heavy, a little gravelled, and guilt immediately creeps up your spine.

Shit. You definitely woke him.

You hesitate, chewing lightly at the inside of your cheek as you glance around the mess again. This wasn’t even the first time. Ever since you’d moved into the house next to his, it had somehow… become a thing. If you had a loose cabinet door, flickering light, a lock that wouldn’t turn properly, you would call him. 

And every single time, he showed up.

“I’m really sorry,” you wince, pacing a small circle around the mess like that’s somehow going to fix it, “it’s just– I actually tried doing it myself this time, and it looked like it went well. Until it didn’t.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your hand coming up to scratch at your eyebrow, a nervous habit you’ve never managed to shake.

Another pause. Softer this time.

“Hey,” he says, a little clearer now, like he’s forcing himself properly awake, “it’s fine. Seriously.”

You’re not convinced.

If he was napping in the middle of the afternoon, then he was off shift, which meant this was probably one of the only quiet hours he got to himself all week. With the kind of hours he worked at the hospital, long shifts that seemed to blur into each other and never really end when they were supposed to, sleep wasn’t something he got nearly enough of.

The last thing you wanted was to be the reason he didn’t get it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumble, quieter now, eyes flicking back to the mess like it might suddenly resolve itself out of pity. “I can– I can figure it out, if you want. You don’t have to come.”

There’s a brief pause. “Too late.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m already up,” he says, there's something dry in his voice, something faintly amused, like he’s already decided that he’s going to come over and fix it whether you like it or not. “And I’d rather fix it once than come over later when it’s somehow worse.”

“That’s very optimistic of you,” you mutter.

“Experience,” he shoots back easily.

Despite yourself, your lips twitch.

“Don’t worry about it,” he adds, softer now, and you can practically hear him dragging a hand down his face, grabbing for a shirt or whatever’s closest. “You’re not the first person to lose a fight to flat-pack furniture.”

“That makes me feel worse, actually.”

“It shouldn’t,” he says, a beat passing before his tone shifts, something lighter threading through it. “What can I say? I guess I’ve got a way with my hands.”

You go completely still.

There’s a brief, dangerous pause where your brain tries to decide whether that was a joke, a joke, or something you’re definitely overthinking.

Because there’s no way he just said that.

Right?

Your eyes flick to nothing in particular, grip tightening slightly around your phone as the words replay in your head, slower this time, like that’s somehow going to help.

I’ve got a way with my hands.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re standing alone in your living room reacting like this over a sentence that may or may not have been completely innocent.

He probably didn’t mean it like that.

He definitely didn’t mean it like that.

…He absolutely meant it like that.

You press your lips together, inhaling through your nose like that’s going to reset your brain. It doesn’t.

“Right…” You clear your throat, dragging your attention back to the mess in front of you like it might ground you. It doesn’t. 

“Yeah. We’ll– we’ll see about that, Abbot. Just ring the bell when you get here.”

“Mm. Try not to make it worse before I arrive.”

“Oh, shut up–”

You hang up before he can say anything else, your mouth still slightly parted. You stand there for a good five seconds, just blinking at nothing. Then you look back at the broken bookshelf.

God help you.

A good ten minutes go by, and you still don’t listen to him.

Because of course you don’t.

You’re crouched in front of the bookshelf again, one knee pressed into the floor, the screwdriver clutched a little too tight in your hand as you try, for the third time now, to get the top shelf to sit properly. Your head is half inside the frame, eyes narrowed as you angle the screw just right, tongue pressing lightly against your cheek in concentration.

“Okay just– stay,” you mutter under your breath, like the thing might actually cooperate if you asked nicely.

It doesn’t.

The doorbell rings.

And in the exact same second, the shelf gives way.

It comes straight down, catching the top of your head with a dull thud that makes your whole body jolt forward, the screwdriver slipping from your fingers as a sharp sting spreads instantly.

“Ow, shit,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut as your hand flies up to your head, pressing against the spot like that’s somehow going to undo it.

For a second you just stay there, hunched over, breathing through it, before letting out a quiet, annoyed exhale. “Perfect,” you mumble to yourself, pushing yourself up slowly, still a little dazed. “That’s just perfect.”

The bell rings again, longer this time.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” you call out, your voice slightly strained as you make your way to the door, your hand still resting on top of your head, your face caught somewhere between a grimace and irritation.

You open it, and there he is.

You take him in for a second without meaning to. The faint grey stubble along his jaw, his hair still slightly out of place like he didn’t bother fixing it before leaving, the simple black shirt and pants thrown on in a rush. There’s a look on his face already, caught between amusement and expectation, like he knew exactly what he was walking into before you even opened the door.

His eyes move over you quickly, taking in the hand on your head, your hair out of place, the look on your face, and you can see the moment it clicks to him.

You drop your hand a little too late to make it subtle.

A small smile threatens at his lips as he adjusts the toolbox in his hand, stepping forward when you shift to the side to let him in. You hold your breath for half a second as he passes you, the space between you just close enough to make you aware of it, before you shut the door behind him.

“Do I need to guess what happened,” he says, glancing down at you as he steps further inside, his voice still a little rough but clearer now.

You scoff softly, already turning to follow him. “Don’t start. I was trying to take matters into my own hands again, and apparently this shelf is harder to build than it looks.”

He hums like he’s not convinced, already walking into your living room, and he’s done it enough times to know exactly where he’s going. His eyes land on the mess almost immediately, taking in the scattered pieces, the half-built frame, the screw you’d dropped on the floor.

“Right,” he says after a second, one brow lifting slightly. “You tried.”

“I did try,” you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms, even though there’s still a faint sting at the top of your head reminding you how that went.

His gaze flicks back to you, slower this time, settling on your face, then your hair, then the spot your hand had been covering.

“What did you do.”

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, a little too quickly.

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s fine,” you insist, waving it off like it’s nothing even as you avoid looking at him properly. “It just hit my head a little, it’s not a big deal.”

He doesn’t say anything straight away, and that’s almost worse.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine, Jack–”

“Let me see,” he repeats, already stepping closer, his tone not harsh but not really leaving you much room to argue either. It’s something about the way he says it, like he’s already decided and that’s that, and then there’s the way he’s looking at you — his eyes settling on your face, focused so intently that it makes your chest feel a little too warm all of a sudden, like you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

You hesitate for a second before letting your hand fall away, tilting your head slightly despite yourself. “It’s not even that bad,” you mumble, though it comes out weaker than you meant it to.

He doesn’t respond, just lifts his hand and brushes your hair aside, fingers careful as he checks the spot. There’s a brief pause while he looks at it properly, his expression shifting as the earlier amusement fades.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself. “That’s gonna be a bump.”

You let out a small, unimpressed breath. “Great. Love that for me.”

His hand drops away, but instead of saying anything else, he turns and heads toward your kitchen. You watch him go for a second, still standing where he left you, a little thrown off by how quickly he just takes over your space (not that you're complaining about it).

You hear the fridge door open, the low hum getting louder for a second, then the scrape of the freezer compartment, things shifting around as he moves stuff aside.

“Of course you’ve got nothing useful in here,” he mutters.

“There should be peas or something.”

“There are,” he says after a second. “Miraculously.”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you.

A moment later, he’s back, a bag of frozen peas in his hand as he stops in front of you. He doesn’t hand it to you.

Instead, he steps in closer, lifting it straight to your head before you can react.

You flinch slightly at the cold. “Oh–”

“Hold it,” he says, already reaching for your hand and bringing it up, pressing your fingers around the bag so you keep it in place. His touch lingers for half a second before he lets go.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks back over to where he dropped his toolbox, crouching down and flipping it open like he’s done this a hundred times before (he has.)

You don’t move.

For a second, you just stand there, hand pressed to your head, watching him. Or more specifically — You’re watching the way his back shifts under the black shirt as he bends slightly over the frame, the fabric pulling just enough across his shoulders, his arms moving as he starts sorting through the pieces, he makes it look so easy.

You blink, forcing your eyes away for a second, adjusting the peas against your head like that’s what you were focused on the whole time.

It doesn’t really work because you look back.

He’s still crouched there, focused on the shelf, completely unaware, and you’re suddenly very aware of how long you’ve just been standing there doing absolutely nothing.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as you take a small step forward, still holding the peas to your head as you glance between him and the mess. “Do you– need help, or something, or are you just gonna do the whole thing yourself?”

He doesn’t even look up, already moving pieces back into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing, fingers working easily as he adjusts the frame. “No, you’re alright,” he says, like it’s obvious, like you asking was almost unnecessary.

And then, after a second, like it’s nothing, “Just sit and look pretty.”

You just stand there, your brain going completely fuzzy for a second as it registers what he just said, your grip tightening slightly around the bag of peas while your mouth opens a little before you can stop it.

You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he can’t see your face right now, because if he could, you’re pretty sure he’d notice it instantly.

So you don’t say anything.

You just stand there, holding the peas to your head, trying to act like that didn’t just completely throw you off, even though it absolutely did.

He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, checking his own work.

You shift slightly, lifting the peas just a little off your head, your fingers moving to press lightly against the spot instead, testing it to see if it still hurts. The second you do, his head turns slightly over his shoulder.

“Don’t touch it,” he adds after a second, almost as an afterthought, still focused on the shelf. “Just leave it for a minute.”

You freeze for half a second before putting the peas back where they were, pressing them properly against your head doing exactly as he said.

“Okay,” you say, softer this time, a lot more normal than whatever you would’ve said earlier.

He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, like he’s checking his own work.

You watch him for a second longer than you should, adjusting the peas again just so you have something to do.

“Thank you,” you add after a moment. He pauses briefly at that, just for a second, before continuing like it didn’t affect him at all.

“Yeah of course,” he says easily.

It was an awkward predicament you found yourself in, one that seemed to happen so quickly you couldn’t even properly process how you got there in the first place. One second you were standing on the sidewalk after getting out of the sports bar you had gone to with a few friends you hadn’t seen in a while, still half caught up in the lingering conversation, your eyes scanning the street for a taxi that could take you home.

And then the next second, without even looking properly, you didn’t realise a bike was coming straight toward you along the sidewalk.

There was barely any time to react before the impact happened, the force of it knocking straight into you and sending both you and the rider crashing down onto the concrete. Your body hit the ground hard, but it was your head that took most of it, smacking sharply against the pavement that made everything jolt at once.

A loud groan leaves you instantly, the pain spreading so suddenly and so intensely that you don’t even think before running your tongue over your teeth in your mouth, checking them one by one to make sure they were still intact, still where they were supposed to be. The sensation was so overwhelming, that it made it hard for you to focus on anything else. 

You don’t even register that people have started gathering around you, their voices overlapping, questions being thrown at you all at once as they hover nearby.

“Shit– I’m so, so sorry,” the man says quickly, the one who had collided with you.

You blink up at him through the blur, trying to focus your eyes enough to actually see him properly. He looks young, around your age, crouched close by, clearly shaken, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether to help you up or not. He looks completely fine in comparison, his helmet still strapped on, knee and elbow pads in place, protected in a way you clearly weren’t.

You try to sit yourself up from the ground, pushing against the concrete with your hands, but the second you do, a sharp sting spreads across your palms and arms. You hadn’t even noticed how badly you’d scraped yourself up until now. It barely registers though, not properly, not compared to the pounding in your head that only seems to get worse the more you try to move.

Your vision doesn’t clear either. It stays unfocused, everything still slightly out of place, and no matter how much you blink, it doesn’t quite fix itself.

You’d always been a little clumsy, always the type to trip over nothing or drop things at the worst possible time, but this was different. This wasn’t something you could laugh off later or brush away like it didn’t matter. It was worse.

“I’m okay, I think,” you mumble, the words coming out slower than you intended, your voice lacking any real certainty behind it.

The people around you don’t seem convinced.

There’s a shift in the air around you, a sudden stillness that you can’t fully understand, not when your head is still pounding and your vision refuses to cooperate.

“What?” you ask, more confused now, your brows pulling together as you try to make sense of their reactions.

You lift your hand to your head without thinking, fingers brushing against your temple as if to check it, and that’s when you feel it.

Something wet.

Sticky.

More than there should be.

Your hand comes back down into your line of sight, your eyes struggling to focus on it properly through the blur, and it takes longer than it should for your brain to catch up with what you’re seeing.

Blood.

A noticeable amount of it, smeared across your fingers and it doesn’t feel so minor anymore.

“Well, shit,” you mumble under your breath, the words barely leaving your mouth before everything around you starts to feel off again.

The noise of the crowd dulls, their voices becoming distant, like they’re being pulled further and further away from you. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your vision darkening at the edges as the pounding in your head overtakes everything else.

Somewhere through the haze, you can hear the urgency in their voices shift. “Call an ambulance, quick—” But it all feels far away.

And then, just like that, everything goe s completely black as you fall back against the concrete.

Jack can’t quite take you off his mind.

Ever since you moved into the house next to his a couple months back, ever since that first day when you were tripping over the stairs trying to help the movers carry boxes into your place like you weren’t about to take yourself out before even settling in, he’d clocked you as someone he wouldn’t forget easily.

And it should’ve stopped there, it really should’ve, because it’s not like he doesn’t have other things to focus on, not like his job doesn’t take up most of his time anyway, but it didn’t, it just stuck. He never realised how often he was thinking about you until he caught himself doing it multiple times a day.

Robby would’ve absolutely lost it if he knew. Like actually laugh in his face, not even try to hide it.

Which is exactly why Jack never said anything.

Because it sounds ridiculous. It feels ridiculous.

At least it did, up until the moment he sees you being wheeled into the E.R.

And for a second it doesn’t even register properly, because it’s just another stretcher, another patient coming in too fast, paramedics talking over each other, the usual noise that never really stops around here, until his eyes land on you and everything’s stopped in Jack’s world.

Your head’s turned to the side, there’s blood at your temple, too much of it, dried and fresh mixed together, your hair stuck where it shouldn’t be, and you’re not moving, not even a little, and that’s what gets him the most because you’re never still.

Robby’s saying something, holding something out to him, but Jack doesn’t take it, doesn’t even look, because his focus is completely gone, locked on you in a way that makes everything else feel like background noise.

“You alright, brother?” Robby asks, and there’s something in his voice this time, not just casual, not just checking in, because he’s clocked it straight away, the way Jack’s just stopped responding, like he’s not even there for a second.

Jack doesn’t answer him.

He’s already moving before anything else can catch up, already at your side, falling into step with the stretcher as they push you through, his eyes running over you quickly, trying to take in as much as he can at once, trying to piece it together in real time without letting it slow him down, even with that tight feeling sitting heavy in his chest.

“What happened?” he asks, already reaching for gloves, his voice coming out like it normally would, like this is routine, like it’s just another patient even when it very clearly isn’t.

“Bike collision,” one of the paramedics says, not missing a step. “She hit her head pretty hard on the pavement, was talking when we got there but not making much sense, kept drifting in and out, then stopped responding on the way here.”

Jack nods once, already there as they move you across, his hand coming up without thinking, steadying your head like it’s instinct, like muscle memory has kicked in before anything else could.

Which it has. He’s done this a thousand times before. Just not with you.

“Alright, get her on the monitor, let’s check her properly, and I want a scan ready,” he says, more to the room now, more to himself, slipping into it because that’s what he does, that’s what he knows, even if everything in him feels slightly off.

Robby’s there beside him again, quick like always, but there’s a look he gives Jack, brief but there, like he’s noticed more than he’s saying.

Jack doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t have the space for that right now.

Because his attention is already back on you, and this time it lingers a second longer than it should, taking you in properly, the way you look like this, the way you look too still for his liking.

He preferred you up and clumsy. Not like this.

As you’re laid down, somewhere between conscious and not, everything comes in pieces, sound first, then light, then shapes that don’t quite make sense straight away. You turn your head slightly, slower than you mean to, your mouth parting a little as your eyes try to focus, landing on him.

Jack.

He’s right there, by your side, talking to someone just out of your view, his voice low and quick, but you can’t really make out what he’s saying, it all kind of blends together in a way that makes your head feel heavier.

“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you mumble, the words coming out a little off but still there, like you’re trying to make it sound normal even though nothing about this feels normal.

They move you properly onto the bed, and your brows pinch together almost immediately, a quiet wince slipping through as someone shines a light into your eye, then the other, the brightness too sharp for how your head already feels.

Jack’s attention shifts straight back to you the second you speak, his focus settling on your face properly now.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, hm?” he replies, but it doesn’t sound like him, not really.

There’s no humour in it this time. And you notice that.

Despite everything, you still smile at him, all teeth, like none of this is as serious as it probably should be, even with people moving around you, checking things, definitely listening even if they’re pretending not to.

“You know,” you start, your words coming out a little uneven but still very much you, “I think because of whatever they’ve pumped into me… I should probably confess my undying crush on you, Mr Abbot.”

You let out a small laugh to yourself, like the thought genuinely amuses you, your head shifting slightly against the pillow before immediately regretting it.

“I feel like this is a very good time for that,” you add, softer now, like you’ve convinced yourself it makes perfect sense. “You know… just in case I die or something.”

Jack just looks at you for a second, properly this time, like he’s trying to decide whether to humour you or shut it down completely.

“…You’re not dying,” he says, and it comes out more firm than anything else, like he’s not even entertaining that part of what you said.

You squint at him slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he answers straight away.

You hum softly, like you’re weighing that up, even though you’re not really.

“Okay… but if I did,” you continue, still looking at him, “that would’ve been a really good confession. Like you would’ve thought about it for the rest of your life.”

There’s the smallest shift in his expression at that, something that almost looks like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite let himself.

“Yeah,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”

You nod slightly, like that’s settled.

“Good.”

He exhales through his nose, then glances over his shoulder toward one of the residents, his focus snapping back into place.

“Keep checking her pupils,” he says, his tone shifting without effort. “She’s been in and out, so keep talking to her, make sure she’s tracking, and get her ready for a CT. I don’t want to miss anything.”

There’s a quick nod, movement picking up again around you.

When you wake up, it takes you a second to properly come to, your head feeling heavy as confusion settles in before anything else does. You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze from your eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, not fully registering where you are at first.

The room is quiet.

Not completely silent, but quiet enough that it feels strange, especially compared to the E.R. you only faintly remember being brought through, the noise and movement and voices that never seemed to stop. It’s different here, and it throws you off more than it should, like you’re expecting something else to happen even though nothing would.

You know what led you here. You remember the bike, the impact, the way everything happened too quickly for you to even react properly before you both went down onto the concrete. But after that it’s blank. Completely fuzzy. Like your brain just cut everything off. You don’t remember getting here. You don’t remember being brought in, or what anyone said to you, or how long you’ve even been here. Just bits and pieces that don’t quite connect, like you were in and out of it the whole time and your mind never fully caught up, which was what exactly happened. 

The hospital bed beneath you feels stiff, uncomfortably so, and it only makes everything worse as you shift slightly, trying to sit up more properly. It’s not helping. If anything, it just makes you more aware of how off your body feels, like nothing is sitting right.

You move again, slower this time, trying to find some kind of position that doesn’t make you feel like you’re about to tip sideways or sink straight back into the mattress. The bed doesn’t cooperate, obviously.

“They really need to invest in better beds,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything, your voice still a little thick as it comes out. “People are gonna leave here with more problems than they came in with.”

You adjust again, one hand pressing lightly against the mattress to steady yourself as you sit up just a little more, even though it doesn’t actually make it any more comfortable. It just makes you more aware of everything — your head, your body, the fact that you’re here and not entirely sure how you got to this exact point.

And that part bothers you more than anything.

You don’t even realise when someone enters the room, only properly registering it when you hear the door shut. It makes you turn your head, slower than you mean to, and that’s when you see him.

Jack’s standing by the door, not fully inside yet, like he stopped himself halfway through walking in and couldn’t move himself further into the room. You don’t really understand why, but you don’t point it out.

What you do notice is the relief that crosses his face the second his eyes land on you. It’s quick, but it’s there, clear as anything, easing some of the tension that had been sitting in his expression. Like seeing you awake, sitting up, actually aware, settles something in him that had been building since you were brought in.

“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you say repeating what you said hours ago (even though you didn’t remember saying it), a small smile pulling at your lips as you try to ease the tension that had filled the room the second you saw him.

He doesn’t answer straight away, and it gives you a second longer than you should have to actually look at him properly. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shirt pulling across his shoulders and biceps just enough that you have to stop yourself from staring any longer than you already are.

You drag your eyes back up, a little too late, and the second you meet his gaze again you can feel the heat surge through your body, because he’s already looking at you, not even pretending he wasn’t. His expression is still controlled, still holding onto composure, but there’s concern sitting there underneath it, clear in the way his hazel eyes stay on you.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that,” he says finally, his voice even, but not as light as it usually is with you, “I work here. You’re the one turning up as a patient.”

You don’t really know how to take that, and that’s what throws you off more than anything, because normally with him it’s easy, you know where you stand in the conversation, you know when he’s joking and when he’s not, but right now you can’t tell which one this is supposed to be.

You shift slightly against the bed, like you’re about to say something back, something quick or sarcastic just to ease it, but nothing actually comes out, and instead you just end up looking at him, the silence stretching a little longer than it should between you.

“You gave me quite the scare,” he adds after a second, and there’s no humour in it now, none of that usual back-and-forth you’re used to, just something honest that makes your expression shift without you meaning it to.

“I didn’t know you cared.” You say vulnerably.

“Of course I care,” he says, and now there’s something more familiar in his tone, something that actually sounds like him again, even if the concern hasn’t fully left his face. “Who else is going to call me every time something in your house decides to fall apart, hm.”

Your lips twitch at that despite yourself, a small breath leaving you as some of that tension in your chest eases, even if it doesn’t fully go away. “So that’s the only reason you care?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your voice lighter than it probably should be for what you’re actually asking.

Even as the words leave your mouth, there’s a part of you that pauses, because you don’t really know where that came from. A week ago you could barely hold a normal conversation with him without overthinking every little thing he said, without second guessing the way you stood or where you looked whenever he was over fixing something in your house, and now you’re sitting here in a hospital bed questioning him like this without even hesitating.

It throws you off more than anything.

Maybe it’s the medication they’d given you earlier, still sitting somewhere in your system, loosening whatever filter you usually had, making it easier to say things you’d normally keep to yourself. That’s the only explanation you can come up with, because there’s no way you’d be this forward otherwise, especially not with him.

He watches you for a second after that, like he’s caught onto the shift just as much as you have, his gaze settling on you in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than it should.

“That’s not what I said,” he replies, his tone quieter now, but there’s something in it that makes it clear he’s not brushing you off, not really.

You watch as he finally moves fully into the room, like he’s done holding himself back, his hand reaching down to pull a chair from the wall beside the door before dragging it over and sitting right next to your bed. It’s close, closer than he needs to be, but neither of you say anything about it.

And now he’s right here, close enough that you don’t really have anywhere else to look.

His attention doesn’t leave you once.

It makes you want to look away, break it somehow, but you can’t bring yourself to. You just lay there, holding his gaze, even as it makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t want to think about too much.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks.

You let out a small breath, glancing down for a second like that might help you find something you missed. “I can remember the crash,” you say slowly, trying to piece it together as you speak, “like I remember the bike and hitting the ground and everything, but after that it just cuts off.”

You shift slightly against the bed, your brows pulling together. “Which I’m actually kind of thankful for, because if my head still feels like this now, I don’t even want to know how bad it was when I got brought in.”

He watches you the whole time, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s taking in every little detail, every shift in your expression, and it does something to him he doesn’t really want to sit with.

Because he remembers it.

He remembers it clearly, not in bits the way you do. He remembers the way you looked, the way you kept drifting in and out, the way you said it like it didn’t even cost you anything to say.

And he remembers exactly what you said.

“You don’t remember anything after that?” he asks again, and this time it’s not just a question, there’s something behind it, like he’s checking before he says anything else.

You shake your head, a little more sure this time even though it’s frustrating, like you should be able to remember and you just can’t. “No. Nothing. It’s just blank.”

You look at him properly then, and it’s the way he reacts that makes you pause. Not what he says, but what he doesn’t. He just nods once, like he expected that, but there’s a look on his face that says otherwise, one that you couldn’t name properly.

It doesn’t sit right with you.

“Why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “did I do something?”

He huffs out a breath through his nose, like he almost laughs but doesn’t fully commit to it. “You always do something.”

“That’s not helpful,” you mutter, shifting a little on the bed as you look at him again, more serious now. “What did I say?”

He doesn’t answer straight away, which makes your stomach drop. Because if it was simply nothing, he would’ve said something, but it was as if he was holding himself back from doing so. It surely couldn’t be that bad, whatever you may have said.

“Jack,” you pressed, panic in your voice, “what did I say.”

He looks at you then.

“You told me you’re in love with me,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like it didn’t just completely shift everything between you in the span of a second, “in front of half the room.”

For a second, you just look at him.

Properly look at him, like maybe if you stare long enough the words will rearrange themselves into something else, something less insane, something that actually makes sense coming out of your own mouth. Your brain lags behind, struggling to catch up, like it’s still stuck somewhere before the crash while everything else has moved forward without it.

“I what?”

“You heard me.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out straight away, because it’s hitting you in pieces now, slow and heavy, each part worse than the last as it actually starts to settle.

“Oh my God,” you say, sounding utterly horrified.

“Oh my God,” you say again, louder now, your hand lifting instinctively before dropping again when your head protests the movement, the dull ache making everything feel that much more real. “No, I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”

You stop yourself.

Because you would.

“I am so sorry,” you rush out, the words picking up pace before you can even think about slowing them down, like if you don’t get them out now he’s going to look at you differently. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, or out loud, or in front of people– especially not your coworkers, like that is actually the worst possible place that could’ve happened, I literally could not have picked a worse moment for that if I tried–”

You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palm against your cheek for a second, your thoughts already running ahead of you before you can even catch them.

“I don’t even remember saying it, which somehow makes it worse, because now I’m hearing it from you and I don’t even get to know how it came out or what I said before it or after it, and that just makes me look even more insane–”

You glance at him quickly before looking away again, your voice getting faster the longer you keep going. “Did I say anything else? Actually don’t tell me, I don’t think I can deal with that right now, like genuinely I think I’d rather not know if it gets worse than that–”

A breath leaves you, somewhere between a laugh and something closer to a groan, your head tipping back slightly against the bed.

“This is so bad,” you continue, the words tumbling over each other now, your brain refusing to slow down. “Like I’ve completely ruined it, haven’t I? I’ve made it weird now, and you’re not even gonna come over anymore, and every time something breaks in my house I’m just gonna have to deal with it myself because I decided to confess my feelings in front of an entire hospital like that’s a normal thing to do–”

You barely paused to breathe, your thoughts running ahead of you faster than you can catch them, too caught up in defending yourself, in trying to explain it away, to even realise what you’ve just done again.

Because you’ve said it again.

Just as easily.

Right in front of him.

And you don’t even notice it but Jack does.

He doesn’t interrupt you though, doesn’t point it out, doesn’t say anything at all. He just sits there, watching you, one brow lifting slightly, amusement settling into his expression the longer you keep going, like he can’t quite believe you’re doing this without even realising it.

“And now you’re just sitting there,” you add, your voice still rushing out, “like I haven’t just made everything ten times worse, and I don’t even blame you if you don’t want to come near me after this because I wouldn’t either, I’d actually avoid me at all costs–”

You stop just enough to breathe, your chest rising a little quicker, your eyes finally landing back on him properly. There’s a small shift in his expression, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly, his brows lifting just a bit like he’s watching something you haven’t caught onto yet.

It doesn’t make sense to you, the way he’s acting like this, like you didn’t just make everything awkward between you, like you didn’t just ruin whatever this was supposed to be.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice softer now, more confused than anything.

What you didn’t expect was for him to suddenly lean forward, closing the short distance between you, and before you can even fully process what he’s doing, his hand comes up to your face, fingers settling along your jaw as he kisses you.

It shuts you up instantly.

Completely.

One second you were still mid-rant, the next you’re just there, kissing him, your brain trying and failing to catch up with what’s happening. Your breath catches slightly against him, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into it without even thinking, your hand coming up to grip lightly at the fabric of his shirt like you need something to ground you.

His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, his thumb brushing just slightly against your skin as he deepens it, slow enough to make you feel it properly, like he’s been waiting to do this and finally decided to stop holding back.

And you respond just as easily to the kiss, like all that overthinking you usually do just isn’t there right now.

He tastes like coffee and mint, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to him from the hospital mixed with his cologne, and it settles into you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your fingers curling a little tighter into his shirt as you lean into him just a bit more.

You don’t even realise how long it lasts.

It’s only when he finally pulls back, slow and unhurried, that your head starts catching up, your breath still uneven as your eyes open and find his straight away.

You can feel it then, the heat you feel, the way everything feels just slightly off in the best way, and you’re pretty sure it shows, because there’s no way you look normal right now. A small smile pulls at your lips before you can stop it, and you try to turn your head, instinct kicking in like you suddenly remember how to be self-conscious again.

He doesn’t let you.

His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, and he dips his head just enough to keep your attention on him, his expression shifting into something that looks a little too pleased with himself, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

☆ in with the snowfall ── @/froggibus I A + C

Leon's out of town and you can't sleep. You call him seeking comfort, but you're only met with dismissal. What now?

☆ stay ── @/froggibus I S

Leon shows you that his commitment issues don’t apply to you

☆ the second choice ── @/froggibus I A

after losing Ada, Leon can’t get her off of his mind—and can’t stop comparing you to her

☆ when the dust settles ── @/froggibus I C

after a gruelling mission, Leon takes care of you

☆ the three times you share a bed ── @/froggibus I C + F

two times you sleep in leon's bed, and the one time he sleeps in yours

☆ drabble ── @xoxomaeby I F

☆ afterlife ── @m6cabre I A + C

☆ alone again ── @flimsily-flimsy I A

You knew this would be the last mission for you both with the virus and no clear cure. What you didn’t expect was for yours to advance so fast, leaving Leon with a heartbreaking dilemma.

☆ relax babe, i got you ── @screaming-potato I A + F

Tracking your husband down was no simple task but reuniting with him and joining him on his mission made it all the better. They just didn’t expect you to be like him…just with enhanced abilities.

☆ i keep crawling back home ── @old6urgundy I A

☆ better than ever ── @f41ryb0nes I S

Leon comes home from Raccoon City feeling better than he has in ages, and he knows just how to show you.

☆ wake up call ── @ariiadnes I F

☆ older boyfriend!leon pt2 ── @dollyivy I F + S

AO3

☆ nice to date you ── @/fippsey I S

You need a cover—fast. Your manipulative ex boyfriend is 60 seconds from walking into the bar you just ran into and you need help. Lucky for you, your eyes land on a head of fine hair and set of broad shoulders alone at the other side of the bar.

☆ 5 + 1 sharing a bed ── @/dimerization I F + S

You're a DSO agent and have been Leon Kennedy's partner for over a year now. Hunnigan's never messed up a hotel room booking for the two of you before. Normally, sharing a bed with a coworker would just be annoying, but there's a bit of a hitch this time - the thing is, you sort of have a crush on Leon. It'll be fine, you tell yourself; you're a secret agent - you deal with more stressful situations than this on a daily basis. It's not like it's a problem that he's tall and handsome and brilliant and a crack shot and has beautiful eyes and... ugh. Surely fighting bioterrorists and BOWs is more difficult than sharing a bed with Leon for one lousy night. Right? Right?

☆ what’s in a name ── @/fairybones I H/C + S

It wasn’t that Leon hated his name, not at all. He just hated hearing it. It was always followed up by someone asking him for something. So you tried your best to extend your kindness to him, and to only use his name in positive ways. But maybe you ended up being too kind, and creating too much space in your life for him.

☆ for once in my life (let me get what i want) ── @/harunovella I A + F + S

leon knew this story all too well, the frantic screams of horror, the hoards of bodies terrorizing the environment surrounding him. he had survived this, time and time again... except this time around, he had you. an innocent bystander caught in the midst of chaos. he just never expected saving your life would lead him to fall so deeply in love with you.

nook rivalry I @/rockyhatemark I F I when your little piece of heaven in the library is threatened, you take it personally aka your relationship with ryland has a rocky start

doctor visit pt2 I @/rockyhatemark I F + S I you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings

my place is among the stars (w/you) pt2 I @heartburriedintauceti I A + F I In which the government (Eva Stratt) shows up at your door and gives you no choice but to join the Petrova Taskforce. The reason? Ryland Grace recommended you, your old friend (or whatever you were) from college. And for some reason, you said yes.

double vision I @fullof-ryland-grace I F I you find out your close friend and coteacher has a stuntman twin.

baby I @surturedberries I F I when ryland grace calls you "baby"

rockblock I @matt-murdockk I F I You and Ryland have a moment... almost.

the love thing I @redwinelewis I F I after watching notting hill, rocky has come up with a conclusion that you and ryland should "mate", since you both are single.

medical emergency I @appletreat I F I you accidentally hit your head and ryland needs to fix you up

the message and the messenger I @/appletreat I A I stratt comes to ryland with some videos from the hail mary mission

human connectivity I @/appletreat I F I you can’t fall asleep but it seems ryland can’t either

the marker dealer I @/appletreat I F I ryland needs the art teacher’s help with some illustrations

blurb I @/appletreat I H

mr and mrs. grace pt2 I @iamaya03 I F I you're the medic on the hail mary and come across a photo that must've slipped from your personal supplies which changes the entire dynamic between you and who you thought was your co-worker.

far vs near sighted I @gracerockyadastra I F I You and Ryland both wear glasses, but for drastically different reasons.

i almost lost you I @amessofstarsense I H/C

coma berenices I @romanticgumchewer I F I you cut grace's hair so he looks like himself again.

champagne supernova pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @effloradox I F + A

nightmare I @attemptedrandomwriting I C I Rocky is watching over Grace sleep while you work. Rocky comes running in, scared for Grace, and needs your help.

puppet show I @moonlight-in-the-sea I F I you and grace put on a puppet show for rocky at his request so he is able to understand human culture better. little do you know, the engineer is setting you both up.

oh, you’re not…! I @/moonlight-in-the-sea I F I your boyfriend has an identical twin, and while you can easily tell them apart by now, you've had your mix-up moments in the beginning.

save the date I @inksgoosiefolder I F + S I You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.

fertile land I @binchidavinci I H/C

good girl pt2 I @lemmesayimyourbiggestfan I F + S I in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter

pushing it down and praying I @rockylandphm I A I in which, you keep looking for your lost love in colt’s eyes, and colt keeps pretending it doesn't break his heart

both AO3 I anonymous I S I ryland walks in on you and colt in their apartment. things take a turn.

eridian logic! I @bibigo-lover I F I your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy

love hypotheticals pt2 pt3 I @/bibigo-lover I A + F I after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace.

well, this is awkward I @irlr0gue I F I You and Ryland have a small…incident, leading to a broken bed that a very curious Rocky has to come and fix.

to move slowly from side to side I @harbours-lighthouse I H/C

4th project crew pt2 I @justmine-lindstrm I A + F + S I After months of wandering the space to study Tau Ceti, Grace found out that there’s another crew on board. It was only revealed when Rocky corrected him on how many people the ship has. Grace got hope for him to recall his pieces of his memories back on Earth. You must be an answer for him. “Happy. Happy. Grace has woman now. statement.”

stress relief I @bbuttonnn I S I Ryland needs to relieve some stress while he’s on the ship and conveniently thinks about his work crush

co-worker!ryland grace I @forozren I F

clumsy I @hotdogcatalogue I F

jealous!ryland I @cloudytimelapse I F

overworked I @stargirl-meltdown I S I ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.

Decoration aside, there are two very serious, clearly government agents, all suits, who are standing at the foot of Grace’s bed. Then, to his left, one nurse, checking his vitals on the analog screen. To his right, one doctor—pressing a cold, steel stethoscope to either side of his chest beneath the papery texture of his middle gown. It all seems so practiced. Grace squints. “Dr. Grace, do you know where you are?” Grace tilts his head in the direction of the voice beside him. It’s the doctor; she’s withdrawing her stethoscope from his chest, checking his eyes with the narrow beam of a handheld, pocket flashlight. “Hospital?” he rasps out—vocal cords still not acclimated to speaking aloud. She pockets the flashlight. Grace can see swirling blues and greens over his vision in absence of the bright light, a film that fades very slowly as he settles into his consciousness.

“Pupils are responsive,” she affirms to the two agents, and the nurse—who rattles her fingers quickly at the keyboard at his bedside. Then, to Grace: “I’d recommend that you rub your hands together, Dr. Grace. It’ll help kick your blood flow back into action. Though, I’m sure you’re already very wise on the procedure.” Modestly, and almost apologetically, the doctor tells him, “I have to tell you regardless.” She hands him his glasses off the bedside table, and Grace slips them onto his face with a still stirring movement. His arms and legs still feel just as numb as they did the first time.

“You’re currently at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,” the doctor tells him. “You’ve been here for about three weeks.”

“In Los Angeles,” one of the agents tells him, matter-of-factly. Scully, Grace labels.

“I’m in Los Angeles?” Grace almost chokes out a laugh. The last time Grace had been to L.A. was for an academic conference, and he’d been rather disillusioned by the morning traffic.

“Yes, right by UCLA,” the other agent confirms smoothly. And Mulder, Grace thinks. “They had you air-lifted from around Vancouver after your pod touched down.”

Cedars-Sinai, UCLA, Vancouver. Grace chants the three in sequence over and over in his head. They tell him with such ease. There’s no extra explanation about what’s where, no request for a further meaning. If there’s anything that Grace misses about being around people—human people—it’s the familiarity of living in around the same place. The ability to landmark. There’s nothing remotely confusing about “L.A.” or “freeway” or “smog.”

Scully bends over to open a leather satchel at the foot of Grace’s bed. She pulls out a hefty pile of newspaper clippings and she tosses it plainly onto his lap. At first, he only looks at the headliners, fold-by-fold:

Extraterrestrial Life Declassified by UN Task Force’s Eva Stratt

Sun’s Luminance Recovered By Grace’s Taumoeba

Dr. Ryland Grace To Be Inducted Into U.S. Astronaut Hall of Fame

“This is…” he rasps out. It’s not brain fog. He knows exactly what it is, and what it is is a little bit much. Even after spending all that time in an entirely different planetary system, it’s a little bit much. Grace can feel the tension setting between his brows, and he lets the papers sit heavily in his lap. “Stratt. Eva Stratt—is she around? Can I see her?” 

“I’m not sure if there’s a good way to say this, but… Stratt has been MIA for the past couple of years. She got in a lot of trouble for the project, ethical-environmental reasons, nothing very surprising—”  

Grace raises up his hand to interrupt Mulder, shocked that he’s even able to do so with the speed that he does. Grace echoes, with pure urgency, “But, she’s MIA. As in… nowhere to be found.”

“Yes, that’s correct, Dr. Grace.” The agents are somewhat despondent about the situation—neither here, nor there. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll take it.” A win: Stratt evades imprisonment indefinitely. She’s on one of the smaller newspaper spreads on Grace’s lap—a front-facing portrait, Stratt at the head of a speaker’s platform, looking as serious as ever. She’s grayer, too. Grace tries not to pay any mind to the thought of how young they were when they first met. 

If there was anything that Grace had made peace with in all those years gone, it was with Stratt. How she’d dragged him around that carrier ship like a dog on a leash. How he’d settled into those small moments of respect for her; Stratt was as faithful to his intellect as she was headstrong. Grace had come to understand her, even after he remembered what she’d done. He has to trust that she’s well now, somewhere on the water near Greenland or somewhere colder.

He’s slow to flip through the flimsy pages, entranced by the number of times his name is written in each column. The newspapers in the pile are years apart from one another, the earliest dated only a month after his initial launch, and the latest just a week after the Mary’s recovery: Dr. Ryland Grace Recovered Off British Columbia Coast. The photograph of his landing pod and its parachute bobbing in the water makes the journey home appear so simple—so small.

In all of his contemplation, Grace pays very little mind to how the room shifts around him. Scully and Mulder—he should really ask for their real names soon—appear to tilt their heads to the doctor and the nurse. The nurse hurries to double check Grace’s IV lines before stepping outside. The doctor follows closely behind her. Scully clicks her tongue: “The Hail Mary was captured on satellite imaging at the start of last year. We’ve been anticipating your arrival for a while now—so we ask that you forgive us if we’re a little… antsy. There’s something else for you.”

Scully pulls a flatter box out of the satchel and comes closer to Grace’s side, while Mulder goes to sit in the visitor chair in the corner. As he sits down, semi-slouched in the seat, she opens the box. Black leather, Grace realizes. He sits up a little bit more in his hospital bed, gown shifting uncomfortably against the sheets. He makes sure to tidy the newspapers as best as he can, before placing them weakly onto the bedside table beside the books and the cards.

Scully opens the box gingerly, rotates it towards Grace, and gently hands it over to him. Grace blinks. “Wow. This is… a medal.”

“It’s a Nobel Prize, Dr. Grace.” It says it there, Alfr-Nobel, and has the profile of a gentleman's face across it. There’s Mr. Nobel, Grace thinks, Obviously. It’s real gold, heavy in Grace’s hands. He doesn’t know if he should say thank you or not; it seems as if it’s about to come out of his mouth—but he simply gulps it back down.

“You were awarded it a month after they photographed the Hail Mary on satellite,” Mulder explains—when they found out Grace wasn’t dead. “Word traveled fast, and the Committee was very intent on awarding it to you. For the longest time, they were storing it in the Kennedy Space Center, but they made sure to ship it out to Pasadena last week in preparation for your arrival.”

Scully clasps her hands together, “Every laureate also receives a cash award with it. Eleven million krona—that’s about a million U.S. dollars, and some change.” “Oh.” Grace is baffled. In his head, he can picture himself being handed a giant check on a stage, with a handshake and the flutter of a bunch of camera flashes. He hadn’t really needed money on Erid. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it all—besides, maybe squander a small amount on real food. No burgers. Maybe salmon?

Scully lays a soft hand on Grace’s left shoulder that startles him into attention. “You’re a historical figure, Dr. Grace. Congratulations.”

—

Grace finds out that Scully and Mulder are actually Agents Franklin and Lineham—though, in the end, the discovery is ultimately pointless. They seem to recede into the background within his first week of being back on Earth, replaced, to Grace’s disappointment, by a series of politicians, scientists, and journalists. Despite great promises to “take things slow,” Grace is launched—yes, launched—into a flurry of press conferences with a plethora of national governments.

Grace knows what it’s like to be the center of attention, to an extent. In his twenties, it was the bad sort of attention, the kind that made people flee from the sight of him in a Hyatt lobby during academic conferences. It’s a good thing in the classroom, because it means that he’s doing his job correctly—the sign of a good lesson plan. Attention now, in the celebrity sense, is a whole other beast—the kind that makes Grace want to shrink inside himself. He’s not sure whether it’s modesty or shyness. Both are likely. They have him holed up in a secured location, still, a nice studio flat in the middle of the hills—not so far from civilization that the conspiracy theorists can somehow reach him. He’s still around people, of course, but it’s not the most preferable thing, either. A year in, and Grace can hardly go to the grocery store without someone asking to have a picture with him. Or, to ask him some half-unique question about Eridian biology.

He’s maybe more charmed by the tributes to Rocky than he is the ones for himself. It’s not that Grace doesn’t like murals. Or statues. These things are all valid works of art; he can tell the amount of effort that’s been exerted into each of them, and he doesn’t discount the meaning that they hold for a surviving humanity. It’s more… strange than anything else to see a giant bronze version of himself presiding next to bridges and parks.

In an ideal world, he’d be able to send a transmission up to his old friend—Look, pal, Grace would write, Everybody loves you down here. Thought you should know. Is it weird for you, too?—and age for long enough to see a response.

—

Nobody tells you that Dr. Ryland Grace is coming to your museum on a random Monday in the middle of April. Usually, there’s some sort of warning about celebrity visits—non-disclosure agreements and photo release forms and security guards up and down the place. You hate it when they happen, and they happen at least once every exhibit rotation. But, when Grace comes, there’s a simplicity to his visit.

You’re in the middle of talking with your assistant curator when he comes in through the front entrance. He goes straight into the ticketing line, pays in full. Gives the appearance of really any usual guest. What really causes you to float out of your conversation is the sight of him dropping a folded-up $20 bill into the see-through donations box near the restroom. The assistant curator is talking logistics to you about the incoming dino fossils, and some suggestions about where to position stanchions. But, the sight of this generous and unsuspecting guest causes your attention to flee elsewhere. “It all sounds good,” you say blankly, “Just…”

The assistant curator doesn’t seem too phased—merely turning their head over their shoulder to trace your gaze. They spot it as quickly as you do, and jut their thumb out sideways: “Is that—?”

You nod briskly, “Yeah. That’s definitely a twenty. Would you mind if we finish later?” They nod. It doesn’t take much more for you to sidle away, in search of the mystery donor. You wonder only for a second if it’s weird to tail him. The other, more desperate side of you tells you that this is definitely a potential patron with a lot of money to hand over to your workplace. Local history museum meets funding—an unusual feat. So, you dedicate yourself toward trying to search for him. He seems to disappear a bit, shrouded by seniors and young couples wandering about the lobby. But, his trajectory is clear: the Hail Mary exhibit.

There’s a ton of goodies there—really, some of the museum’s best work. The last curator had worked immensely hard trying to acquire a set of items from a lot at an auction, including printed mission reports, photographs of the astronauts, and donated personal items. The real jewel of the exhibit is one of four “beetles” sent back down to Earth. It’s an empty shell now, though it once held a vat of taumoeba packed up straight from Tau Ceti. Across, a tape-label reads: Ringo. John, Paul, and George are all scattered across other larger institutions across the country. You’re very lucky to have Ringo. He’s a real crowd-pleaser.

There are various, different swaths of kids dividing you and your generous visitor, some from the local after-school program and some on family trips. A young boy skids on the floor right at his feet—can’t be older than eight. At once, he takes his hands out of his pockets and rushes to help the boy up onto his feet. Once he turns to guide the boy back towards his parents, you can get a better look at his face. A couple of initial thoughts: kind, handsome, and too familiar. You pretend to tidy up a stack of maps in a nearby information kiosk. But… you realize, eyes darting between Ringo and the generous guest, that there’s something particularly striking about the frames of his glasses. Thin, silver rectangles.

You know who he is. Even if he wears a black NY baseball cap and the plainest of windbreakers and he’s just a little bit grayer than the pictures, you know who he is. You try to suppress the memory of you unpacking the photos of him down in the archives when the museum first received them, fingers grasping the corners, a fluster on your face. From memory, you can recall that in half of the photos, Grace has a sideways grin and a dorky little thumbs-up.

Dr. Ryland Grace is standing in the middle of his own exhibit. There are things you should do—tell the museum director, for starters, that the world’s most known public figure is standing in the middle of your institution. At the least, you should introduce yourself, offer up a guided tour, make a good impression. But, seeing as Dr. Grace looks like he’s about to cry at the sight of his own photographs, you’re not at liberty to bother.

Instead, you watch as Grace walks into a partitioned room—a clean black box with a wide bench in the middle. On the projector, there’s a looped one-hour compilation of various different interviews related to the project. The one on now shows a Chinese man in his mid-forties, sitting on a high stool with one leg crossed over the other. He has a cool sort of look to him, comfortable—not averse to the camera. The speakers echo out: “Your name for the tape?” An interviewer.

The man responds: “Connor Yao.” From behind, you can see Grace’s posture straighten out. Recognition. Maybe you should walk away now, try to give him space. But, you don’t feel right in leaving him be, either. Perhaps, because you know the contents of the interviews, you feel a little guilty in leaving Grace to his own devices. You have a quiet, disconcerting need to watch over him, like some kind of guardian spirit. Half-guilty, you watch the video with him from the hall.

“And can you tell us about your father?” the interviewer asks.

“Sure,” Connor nods, “My father was Yao Li-Jie. He was the assigned commander of the Hail Mary. I was, think, three years old when the Petrova Line was discovered. Eight when the Hail Mary launched.”

“And what do you remember about him?”

“He liked to laugh. A lot. He liked to sing along to the radio when he drove—which my mom only pretended to hate. She was always telling me about how he’d always try to serenade her when they were first going out. I think it was more fun for him than it was for her.” Connor makes himself laugh, makes the interviewer laugh. And, somewhere in between them, you can hear Grace laughing, too. It’s a sweet anecdote. With it, you decide to leave him be.

—

When you return at the end of your shift, you find Grace on the opposite side of the exhibit at another video station. He has his windbreaker off now, revealing the navy-blue knit sweater underneath. Here, there’s an older woman on-camera, tucking her hair back behind her ears. The interviewer tells her: “You can ignore the lens. Treat this like it’s just you and me.” Sara seems to shrug the tension off her shoulders, trying to appear more relaxed. Only half of her nervousness is skimmed off. The interview continues. “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself—your name and why you’re here?”

She responds, “My name is Sara Carter-Yuito. Formerly just Sara Carter.”

“And, Sara, can you tell us what you recall about Dr. Ryland Grace?” You can see Grace straighten up as she speaks, head tilted at the mention of his own name.

On-screen, Sara smiles. “Right. Yeah. I went to Grover Cleveland Middle, so I took Mr. G—Mr. Grace—for Science in the eighth grade. He would do all these really great lesson plans about atoms, thermodynamics, plate tectonics. You know, eighth-grade material. But, he’d always do this really great job of making sure we weren’t zoning out. I’m pretty sure I owe him my PhDs.”

You’ve seen this interview as many times as you have the others. It’s probably one of the most charming of the bunch. Sara Carter-Yuito, Professor of Physics at Whitman College in Washington. Graduated from University of Washington with a B.S. in Biophysics. Then, two PhD’s in Biophysics and Biochemistry. She was born and raised in San Francisco, attended Grover Cleveland Middle and then the high school next door. You wonder if Grace remembers her face—or, at least the youthful, base features of her face that still remain.

Sara continues, “There was this thing he’d do with a hacky sack? Kind of like hot-potato—” Yes, you think, Grace must remember. While Yao had his son, Connor, Grace had a plethora of kids at Grover Cleveland. His kids—all grown up.

And you finally build up enough courage to knock on the pitch-black wall with a gently-spoken: “Sir?”

You can see him turn once, then twice, in a double take to look at you. It’s difficult not to feel too self-conscious, and it appears this sentiment rings strong for the both of you. “Uh… yeah,” Grace blinks in rapid succession, trying to suck a couple tears back into his eyes, "Yes?” He’s probably wondering if you’re going to berate him with a question, or ten, while you, seemingly in your natural habitat—at work, like usual—almost definitely feel like an intruder to his space.

“Dr. Grace?” Saying his name aloud is a regretful thing, and you feel it even more so seeing the way his eyes widen maximally in response to it. “The museum closed about fifteen minutes ago.” You give a quick point with your index finger to the museum ID-card hanging on your lanyard. Grace sighs in relief. Thank God you’re an employee, his polite smile screams.

“This thing’s useless,” Grace says, grabbing his NY cap off the top of his head, and inspecting it with a lightly aggravated eye. You have to stifle your laugh. In truth? It wasn’t very difficult for you to spot him out. But, you’re not in the particular mood to tell him that you think exactly that. Your eye catches on the tinges of silver hair amidst the dark blonde.

Shyly, you tell him, “You were also walking around throwing twenties into our donation boxes. Nobody does that.”

“Caught me.” He stands up, hands wringing against one another. He makes sure to swipe up his windbreaker off the bench and hold it to his waist. “I heard the announcement earlier. Sorry. I’m sure you probably want to go home.”

“No, that’s alright. I stay ‘till close regardless,” you say, “There’s a bit more of the exhibit in the archive not open to the public. If you’d like to see it…” Your voice shrivels into itself. You’re not even sure if it’s a good idea—but all things considered, global hero and all, it almost feels like you have a responsibility to offer this to him. He looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight to either foot, hand constricting around his windbreaker. So, you shoot out a: “You don’t have to—”

“No—I’d like to. I’d love to, actually,” Grace nods.

—

When you bring Grace down into the basement, it feels a lot smaller than you remember. The filing cabinets feel tight, and it’s dead quiet under the low-lights. Grace has his arms tucked behind his back as he watches you slide the metal drawer open and wedge gentle fingers in between the yellow folders. “Grover Cleveland and a couple other schools donated these to us about a decade ago to make room for, like, traffic guard uniforms or something. The museum’s committee had them up for the first couple of weeks of the Hail Mary exhibit, but they took it down to make room for the interviews.”

You pull the closest one out. The handwriting—your handwriting—on the lip of the folder reads: 2022, Grover Cleveland. You surrender it over to Grace in a hurry, fingertips brushing against his in a staggered, jumbling attempt to hand him the file. He opens it with raised eyebrows; there’s about fifty pieces of paper in this bunch, some letters, some art—all grades. Before, Grace might have been able to recognize certain students’ handwriting to a T; he can’t be sure now.

“Wow.” There are some good drawings and some bad; regardless, they seem to fill Grace’s chest with some kind of warmth. “Right. That’s me,” he points to the middle of a sheet. It is him, scribbled messily with splotches of beige and yellow. A formulation of misshapen rectangles that look like glasses. There’s plenty in the folder like that. He flips through a couple more. These are better than any sculpture that he’s ever seen.

You point: “I think that’s you in space. That’s Tau Ceti.” And, again: “There’s Rocky holding… a balloon?”

Grace makes sure to slide this particular pastel drawing out of the folder and tilt it right-side up. “Actually,” he hums, matter-of-factly, “I think that is actually supposed to be the Petrova Line. ‘Cause the red.” You look up at him, and back down at the drawing. Upon closer examination… you can only half-see it. “You’re the expert,” you snort. Too loud. Grace tilts his head at you, hearing you laugh. Thus far, you’ve been sort of reserved. Lightly professional, and heavily timid. It seems like he’s almost pleased to see you so comfortable so easily. You have to focus with your greatest efforts not to look at him. Intently, you point at another one—a long, long-legged Rocky presiding over a very vibrant Earth, like some kind of triumphant god. Maybe symbolic enough for you to say, “That’s a really good one, actually,” though it’s very possibly a distraction on your part. Grace is too close and too observant.

He agrees, “It’s superb. Very… Dalí-esque.” Funny. Is he trying to get you to laugh again?

—

And somehow, within the hour, you find yourself eating dinner in the archives with Ryland Grace, takeout sushi delivered to the employee entrance of the museum. Rule bent, you aren’t supposed to even have food down in the basement—but the occasional exception has to be made. You’re cross-legged on your chair, now, table scattered with drawings, letters, and other collected ephemera—all on him. You’re chowing away at the sashimi, his treat, as he looks through all of the materials. Grace looks so amused, mouth tilting up into a small, contemplative smile, and you have to raise an eyebrow at him. What gives?

He shakes his head rapidly, rasping out a soft, “Sorry. It’s nothing.” He takes his glasses off his face and folds them up, before setting them on the table beside his tray of sushi. “It’s just not how anybody’d expect to spend a Monday night. We’re sitting and eating raw fish over the equivalent of a me-shrine. And you’re…” Grace sucks in a deep breath, before letting out a jumbled, “A very, very cool individual with a very big heart.” What? The compliment makes you smile, but it still feels like it’s only half of what Grace actually wanted to say.

The two of you continue sorting through the materials. Clearly, Grace has a preference towards the art; he seems to arrange them very closely to his right side—and leaves the pictures of himself to the sidelines. He slides one small 5x7” print across the table with a couple of taps. “You know, it seems like you would’ve gotten along with this guy.”

You stare at this photo of a pre-Erid Grace—a yearbook photo cutout. He’s young here, a bit out of his element being photographed. A suit jacket and tie over jeans, very pseudo-professorial. His glasses are close to glinting against the flash, and he has his hands shoved into his front pockets. He’d probably take his students to your museum in the fall on a field trip, and, admittedly, you’d probably find him pretty cute. The Grace before you only seems a little bit older, but when you look at him, there’s still the same quality about him that you’d come to pick up on in his photographs. Still boyish, despite time passing. But, you also know what Grace is trying to say: he’s older than you—technically, a lot older than you, with the time dilation taken into account.

Still, you persist: “I think I am getting along with him.”

It takes a moment for Grace to settle with your words. “Right. I guess you are.”

And, silence. He seems fixated on the photo still. “Do you still feel like you’re up there?” you ask him blankly. “I mean, obviously, you’re back on Earth. You’ve been back. But, I’ve always wondered if your head—and your heart, I guess—would still be…” you direct your index finger up above the two of you. In space.

“Well…? Yes and no. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been treated like the patron saint of space, which I don’t think I am. That title belongs to my Eridian friend here.” He points to a couple of stills from his video logs—Grace on his pilot’s chair, and Rocky with his jagged appendages waving right behind him. “Obvious reasons aside, I wanted to make sure I could know everything was okay here,” Grace explains, “I haven’t always been glad about that decision, but right now, it’s not so bad. Today’s been not so bad.” Though he’s shying away from saying it with words, Grace wants to say you’ve made it not so bad.

“You should take the ones you want. The drawings and the letters, I mean. They’re really yours, when you think about it. They belong to you,” you tell Grace.

He looks apprehensive. “Are you even allowed to give them to me?”

“I can figure something out.” Obviously, you aren’t supposed to just give away archival materials willy-nilly. “Maybe you could… volunteer here. Teach a couple science lessons to the students on weekends. I’m sure the director would consider it a fair trade—and we’d probably get more out of the exchange, qualitatively.” You stand up to gather everything together, hands reaching across the table to collect up the papers and stack them neatly into the closest open folder. 

“I beg to differ,” Grace says, “These are priceless. And, teaching is like breathing for me. I’ve basically been hypoxic for the last year.” He huffs, realizing that he might have to cease speaking in code. He corrects, “I’m trying to say that I miss having students, and I think I might take you up on the offer.”

“Okay. Good,” you nod. Mission success.

“Great,” Grace echoes back to you. You come around the short table to hand them to Grace with both hands. His eyes soften as you surrender over the folder to him. You’re trying not to light up at the thought of him swinging by again. It’s not at all for the benefit of the museum programming, even if that is a big bonus. Selfishly, you want to see more of him. Even when gray, he has a sort of undeniable charm to him.

"You and Rocky alliance. Good. Grace still stupid."

For hours, the lab had been filled with intense work and loud arguments. The experiment they’d been so sure about had failed immediately. Neither of them gave up, of course, just pivoted, recalculated, argued, and tried again.

If not for you, Grace and Rocky would’ve forgotten to eat entirely. And when they ignored you, you had to physically herd them away like stubborn children, promising they could come back once they’d finished their food.

You checked your watch. Nearly sixteen hours. No wonder Grace was getting sloppy. No wonder Rocky was irritated.

"You need to lie down," you said, stepping toward Ryland. "You need sleep."

"I don’t need…"

You took the tools from his hands and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.

"Don’t argue with me," you said firmly. "Rocky’s right. When you’re tired, you get irritable and act… stupid."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight you. "I just want this to work. We’re close. I can feel it. Another hour or two and…"

"And then Armando gets to hook you up to life support? No. You’re done."

Rocky shifted slightly in his enclosure, pretending not to listen, but he failed. "Grace must sleep. You correct. You smarter than Grace."

You bit back a laugh and rested a hand on Ryland’s shoulder before he could respond. The last thing you needed was another argument on the Hail Mary.

"You take Grace to sleep, question? You watch Grace, question?"

That got you thinking. Rocky rarely asked to be replaced while watching Grace, not like this. He must have been in a really bad mood right now.

"I promise," you said gently, tapping the transparent wall. "Everything okay, Rocky?"

"Will be good after Grace sleeps.” But he tapped lightly in return.

You took Ryland’s arm and led him toward the dorm.

"He likes you more than me," Grace muttered, glancing back.

"Don’t be jealous," you said quietly. You knew Rocky could hear every word anyway. And you also knew he’d still be listening.

The dorm lights were dim. Grace kicked off his Converse and set his glasses aside with zero precision. At some point, the two of you had pushed your mattresses together. One was too narrow. Two were better. Safer, and somehow less lonely.

He collapsed onto the bed with a long sigh. You sat against the wall, picking up a jumpsuit and examining the tear in the sleeve. Quiet work felt right while he rested. Maybe you’d put on an audiobook, there were still so many left in the archive.

"What are you doing?" His voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"I’ve got a suit to repair," you said, holding it up.

"Don’t be ridiculous. Come here."

"You need sleep."

"Yeah, and how am I supposed to sleep if you’re sitting over there?" He propped himself up, frowning. "It’s bad enough Rocky’s probably still listening, maybe watching too."

You sighed. You weren’t winning this one. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It’s science. Probably. I mean, there are studies…l, okay, I don’t remember them exactly, but it sounds like something science would support."

You raised an eyebrow. "That sounds made up."

"It is. But it’s also true."

"...Wow. Okay."

You slipped off your shoes and lay down beside him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the distant hum of the ship, the faint sounds of the lab far away.

Then…

"I’m really glad you’re here. I mean…not glad you’re on a suicide mission. That part is objectively terrible. But… you being here is not terrible." he said. "I mean…this whole situation sucks, obviously. But… yeah. I’m glad it’s you."

You smiled softly. "I’m glad too. Though I would’ve preferred meeting you under better circumstances. Dinner or something like this, maybe."

Ryland swallowed. "Wait…really? You mean, like… a date?"

"Yes. A date. If you wanted."

"Yes…” he said immediately. Too immediately. Then he froze. "I mean…yes. Hypothetically. In a purely theoretical, post-not-dying scenario…yes." 

You laughed. "Good. Then when this is over, that’s the first thing we’re doing."

He smiled, softer now. "Deal," he said, and paused. "That sounded too intense. I didn’t mean it like, okay, I’m going to stop talking now."

Your hand found his, your fingers threading together naturally. "You should be asleep," you murmured.

"Working on it." Grace yawned, his eyes already slipping shut. "My brain is currently running three parallel processes," he muttered. "One is exhausted, one is trying to solve the experiment, and one is… this." He gestured vaguely between you. "This one is the least efficient."

You smiled softly. "And which one is winning?"

"None," he mumbled. "Total system failure imminent."

You let out a quiet breath, your thumb brushing lightly against his hand.

"Dr. Grace," you said softly, "I once read a study that said hugging reduces stress. Don’t you think that, combined with your current research, we might…"

"I think that’s an excellent idea," he murmured, cutting in before you could finish. "Groundbreaking. Nobel Prize. Minimum."

His voice faded at the edges, words blurring as sleep caught up with him. You shifted closer, careful, resting lightly against him. For a second, he went still, just for a second,then relaxed. His breathing slowed, evening out, steady and warm beneath your cheek. You stayed like that, listening. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t what you would have chosen. But it was good. Somehow. 

Rocky was already waiting when you stepped back into the lab. "Grace sleep efficiency improved, question."

You blinked. “Yes?"

"Good. Rocky observations confirm."

Ryland groaned behind you. "Oh no. What did you observe?"

"Heart rate lower. Breathing stable. Grace not stupid during sleep."

You pressed your lips together. "Rocky…"

"Also," he added, "proximity to you increases Grace survival probability."

Ryland froze. "I…what?"

"Conclusion: you stay close to Grace. For science." A pause. "Rocky approve."

Ryland buried his face in his hands. "I’m never going to recover from this."

++++++

"How are you doing?"

Ryland’s voice came through the intercom in your helmet.

"She fine. Question."  Rocky said from somewhere in the background.

"It’s fine, Rocky. One more spot and I’m done," you replied.

You clipped yourself to the railing and moved along the Hail Mary’s hull. The damage wasn’t severe, but it needed fixing. The welder Rocky had modified worked perfectly, sealing the hull faster than expected. 

Even before you left the airlock, you had to deal with Grace. He didn’t like you going out alone, it made him anxious.

"I’ll be fine," you had told him, pulling on your suit. "Eat something. Get some rest. I know what I’m doing."

"I know," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I just… I worry, okay? You’re…I mean, you matter. To the mission. And…just… don’t die, okay?" 

"Okay," you smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "Two hours. I’ll be back."

He nodded, but it didn’t really reassure him.

"How are you doing?" he asked again now, over the intercom. "Not trying to be pushy. Rocky’s worried."

"Rocky is not worried. She knows what she is doing. Smarter than Grace."

You smiled. "A few more minutes. What if…"

The ship jolted. The welder slipped from your grip, but you caught it just in time. Another jolt.

"Something’s wrong with the engine…I think it’s a short…I’m fixing it…just…hold on… are you there? Can you hear me?" 

"I am, just…"

The next pull yanked you off the railing. The tether snapped tight, then recoiled like a whip, slamming you into the hull. Your head slammed into the helmet. A dull crack echoed in your ears. The air punched out of your lungs, nothing left, just panic and silence. 

"Grace! She needs help. Grace! Focus. Fix engine. Now." 

You couldn’t answer. Everything spun.

"Are you there? Can you hear me? Say something, please." 

"Quick, quick, quick."

Warmth spread across your lips. Metallic. Blood. Your fingers tightened around the welder pressed to your chest as another violent tug shook you. You grabbed the railing again, pain shooting through your arm.

"She there. Time critical. Grace, take her." 

The buzzing in your head grew louder. Nausea rolled through you. You clung to the railing, your only anchor. Your vision dimmed.

You were lying on something soft.

"Eye movement detected."

You tried to move, but a hand caught yours.  His thumb brushed over your knuckles before he let go, like he wasn’t sure he should. He pulled back a little too quickly. 

"Hey. Easy."

Ryland.

You opened your eyes briefly, too bright, then shut them again.

"You had a minor concussion," he said, voice quieter now. "Some bruising. You’re okay. Medical system patched you up. You scared us."

"You came for me?" you whispered.

"Of course I did," he said immediately. "Statistically, you’re my favorite person."

"There are no other people here, Grace," Rocky pointed out.

Your lips twitched. You touched your head and felt the bandage under your fingers.

"You should lie down," Ryland said.

"You’re not that kind of doctor."

"Still counts. You’re concussed. You don’t get opinions."

You let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. "You look tired."

"I’m not," he said quickly. "I’ll stay."

And he did.

When you woke again, hours had passed. Grace didn’t mean to fall asleep, his hand was still loosely wrapped around yours. Rocky watched over both of you.

Later, you managed to sit up. Then stand.

"I didn’t thank you," you said quietly as Ryland steadied you. "You saved me."

"You’d have done the same," he replied, watching you carefully. You scared us." He paused „You scared me." 

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. Just… next time, you’re staying inside."

Two days later, you were moving on your own again, though neither of them let you do any real work. After you failed to complete your work outside the ship, someone had to do it. The choice wasn't difficult, or rather, you no longer had a say.

"Grace worried. Very, very, very," Rocky said.

"I know," you replied, watching Ryland on the screen outside. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

"Grace heart rate changes when you speak." 

You smiled faintly. "I like him too. And I like you too, Rocky."

"Grace observes you. Often. When you not looking."

"Rocky, stop." You felt yourself blushing and a strange shiver ran down your neck.

"Why stop? This is data."

You blinked. You looked up from the screen and looked at your friend. "What? No, we’re just friends."

"Grace looks at you differently. You look at him that way also. Grace very worried."

You glanced back at the screen, Grace still working. You knew you would have followed him without hesitation, whether his life was in danger or he suddenly decided to fly to the other side of the universe.

"It’s complicated," you said softly. "Humans are complicated."

A click.

"I’m done," Ryland’s voice came through the radio. "Heading back."

"I’m waiting for you. Be careful."

You saw the thumbs-up and smiled. You didn’t see it, the way he smiled, just for a second. 

The airlock hissed open. You were already there waiting for him to help him with the suit. Ryland stepped inside, pulling off his helmet too fast, eyes finding you immediately.

"Hey," he said, a little breathless.

"Hey."

He crossed the distance without thinking. He ignored your hands that were waiting to take the helmet from him and threw it to the ground. "Don't do that again, don't go out there alone." he said quietly. "Please."

"I’ll try."

"That’s not…" he stopped, exhaled. "Okay. Fine."

His hand found yours, like it had before, but this time he didn’t hesitate.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “When I came back for you… I’ll never forget it. And being there now, I kept thinking about it.”

“You didn’t lose me, Grace.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I didn’t.”

But he didn’t move away, not even a little. You were standing too close now. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slower, more deliberate. The look in his eyes was different than usual. 

Your lips. Your eyes. Back again. Something shifted.

"Grace. Heart rate elevated."

Neither of you reacted.

"Significant. Cause: you."

You let out a soft breath, but neither of you pulled away. Ryland leaned in, closer. Close enough that you could feel his breath, uneven and warm. He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, like he was giving himself one last chance to stop.

"Data indicates—"

Ryland closed the distance. The kiss was soft and careful. A little unsure at first, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. Then his hand tightened slightly around yours, and something in him settled, and it was real. You touched his cheek gently, feeling his soft stubble under your fingers.

"—contact established," Rocky finished.

Ryland pulled back enough to look at you. His blue eyes were wide, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"…Okay," he breathed.

A beat of your heart.

"Statistically," he added quietly, "that was a good decision."

You laughed softly, and then he smiled, gently, a little crooked, but completely sincere. And this time, when he leaned in again, he didn't hesitate.

When everything around you was so crazy and dangerous, when you lived with the feeling that the end might soon come, this closeness was what you craved. What you deserved. What you wanted to wrest from fate together.

And it felt good.

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

You’re both right where you want to be.

And so you left to the medic tent to get your broken nose stuffed with gauze and wrapped properly, only returning to the bunks later that night. One of your closer teammates came to sit down beside you, a frown set on her face. “Did you piss him off or something? He looked soooo mad after.” She questions, confused by this sudden unusual behaviour– general’s son or not, he still had standards he needed to uphold. 

You shrug your shoulders, just wanting an early night's rest so you could catch up on training in the morning– a trip to the medic wasn’t an excuse for a break. “I didn't..do anything different. I didn't even say anything the entire time.”

“It’s not your fault.” You hear a voice pipe up from behind you, a boy you only met during training here. This was a necessary course for soldiers at your level, so your actual team wasn't here with you. He comes over and hands you a water bottle, a frown set on his face as he sits on the bunk opposite. Technically women and men had different tents, but it wasn't time to turn in for bed just yet. “He’s General Shepherd’s son.”

The name rings a bell in your head but you can't exactly figure out from what, and instead you just gratefully take the water bottle. “Thanks. I guess it's just another stuck up nepo baby.. Huh?”

The two of them nod in response, chuckling quietly just in case he happens to be lurking nearby. Hopefully if you just stay in your lane then he’ll leave you alone.

—----------------------

He did not in fact leave you alone even once.

You had tried nearly every single possible approach to fix this situation but it was like the target was permanently nailed to your body in bright neon red. He yelled at you constantly with corrections during training, and then some more when you sparred with others. When the simulated exercises came around, your name was at the top of every list of concern along with a stupid reason circled beside it. Every time you corrected your previous mistakes, new ones appeared, and to your dismay, the other instructors wouldn't bat an eye to your pleas for some guidance. That’s the worst part really; you hadn't actually even complained about the harsh treatment at all, only ever asking for them to show you what you were doing wrong.

You began to realise quickly that this wasn’t as much of a problem on your half, but a result of a vendetta you hadn't even been aware of. After asking nearly every instructor, not one could give you a solid improvement you could actually do in each of the situations. Besides, his complaints started to become obviously stupider by the day.

“Really? He got annoyed because my shoe wasn't tied twice?!” You throw your hands up in the air as your friend practices their stitching skills on you, trying to close up a particularly nasty wound on your shoulder.

“I know it’s rough but will you please stop moving so much!” She yelps as blood starts to spill and you give her a sheepish look, keeping still as best as you can as she cleans the wound again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just –Ow! Are you really sure you know how to stitch?” You hiss as she drags the needle through the sore skin, wincing as you turn to her with a very obvious frown.

“I do! I’m just..” She finishes it as fast as she can, tying it off with a satisfied look, hands planting on her hips. “Ay not that bad! I mean.. It looks closed?”

You roll your eyes, rolling your shoulder to check the pain and surely enough the stitches don't break nor does it seriously ache.  “It’ll do. My point is, i’m not even going to even pass the course at this rate! What the hell is the point of all of this then?”

“You just have to keep pushing through it, okay? Everyone knows he’s being extra harsh anyway, they’re just too afraid to speak against him.” It was true; someone had to be a serious idiot to not see the obvious problem he has with your mere existence. With a soft sigh, you nod along to her words– maybe she was right. In some weird way, you were just his stress ball, and he’d probably be squeezing you until this course is over. But he wouldn’t pop you surely, you hadn't actually done anything deserving of it.  

—-----------------

“That’s it, everyone stop. None of you are getting any food because of this.” 

You’ve only placed one carrot in your mouth, just like your friend who sits beside you, so surely this can't be your fault this time. So naturally you let your fork drop back against the plate, blinking at the others who also don't dare to question why he suddenly spoke.

“We do not raise pigs in the military.” He scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he walks over to a soldier who dared to keep chewing, snatching his tray out of his hands and placing it on the side. 

“And she is a direct example of this. You wait for everyone to sit before you eat, and you do not take a portion for a man.” He sneers as he walks around to you, plucking the plate from before you and dumping it directly in the bin. The whole team stops and turns their heads towards you the second he announces it, leaving you burning with unexplainable shame. 

This wasn't even your fault– you didn't make the portion sizes, in fact the workers used to give the women less and even on the self-serve areas you did so because you didn’t want to feel sick during your sneaky training when everyone was asleep. Mind that fact, there has never even been a rule to only eat once everyone's arrived in the month you’ve already been here for. 

“Get out! Now!” You stand up straight as he yanks at your shirt and shoves you towards the door, You stumble but keep yourself silent, already leaving before you get personally targeted even more.

—--------------

Everyone’s looking at you strangely, and people don't even let you speak in their direction before they’re walking away. They glare at you for every yelled word, for every extra lap you never provoked, and especially the countless times the hot water has been cut for your group.

You sit by the lake not too far from the camp, trying to reign all the muddled feelings as you scrub at your hair with the salty water. Today your own teammates banned you from entering the showers, and the worst part was that they couldn't even do it with hatred in their eyes.

“Listen– you can't be here, okay? If you’re here, he’ll punish us all and we don't want that.”

“But I'm not even doing anything wrong! I’ll even take the cold water –”

And that’s how you ended up trudging down here, trying not to think too hard about whatever is bubbling beneath the water on the other side of the rocks. Just the other day you had to get a friend to sneak you a bread roll because of the food incident. What the hell would be next?

You didn't want to admit it but you were actually afraid, especially with how you wouldn't even blame your friends if they chose to stop talking to you as well. What if you really had been causing problems this entire time? 

And you couldn't stop it if you tried. After all, you've been sleeping outside for the past week with new wounds appearing daily. You always promised that you’d push through everything, every rude instructor and pretentious high ranks too. You swore you wouldn't let it get to you, but you could feel it slipping past, eating at you. 

—--------------------

The end of the course couldn't have come any slower, and everyone received their passing results save for the few who genuinely had caused nothing but issues in the other team. Then there was you– you who had him sneer in your face as you went home with no certification. Apparently since he had been the one assigned to grading you, that meant he had all the right to decide whether you passed or not. This time you didn't pick yourself back up– you had a small feeling he preferred when you had your face against the dirt– figuratively and literally.

You return to base and sit at the edge of a truck with silence towards you, even if it is all over. Maybe they believed he could still revoke their certifications too. Either way you left the truck last as the rain poured down, the contents of your bag spilled across a muddy puddle. You can't even blame him for this– it could be absolutely any of them.

Dragging the ruined fabrics inside, you ignore the looks others give your sodden state. Was Simon on deployment? What would he say when he found out you did all of that just to completely fail? This wasn't fair– you had tried so hard, you worked so hard just to be thrown under the bus because one guy didn't like the way you looked.

“Miss, you need to come with me.” You blink at the obvious higher rank standing right infront of your room door, and pause.

“Huh?”

You barely get a chance to question why when another three come out from around the corner and you immediately drop your things. “I didn't—I've— did he report me or something? I never—“

“Do not resist soldier, or we will use force.”

“Sorry— sorry, okay!” You hold your hands up high, realising this is not some kind of joke especially when two have guns pointed directly at you and something tells you they are not afraid to shoot someone as insignificant as you.

Two of the men come and grab your arms, restraining them behind your back as you squirm before eventually going lax— clearly you couldn’t do anything else but let this happen.

—————-

You’re escorted to an interrogation room, all your belongings stripped off you and then your hands locked into handcuffs on the table. Anxiously you bite at your lip— what the hell was actually going on? Eating more than you should did not lead to rooms like these nor measures this serious.

 A lady on the older side enters the room clutching files, her badge reading CIA.  “I want you to tell me everything that happened over the past weeks.” So you do— from when you arrived at your first meeting with entering the base, not forgetting the details of the General’s son's hatred for you. Of course, you had to phrase it differently though; even you weren't immune to being afraid of him.  So his obvious bullying and harassment turned into him not liking you often and punishing you multiple times a day. And you just had to accept that.

She notes down the details, along with her own information, trying to see if it connects or not. A lie or the truth? You knew you were being honest, but she didn't, and that meant you may even be considered the enemy as of right now. 

“You’ve been accused of leaking information, files from Captain Price’s office.” The woman suddenly says as she closes the file, stares hardened towards you. “I’ll give you one chance to confess.”

“I would never do that ever, Ma’am.” You shake your head adamantly but she doesn't seem too impressed. What the hell was she talking about– Did someone really report you for a crime this serious? Wouldn't Simon know you’d never do that?

Would he not defend you?

Obviously you want to argue, shake your head adamantly, and insist you’d absolutely never ever do that under any circumstances. But something tells you they won't believe you and just their opinions on you wont be enough.

You’re escorted to a sort of holding cell, consisting of a small room and bathroom and wake up groggily the next morning. Unfortunately, still in your soaked clothes, a cold is probably about to clog your throat. 

And you just wait, hoping for them to come and get you, saying they’re sorry for the mistake and it was a misunderstanding. You wait past breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for a day on end. They gave you new attire on the second day thankfully, but you still couldn't get an ounce of sleep in fear. The other convicts in the other rooms were loud sometimes, violent and you’d see the guards run across, detaining them. On the third day you were taken for a medical exam. The regular ones were intrusive as it is, but paired with the non stop troubles this whole month, the prodding and poking at all your injuries didn't help. 

It’s only on the fifth day, when you drag yourself to sit upright, does a key jingle in the lock of your door. “Good you’re up, we’re going.” The guard opens the door and you stand, quietly letting him cuff you and bring you back to the interrogation room once more.

Your eyes widen in relief when Price appears in the doorway, lips parting in surprise. Though immediately you shut up on seeing the Captain’s harsh gaze directed onto you as he enters the room. Beside him is the same woman from the CIA before. 

If you speak out of turn, would they suspect you more? But if you only speak when spoken to, would they think you were trying to be calculated?

———————————

“I would never look at any of his files— he always keeps his drawers locked too! Ask him— he’ll tell you. He won't even tell me the country his missions are in—”

Even with your constant denying, they kept going through the claims against you. And with every single one, came another forged evidence. Supposed notes with your signature, pictures and videos taken out of context, testimonies from the people with you for the past few weeks.

Well, she was always getting into trouble for one thing or the other.. just to get sent to the infirmary too sometimes. I reckon she didn't even go, could’ve looked around for all we know.

She hardly slept with us for the past week or so, and she’d regularly go to the lake on her own. I saw her on the phone once or twice too.

She always muttered to herself and scribbled down notes when no one was looking— then she’d stash it with her other stuff.

How could you even argue against that? You did all of those things, but without the context you did try to give.. they didn't believe you.  You couldn’t find it in yourself to try and fight any longer when they announced they’d be detaining you for a few days until the allegations were investigated properly. All you could do is fall quiet, give up slowly, knowing that it was your word against whatever higher up wanted you out of the picture.

——————

“Ghost, ah’m sure that it’s not them. He’s playin’ games with us— ye know this!” Soap pats a hand on the back of Ghost where they stand behind the one sided glass, watching your interrogation unfold.

He knows in his chest that it isn't you, deep in his heart, just from how you struggle and desperately argue the reasons for every single incriminating evidence that matches up so well. But Simon never trusts his heart, no it’s far too erratic most nights and he’s been in this job long enough to know when to keep it locked behind bars.

This all started a month ago, when he left for a mission during your course. An ally had betrayed them, or rather prioritised their own needs over lives.

“You know, Ghost, you really should look deeper at who you keep close to.” The American had laughed in his face as he called for his men, his arms crossed over his chest. “Just a thought.”

It only spiralled from there— he knew and trusted the team, but who else was there outside of it? The receptionist he passed by in the mornings? The lady in logistics he discussed plans with? The man in admin who handled file transfers? 

You?

You.

He had drowned himself in nearly every single file when he returned from that mission, looking for every link to you even if it was something as stupid as when you slipped on a bar of soap and bruised your ass. Yes, that is in your medical records to your dismay. He found nothing in the slightest that could tie you to leaking secrets or the like. Sure you slept in his bed and occasionally used his desk as a hard surface when he didn't mind, but he always kept most important files locked away. 

Then a report came from the parent team instructing you, supposedly anonymous but it seemed to be a soldier not worth mentioning anyway. You were acting strange. Sleeping outside of the tents, always sneaking off, causing trouble. Before that you had skittish behaviour when he got injured, sure he had been.. affectionate with you but what if that was a scheme too? Had he really fallen for it?

So he ignored every message you sent whilst at that camp, if anything giving you the driest responses possible to make sure you didn't try and run. It hurt him, especially when you’d try and subtly complain, too afraid to say too much else the instructors caught you bad mouthing them. You sent sad faces all the time, sometimes a voice message that would be deleted after, and he assumed you must’ve been so choked up on tears that you couldn't keep it there longer than a few minutes.

“She’s still denying.” Price reenters the room as you sit alone now, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. “I showed her the evidence found in her belongings and she still won't confess.”

“That’s because she’s not the one who leaked the information.” Soap scoffs, elbowing Ghost in tandem, waiting for him to agree. “Ghost can confirm that, can’t he? Graves is just being a fuckin’ prick.”

“We can’t rule it out, Johnny.” Ghost says all too solemnly and Soap’s elbow falters, body going lax as he looks up at his lieutenant in shock. 

“You can't be serious—”

“He’s right.” Price butts in, a frown set on his face. “Both of you should go, I don't want anyone thinking we’re getting biased here.”

Reluctantly Soap follows Ghost out of the room, but as he’s about to question him about what he just said, he’s already down the corridor. What the hell were they doing? This wasn't right in the slightest– how could they not blatantly see that it wasn't you?!

“How is it going?” Before he had even realised, he had made his way to the rec room and was standing before the kitchenette where Gaz was boiling water. Their mugs were already set on the counter, the steam slowly rising out of the kettle as he pours the coffee grains inside.

“Nowhere– she hasn't confessed because it’s not bloody her.” Soap huffs in response, bracing his palms on the counter as he huffs, watching the water turn the mugs to a murkier colour. At least Gaz understands, nodding along in tandem to his words, though that’s probably why they're both still sergeants. Sitting back and having to listen to the evidence is never fun.

“Let me guess, Price told you that we can't argue the facts against her?” He raises a brow, already knowing that he’d state the same thing he always does. Either way it makes Johnny snort. 

“Not this time, but he implied it pretty fucking clearly when he glared at me.” He takes the mug with a small thank you before following him over to the couch, slouching against him all too quickly. “Don’t get me started on Ghost either– just sat there and watched.”

“Anything he turns in might end up being biased. Stupid too, if anyone knows her best it’s him.. I just cant understand why her team mates would lie too—-”

Before Gaz can finish, the door slams open, heavy boots approaching and they both look up as Ghost rips his mask off, and drops a pile of files in their before them.

“Second Lieutenant Shepherd.” He practically growls the words out, seething and they both look down in shock as they flicker through the logs of him being on that same trip as you, big circles around your name and connecting to the descriptions in a few of the witness testimonies. “The bastard has been framing her– and of course he’s the son of the General.”

“He may as well swear his allegiance to Graves than play these stupid games..” Johnny scoffs but pats Ghost's knee as he sits in front of them, still with his blood boiling. “We just need the proof now.”

“He must’ve threatened everyone else on that course. No wonder she was sleeping outside and going to the lake– he must’ve gave her no other option.” Gaz scoffs, equally as annoyed and Ghost nods along to his words. 

“We’ll force the information out of them then– one of them has to spill.” 

“Wait–” He stops Ghost as he begins to stand again, hand catching his sleeve. “I’ll do it. I think I have an idea that’ll work.”

—---------------------------------------------

Today you don't have the luxury of Price, no you’ve had a much harsher man who seemed like he wanted your blood personally painting his office. The questions were invasive, non stop and forceful, especially when he dug through your phone and looked through the messages you had sent to others.

You weren't some kind of double agent by complaining about the instructor, you were just another useless soldier regretting all the life choices that led you to sniffling over the phone to your friend back at base. He kept putting words in your mouth too, leaving you scrambling to defend yourself while he tried to use it against you, constantly interrupting and riling you up.

“Fine, you think you’re such a smart girl lying like this? Well, the General just approved for.. new methods to be used in our next meeting.” He snarls towards you, almost beginning to laugh to himself as he looks at the files a lowly private passed him. “Do you want to admit to anything now?”

You didn’t of course you didn't, stupid you, still being stubborn and so you were dragged back to that cell once more. This time your pillow is soaked from your tears, face buried in the flat thing as you do your best to contain it. Why hadn’t Simon contacted you once? Was he really out on a solo deployment?

He hadn't responded to any messages while you were at the camp and he hadn't come to see you once in this holding cell, even Soap had tried to get a peek at you sneakily whilst you were escorted away. Why the hell were you crying pathetically in here anyway? Well, probably because you were getting tortured by the organisation you signed up to and for something you hadn't even done.

—

“Of course, his bastard son.” Laswell scoffs as Price looks at the evidence given by his fuming Lieutenant, practically itching to just kill. 

“Unfortunately it’s not proof enough— especially his rank. We need witnesses and confessions.” Price’s fingers grip the edge of the paper a little too harshly, trying his best to stay sane in the current situation. There was no holding back though when there was blatant proof you were innocent.

“Kyle’s gathering it.” Soap speaks up, a frown set on his face since he unfortunately had been told he’d just scare the rookies off altogether if he tried

“..Good. Ghost, come with me, we need to buy them some time.”

—---------------------------------

“You think that General’s son gives a shit about you? She’s about to get fuckin’ sliced up in there if you dont tell me the truth right now and you will be next.” His finger points at the chest of one of your prior teammates who is pressed up against the wall and likely about to piss himself. 

Soap had sworn he wouldn't come near and yet here he was, staring around the corner and fighting the urge not to record the scene before him– he did not even know Kyle was capable of something so.. aggressive. But then again, they were all on the same team for a clear reason.

Naturally the rookie agreed quickly, telling him everything and confirming what they had heard from two others already. That was more than substantial evidence, and now they just had to get it back as fast as possible.

—————————————-

“That’s enough!” Price’s voice echoes out in the cold dark room you’re in, except you can't see him with the blindfold tight over your eyes.

“They approved—“ The man interrogating you starts to speak only for a rustle of clothing to immediately sound out, along with Price’s stern voice. 

“I said enough. Why don't you make sure your witnesses aren't bribed before you start pointing fingers?” He argues, and all of a sudden someone’s slightly cold hands are on your face, unwrapping your blindfold.

You blink as light  reaches your eyes for the first time in hours— maybe the first stop to this interrogation was by depriving you to make you go insane. Either way you’re glad to see Kyle as he fusses over you, making sure they haven't laid a hand on you. 

He helps you upright, knowing your legs are probably wobbly from being sat still for so long and you hold onto his arm. Was it really all over?

“We’re going.” Price nods for you and Gaz to follow, and you look back one last time, eyes catching onto a glint of metal. It’s coming from a tray set near the chair you were tied to— sharp edges and in various sizes. Like ones you’d see in a butcher's shop.

—-

“I’m sorry Captain..” You sigh, rubbing at your arm to ease the anxiety buzzing through you as Kyle holds you close. He looks pissed, and he doesn't even answer, just shakes his head at you before continuing to walk.  

Eventually you reach a meeting room and you’re ushered in, only to come face to face with the woman who you talked to initially.

“Ma’am.” You salute in respect, even if you wince with the movement. Even if it’s only been days in that, it feels like years. What if it wasn't the end..? What if they had decided worse for you?

“Apologies for.. before. Thanks to the 141, there’s more than enough evidence to prove you’re innocent.”

All you can do is just nod firmly to her words, suddenly feeling very small in this room with elite soldiers. You’re not sure even why this is the only time you’ve felt the gap between you too, but it’s stronger than ever. It dissolves quickly however when you make eye contact with Simon across the table, your promise to him before only replacing the feeling with guilt instead.

“We need you to tell us everything you heard about the General’s son. No reservations this time.”

So you do, for the next couple of hours, answering any questions they have. They mainly just want to know how he acted, anything awfully suspicious, or anything you even heard that you wouldn’t typically repeat.

“How did he act in training?” Price asks, and the woman you now know to be Laswell glances towards you too.

“He was harsh on me, but other than that he knew his stuff, I didn't doubt for a second he was a professional. The way he handled situations just made him feel like a nepo baby..”

“Handle situations?” 

“He’d blow up on us like it was bootcamp— well, he blew up on me. Not so much anyone else unless they did something that actually would call for it..” You shrug, half expecting them to want to know more about what he did to you. As if remembering, the scars and bruises throbbing along your arms, rubbing against the hardness of this chair.

Thankfully they had gotten you water to chug down, which you’d been sipping non stop to try and keep yourself awake. All the sleep you had gotten since coming back was barely any better than what you had there, probably worse with your body aching and sore. 

“Alright that’s it for now. Kyle, Johnny, c’mere and look at…”

Their voices start to fade out in your ears as they move to all stand around the table, Simon forced to put his back to you and concentrate on the task at hand. Besides, as long as you were out of immediate danger, it’d be fine. 

You were starting to question if it was really okay for them to speak about important topics when you were sitting right here. It’s not like he dismissed you anyway, and you’re too nervous to even think about asking for anything. You probably shouldn't try to play victim either— as far as they knew, you came back from camp probably tired that's all, and unfortunately had to go in the cold cells for a couple of days whilst this went down. Hardly the crime of the century.

Right.. it’s not important, you should just sit quietly and obediently, do absolutely anything you can to not make Price glare at you again like he had in the interrogation room. Anything—

“Hey— Earth to Rookie?”

You snap out of it, eyes drooped to see Kyle standing above you, a concerned look over his face. Suddenly you see the entire room staring at you, and you swallow quickly. “S-sorry, i was just making sure I didn't forget anything. Did you want something?” 

Oh shit, Price is staring at you again, what if he really does get angry again? Any CO getting angry was nothing compared to having this Captain’s glare on you— half because of the sharpness but closer to the fact you know he absolutely does have the intention and execution behind each one.

His looks do kill.

“Do you want to go back to your room?” He asks, his words going slower in your tired brain and you freeze. Was this a trick question? 

“W-whatever’s easier for you, sir.” You stammer out, much to your dismay, but at least you seem a bit more awake now.

“Go, you need the rest. Kyle, go get her food and come back when you’re done. We have a lot to talk about.”

A sinking guilt starts to form in your gut as the sergeant listens to his captain immediately— had you really ruined their whole meeting because you were a bit tired? Oh- no, no, this is wrong— you didn't mean that!

“C’mon. The cell food definitely wasnt good.” Kyle gently wraps a hand around your arm and you stand almost immediately, glancing between all of them. Simon definitely wouldnt be back tonight.

—---------------

He screenshots the uber receipt, ready to ask a favour of a fellow soldier to bring the food here when it arrives– he definitely won't let you go and get it. Just as he sends the message you come out of the shower, now dressed in more comfortable clothes, and stinking less of damp now. 

“I got someone to grab food for you, here I grabbed a few drinks from the rec room too.” He gestures to the small table where he has his favourites, and the few he’s seen you drink too. But he pauses when he looks up at you, catching a glimpse of marks beneath your sleeves. 

“During training..” You mumble, because why should he care further– they’ve gotten much worse than this and come out smiling. If you were a strong soldier, you wouldn't dare to complain even if it was because of unjust treatment.

‘When you’re in a real fight, you won't be whining about what's fair and what's not, your only focus will be to survive.’

That’s what they’ve drilled into your head, even more so in that interrogation room with that man. A real soldier doesn't tell such lies to comfort themselves– they accept the facts for what they are worth.

“Maybe you should swing by the infirmary tomorrow?”

“Yeah, i will.” You probably shouldnt worry him any further else he starts to think you’re stupid and self sacrificing too. Besides, that medical exam you had for the interrogation didn't actually do much but take note of your injuries, and even then they didn't seem to care too much. Almost like they wanted to find things against you.

“Okay.. i’ll see you tomorrow. Try and get a good sleep okay?”

He leaves you for the night, and you dont get spend much more dwelling the past days, or the past months, falling into a deep sleep immediately. Though a small part of you does shuffle up to the side of the bed in hopes Simon would sink down next to you by morning.

-------------------------------------------------------

PART TWO

AAA part 1 is out mcfinally anywayi hope you guys like this and pt2 will drop soon :)

decided to drop this b4 my exam tmr so at least i have something to be happy about. wish me luck guys im mcterrified

rookie masterlist Support me with kofi!!

taglist:

——

It all started the day after, when you returned to training with your group.

“Oh, you’re joining us today? Sergeant Mactavish said you might take a break.” 

“They tried to make me but I knew i’d be bored out my mind. It’s okay, I want to train.” You give a forced smile as if your cheeks will hide the eyebags before starting your warmups like everyone else. One of them claps you on the back, giving you a grin and mentioning how they missed you for the time you had been gone.

 Even training goes well too, like you never left. At one point you had almost frozen up when you were beaten by your opponent, but your instinct kicked in immediately and you scrambled backwards. The Second Lieutenant loved to see you writhing.

Whatever the circumstances, you swore you’d act like everything was okay. The last thing you wanted was to cause any more trouble for the 141. 

“Good round, kid.” Your teammate helps you up, grasping your hand to pull you to your feet. “You lost a bit of weight on that course..” He raises a brow at you and then awkwardly pats your shoulder. “Anyway, you did good, and you look stronger too!”

Stronger? Is that what the torture of that course had really done to you?

“Hey— you okay? You look like you’ve seen a gh—“

“Forgot I had to run an errand straight after training. I need to go.” You pull out of his worried grip, his hand left awkwardly in the air as you grab your bag hastily and leave the room with the door thudding shut.

Your chest is tight, like you’re feeling the result of six weeks of abuse all in one moment because of one stupid comment. How did it make you better? It was hell, it was unfair, everyone there turned against you and—and—

“Mactavish— have you done the work I asked you to do?”

There’s about three seconds before you get caught and you dash into the electrical closet, holding the handle so abnormally tight that the red marks start to bloom across your palm. 

Dont come in here, dont come near here. Please dont see me— please dont—

You only let out a sigh of relief when they finally turn down the corridor, chest heaving as you struggle to come to terms with it all.

————-

It’s been a day or so since that.. happened. But still lunchtimes were always more dreadful. Especially since you still aren't let out of that forsaken team who really doesn't want you around. To be fair, they’ve been less vocal about their opinions on you recently, or maybe it’s because you just let any fight you had left die out altogether.

“Wow.. you actually lost a few kilos? I never thought I'd see the day.” One of them mutters, but only a few snickers pass around compared to the usual. It wouldn't typically bother you, and you didn't explicitly react anyway. Yet something in you just stilled for a moment, bile churning in your stomach at the thought. 

This is what you had wanted—to be approved by them.

So why did it feel so wretched?

You know why— deep down you do. It’s because the Second Lieutenant is the reason for this. Because he picked on you and ostracised you, kept your portion sizes one fit for weak prey and not predators like everyone else is supposed to be. He forced this on you.

How could you even complain? Not when they’re smiling in your face, praising the change about you, the obedience in your actions, the quick reactions.

Even if you’re unworthy, even if you were just forced to adopt all of those traits because that's only what the situation allowed for. Would they shame you if they knew the truth? Would they call you weak for thinking you’re the victim? 

You swallow down the bite harshly, so much so you can feel the edges cut against your throat as you force it down. “I didn't do it on purpose.” is all you can say, a weak defence. Then you stand, dumping the scraps and leaving the mess hall.

——

The gym is thankfully empty and you’ve been waiting all week for it to be. It reminds you of all the nights you stayed up, trying to perfect your technique, trying to be accepted for once.

No matter how hard you push your limits, your muscles still cry out in pain, just as your head is consumed by flashbacks of those weeks. Still, you keep pushing to just fight back even a little, to prove you’re enough despite it all. That you’re not weak, and you can handle it, certification or not.

“Drink a little, catch ye breath before the next set.” Soap stands before you as you come up from a curl up, shocking you so much that you fall back against the mat. “Oops— didn't mean to scare ye.” He reaches down quickly to pull you back to sitting up before sitting on the bench nearby.

“S-sorry, I was thinking and you just.. caught me off guard.” Before you can ramble on any longer, you chug down half your water bottle instantly, making him raise a brow.

“Dont worry about it, bon. Just making sure you keep yourself healthy.” He flashes a grin at you, and you nod quietly to his words. Healthy. Not strong.. not thin or in good shape— Healthy.

You part your lips, wondering if you can really ask for this, if he’ll laugh in your face and say he’d beat you in seconds. What if he’s busy too? 

“Y’need something?”

“N-no, it’s alright. Was just hoping you hadnt caught me doing too easy of a set, it’s only warmups i promise.” You joke and he laughs, shaking his head. 

“Don’t know what yer talking about; this is the hardest part of my workout.” He gives you one last chuckle before leaving you to it again, a wave of relief settling over you.

——————

“Are you holding up okay? You’ve been pretty.. quiet, all week now.”

Now you’re here, Simon staring at you as you unravel your boots. You don't know what had even happened in the past week—everything had been one massive blur.

The nights started being more sleepless, always rolling around and waking up with a tight chest. The comments made by people didn't help either, even if they weren't intended to be rude.

Time started to blend into each other, your mornings started to feel like a schedule and every conversation wasnt worth remembering. You were living like autopilot, and you couldnt really even care. 

“I’m just trying to get back into routine…” You mumble out and he wants to call you out on your lying but he really can't this time. He’s been barely around, only giving you a few minutes of his time because he really cant afford anything with this current Shepherd situation. Still, he doesnt like not talking to you like this— hell, he feels like there’s a shift between you two and he hates it.

“Seems to be more than that.” He mutters, letting out a soft sigh as he stands from your bed. Slowly he makes his way to your drawers, pulling out a fresh shirt and joggers for you to wear to bed. “You sleeping in mine or am i coming to yours?”

“It’s Thursday..”

Your eyes do seem to widen a little bit, excited at the prospect even if it’s a weekday and out of his rules. But it’s still much duller than the reaction he was hoping for.

“I want to. When i come out, you better have made your mind up” He doesnt wait for your answer, tossing his mask on his bed as he heads into the bathroom.

—

“Thought you liked my bed better..” He mumbles as he finds you sat on your own, following close behind. He watches as you quietly slide beneath the covers, slipping behind instantly after you settle. “We wrapped up everything concerning the Second Lieutenant. He won't bother you again.”

He lays on his back beside you, an arm laid out which you tuck yourself beneath. His hand curls in your hair, gently scratching at your scalp before tugging you closer until you’re forced to roll over, face pressing against his bicep. “So you’ll be back earlier now?”

“Yeah, no more disappearing. For a good while at least.” 

You nod quietly, letting an arm fall across his chest, gently gripping the thin shirt he’s wearing. He continues to move his fingers across your head, stroking gently as your eyes fall shut. Something isnt right with you, but he doesn't know how to point it out after all this time. Especially after everything that happened to you. He can't exactly nose into all your business.

“How about I help you with some training tomorrow?”

At that you stiffen, and he’s suddenly afraid he had said the wrong thing entirely. Instead you look up at him, slightly propping yourself up on your elbows. “Really? You’ll train me?”

“Yeah? Why not? Good for both of us, I reckon. I want to see how much you learned at that course too.”

———————————

“Lieutenant– you’re here already?” You tilt your head as you exit to see him there standing outside the room you just had scheduled training in and he nods, beckoning you to follow which you instantly do.

“Course I did. Promised, I'd help you today, wouldn't I?" You nod eagerly at his words, following him outside so you don't have to push through the bustle of soldiers just to get there. There’s a few teams out on the track, a grouped session it seems, and you’re naturally drawn to the noise. 

“Ye got a minute Lt?” Johnny approaches up ahead, making you immediately nod, letting him delay your workout for a second. When he doesn't start immediately talking you get the hint, sheepishly smiling and heading over to a small bench to wait.

“It’s about the recent stuff with the Second Lieutenant..” He sighs and Simon raises a brow, assuming the past few nights he spent figuring it out with the Captain was more than enough. Had something changed?  “Price wouldn’t let me look, it’s her medical exam.”

“Thanks Johnny, i’ll read it when I can.” He pats him on the shoulder after taking the files from his hands, ignoring the concern rising. You’ve been doing okay, if he presses further you might get annoyed with him.

“Private, what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get out– now!”

Both of them turn their heads, not towards the Sergeant yelling across the field, but to your harsh flinch in their peripheral view. Your body had frozen up but you had reacted harsh enough that it was impossible to ignore.

“They’ve done that a few times, Simon..” Johnny sighs, having heard your CO mention it but he wasnt sure if he should report it not. You got startled sometimes– but this was totally different.

“I’ll.. look into it properly.” He stares down at the file as you take a deep breath to steady yourself, seemingly just noticing how you reacted. “Thanks again.”

He can't stop repeating the image in his head as you walk beside him, tapping away at something on your phone. You never even did anything wrong, clean as a slate compared the crimes of the taskforce. Even this medical file has him dreading everything; what would he find in there?

“Alright, come on.” He stills the anger thumping through him, concentrating on you as you stand before him on this mat, the room mostly empty. “Show me what you’ve got.”

———

His hand catches yours and you tense, already expecting the throw down. That wasnt just the Second Lieutenant who did that, your old teammates always finished a spar the same too. 

After all, a real fist fight wouldnt end after you surrender.

His do.

“Mmm, definitely a lot faster than the last time we did this. You really did a lot of work didn't you?” He doesnt let go of your hand, gently guiding it where he wants to demonstrate. “Try hit here next time, same move, just aim for this area, okay?”

You nod, trying not think too hard about the fact you can feel his pulse beating beneath your hand, or the slight rub of his thumb on your skin as he helps you. So, you start from the beginning, the same move, aiming there. He staggers back this time and your eyes widen in relief, before immediately panicking once you realise what you did.

“S-sorry should i have not gone that hard?! I didn't mean to—“

“Relax, I wouldnt be SAS if i couldnt handle a good hit or two every now and then.” He chuckles, patting your shoulder and finding his footing again. So you go again, and again, and each and every time he adjusts you correctly, even when your body braces for a blow it hardly ever comes.

It feels.. wrong.

“You’re going easy on me.” You’re chugging water again, like it’ll inject energy directly into your veins, but it’s the closest thing you have right now.

“I’m not gonna punch your teeth in, am I?” He rolls his eyes at your complaints, offering you a snack bar.. annoyingly it is your favourite. 

It’d be more concerning if you declined it though, so you reluctantly take it, ignoring the way your mouth waters at the thought of the dark chocolate drizzle on it. It’s been a while since you’ve had sugar, surprisingly. 

“You think im weak.” You huff in return, chewing down the first bite whilst feeling yourself start to thrum with life at something entering your system for the first time in hours.

“No one in your team is strong enough to go up against any SAS soldier.” He hums, poking your cheek just to rile you up until you're glaring at him. “And i dont think you’re weak. Don’t fancy dealing with an incident report today.”

“What would you do if i was a real traitor huh? You’d underestimate me, and then before you know if i’d kill you” With your hands planted on your hips, you challenge him, narrowing your eyes.

Unlucky for you, he just chuckles, shaking his head despite your faux serious demeanor. “I’d like you see you try. Now, come on, we’ve got half and hour until dinner.”

——————

You’re in the shower, scrubbing the grime of the day away and he collapses into his desk chair, rolling backwards from the force of it. Something was definitely wrong— there was no doubt about that, but he couldnt just say it outright. You had been a lot more happier today than the last two weeks.

His gaze drifts down to the files Johnny had handed him, and he glances one more time towards the bathroom door before opening it. The card rustles as he undoes the cover, revealing the medical reports beneath, just as he was told. The blood tests show your vitals were lower than usual, along with your measured weight— he’d consider that almost a dangerous low. 

To be honest, he had noticed the change himself, but you’d been dressing yourself in a way where it didn't seem this bad. He flicks to the next page, the documentation of injuries whilst out on the trip, delivered by a nurse who had been working there. 

You had broken your nose within the first week. 

The report states that it was an accident, but after hearing how your teammates confessed to Kyle about what happened, he knows it’s a severe understatement. With each page he turns, he only sees more and more injuries, small and big, but too many regardless.

A loose sheet falls out when he reaches the end, already sick to the stomach, and he recognises it as the information Kyle collected from your teammates. Their witness statements.

—————

The bathroom door clicks open and you stretch your arms above your head, wondering if you should dry your wet hair since it’s already nearing ten pm now. Though when you look up to see him sitting on your bed, his gaze set on you, you pause. 

“C’mere, we need to talk.”

The words are heavy, but not harsh, and somehow that scares you a little more. In a way he feels like the Captain did in that interrogation room— what if the accusations were back again? Your heart thumps erratically in your ears as you step forward, your clothes sticking to your damp body like a rope around your limbs. “Lieutenant, I—“

“You never call me by my name anymore.” He suddenly says, and you stand before him— this time you’re the one looking down at him. 

“I.. in the interrogation room it felt like i’d get in trouble if i did. I just.. i didn't want it to make it worse than it was.” You stammer out, already well aware that you hadnt addressed any of them by anything other than their rank for weeks now. It felt wrong to pretend you were actually on their level.

He reaches out, hand wrapping around your wrist in a way that has your eyes locked onto him, fighting to not brace for impact like you usually would. Instead he pulls you forward, a small tug that you easily follow, until you’re standing between his knees, his eyes staring up at you. There’s silence for a few moments, and he takes advantage of it to slowly move your sleeve upwards. 

“You lost a lot of weight..” He wants to say more, you can tell, but the feeling that’s been attacking you all week suddenly comes back full force, making you swallow. You should’ve known he’d prefer it too. “Y-yeah.. everyone keeps saying that.”

“They’re worried about you too..”

You pause for way too long, and he notices, propping himself up so he can look over at you. “Y’alright? You dont feel ill or somethin’, do you?”

“No- no, it’s just.. a lot of people were glad that’s all. Happy I lost weight.”

“What?” His tone is sharper than usual, and he suddenly turns you around to face him, his eyes narrowed and almost pissed. “I’ll support whatever you want, but this isn't healthy to lose weight this fast. Why would they even say that?”

“Simon..” You begin, his sudden words throwing you off guard. Where everyone else had praised the lasting effects of the abuse, he had validated your feelings— but now it just feels wrong. 

He just shakes his head, the rise and fall of his chest too heavy for you to challenge. Now he sees it right before him; the marks where the stitches would’ve been, the fresh pink scars, and the faintest remains of the extensive bruising that was pictured in your files.

“Turn around.” He murmurs and you do, letting him lift you to sit atop his knees and you feel the cool air hit your back as he witnesses the marks back there even worse than the others. Even with the week passed, he can tell— he knows what was here before.

The shirt falls again, arms now snaking to your middle as he pulls your back flush against his chest. “Why didn't you tell any of us?”

“It’s part of the job. You all get scraped up too.” You mumble, tensing when he lets out a heavy exhale, only for him to shake his head against your hair.

“No. This is not part of the job, sweetheart. This is not right—” His words are angry in your ear, fingers grasping the fabric of your shirt as his arms tighten.

“I-it’s bad luck. He just didn't like me— it happens to everyone.” 

That’s what they all told you— he was a nepo baby, you just have to deal with it. It’s his way of discipline. There isnt any such thing as unfair or unjust— fairness doesnt exist on a battlefield.

“And who the fuck told you that, huh?”  He turns you around in his grip, forcing you to look at him and his narrowed brows. He’s pissed, and you know it’s not aimed at you and yet still it makes you freeze up. “That’s bullshit. No one in authority should ever be sending a soldier to bed looking like this— even if they’re a right twat. You hear me?”

“Simon— we were training, it’s my own fault for not dodging effectively. If I had been just a bit better—“

“Dont say that.” 

You pause, looking up to see his eyes shut, one hand pinching his brow as he grimaces. “Training is called that for a reason. You learn the moves, and you practice them. Your instructor doesnt let you feel the effects of a true fight until he knows you can. He abused you, and no one fucking stood up for you.”

You knew that. Of course you fucking knew that. 

This entire time you’ve been well aware of what he did to you, how cruel it was. You feel the pain every morning when you wake up, every time you hear a voice rise too high or even worse a hand coming too close. You knew but everyone else refused to.

“I’m not weak.” 

“I didn't say—“

“I’m not!” You pull away as he tries to pull you closer, standing before him again. The beat of your heart is pumping hard and you wish your arms could wrap around yourself to contain it tight. 

“I- i worked hard the entire time! W-when he cut me off from the s-showers i went down to the lake, when he wouldn't let me eat i rationed- it’s— it’s not— i cooperated for the e-entire interrogation a-and—“ 

You choke on your own words, feeling that sickness rise in your throat, the guilt and shame swelling it shut. It’s all too much— the throbbing where the bruises once were, the cold bed of the cell, the growl of your stomach. Your palms push hard at your eyes, rubbing the skin raw and red as you force any sense of wetness down— down back into your body. Soldiers don't feel like this— they don't complain and they listen to orders exactly as told. They don't question the system.

“I got through it..I did everything like I was told.”

You mumble through hiccups, making your throat jump as your eyes squeeze shut. “Why is that not enough? Why won't you all just let it go already?” The dam breaks, sobs leaking onto your palms despite your best efforts.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that— none of this is because of you.” He stands, reaching a hand out hesitantly but deciding against it as you continue to sob, sleeves already way past damp.

“It’s been a whole week and i’m still in pain— i’m still acting like this. I- i didn't even get the certification Simon!” This time you turn away, cheeks glistening in the lamplight as you hiccup, too embarrassed of yourself to face him. “It has to be my fault.. you never even responded to my messages once.”

This time, he truly has no answer for. He was planning to tell you why, he really was. But then he got so angry seeing that they took advantage of your proximity to the team and used you as leverage like that. The General of all people stooped that low.

When he just sighs, sitting back down on your bed, you finally take a glance at him, having managed to settle the tears for a few seconds. He looked exhausted and entirely done with all of this. You couldnt help but feel the guilt weigh heavy on your chest.

Every single time he’s forced to comfort you. Rumours, illness, menstrual pain, anxieties and even your own pitiful insecurities. You should’ve known from the first day you showed up here that you’d be your own demise, stuttering like a child as you stood outside his room. What good have you done since that day? Apart from grabbing him a meal or the odd task, you were useless to him. Maybe he was right, you didn't deserve any of this because you werent even someone that useful anyway. Why they’d choose to frame you of all people if beyond you.

For a moment you just stare at him, the muscles in your face tightening and your breaths only getting more frantic. What have you done? You ruined it— he gave you, so, so many chances. And you blew it? Should you beg for forgiveness? For him to hold you one more time? It’s been so long, months since he’s had you properly. One step, you could move forward and maybe he’d give you mercy. 

You can barely make a strangled noise before you’re suddenly turning, grabbing your keys, wallet, phone and your jacket, zipping it up high. You don't know where to go, but you can't let him babysit you much longer.

———————————

Maybe you’ll sleep out here tonight, with the quiet ripples of the lake, just like every night you did for two weeks of that course.

It feels stupid to have run away like you did now, but somehow crawling back seems even worse. Not for your dignity, you gave up on that long ago, but because of the fear he might actually be relieved you’re gone.

“Don’t do anything stupid; it’s not worth it.” 

You scramble to your feet insantly, spinning on your heel to see the Captain there, his signature jacket wrapped over a warm sweater beneath. His eyes are just as tired as Simon’s have been, but still somehow his authority is strong over you, arms crossed over his chest.

“I- i wasnt going to..” You mumble, slowly shuffling away from where your legs dangled off the edge to stand up properly. 

“You’re standing by the lake at midnight, kid. Come here, now.”

He gestures to you to come over, and you instinctively glance at the time on your phone as you slip your shoes on. It was past midnight, almost halfway now— how did time go by that fast? You come to stand before him, hands flat at your side and throat tight as you keep your gaze ahead— like a loyal soldier.

“You’re going to get sick.” He pulls the hat off his head, placing it on yours and making sure it covers you properly. Maybe to hide away a bit of your red rimmed eyes too. “Inside, now.”

——-

His office is warm, but you dont get the honour of sitting on the small couch this time, forced to sit right opposite his desk.

“You can start by explaining why you were out there, on your own, at midnight, looking like this.”

“The Lieutenant was concerned about me and i.. ran away. It was my fault.” You say, voice quiet but clear now that he’s the one asking. It’s been a week since you spoke to him last, when the interrogation was all over and you were free. “He wasn't happy with the results of my medical exam..how i was treated on the course and i.. i..”

You can’t finish your words because you dont know how to describe your response. A disagreement? An argument? A breakdown? It was too embarrassing, but here you are now, your eyes boring holes at your lap.

“I’m guessing you wanted to just move past everything that happened. Pretend it strengthened you, instead of the impact it actually had.” He crosses his arms as he sits down, eyes set straight on you and not moving for a second. 

You stare down at your body, the way your limbs feel heavier than usual, the familiar ache in your stomach you learned to ignore. You quietly nod, in hopes that’ll make it somewhat better. “Yes sir.”

“Simon’s right; You didn't deserve any of that, nor me yelling at you in that interrogation room.” He begins, and you listen, not daring to argue for even a second. “If anything, the blame is completely on the 141 this time.”

“Sir—“

“That Second Lieutenant is the son of a General we’ve had.. problems with. I cant disclose it, you understand, but there’s no doubt this was a direct effort to get back at us. That was a cruel attempt to cause distrust between us as soldiers, and weaken us.”

Wait what? You were targeted and this wasnt just because of a stuck up son whose got daddy’s money. “So.. he didn't hate me, he was just listening to his orders?”

“Exactly that, kid. Simon was the one to realise the true nature of this, and the  sergeants worked very hard to get testimonies from your teammates on the course. It seems even they had been forced to play along with the lies too.” He rummages around in his drawer for a moment, and pulls out a report of some kind, sliding it across to you.

Slowly you read through it, reading the list of the new orders for the Second Lieutenant or rather his ‘punishments’. The eight month long deployment was in one of the worst places you’ve heard only in rumours, but alas, it was either that or have a case against him for abuse of power. “This is only what’s on paper, you can rest assured that he’ll recieve worse things coming for him.”

“Thank you..” You’re grateful, really, and maybe a but of you is curious as to what that last thing he said means.. then again, Price almost looks proud of himself when you look at him. Did you even want to know what they plan to do to him?

“It’s the least we could’ve done.” He shakes his head at your gratitude, sliding the report back into his drawer again and locking it. “It’s happened now, no changing that. Trying to move forward is the smartest thing to do, but right now you’re only pushing yourself into the ground, kid. And I think you know why.”

You did, you really did. Somewhere deep down, probably subconsciously. You knew that you used the tactics you hated so much on yourself— because if you did it to yourself, then none of it ever happened. It wasn't as bad as you think it was. 

“Captain,” You begin, hands grasping the fabric of your trousers, only realising how cold you really are now. He gives you a nod in response, leaning slightly back as he keeps his gaze on you. Your own head lifts, swallowing harshly as you try and look at him without crumbling. 

“..I dont want to do this anymore.”

“You want to quit?” He raises a brow, but something in him stills just a little. It’s not often a soldier this far in will end up leaving— he’s only see a few do it, usually due to family problems or other issues that take precedence. Or they always had planned to leave at this point. Did he really drive you to this point? Where you thought you had no other option?

“No, just.. I know i selected that course when i was applying but..” You chew at your lip, and let out a long sigh. Thankfully your tears have all but run dry, so even if you feel like you could bawl your eyes out, you wont. “The whole physical field doesn't.. suit me. I thought i’d be stronger if i did it— like all of you. Everyone my rank chooses it, only a few select the others..”

“So you want to specialise in a different field? I’ll admit, i didn't expect you to want to do a close combat role anyway.” When he doesnt immediately dismiss your thoughts, you perk up a little, looking up at him.

“I- i’m not making the wrong decision, am I? The other ones are still good pathways?” Your eyes glimmer in his overhead light, the red rims of your eyelids practically shining despite everything that’s happened tonight. He hadn't expected the sudden relief when you denied wanting to quit. After all, it was their teams fault that you got in all that mess.

He chuckles, shaking his head at your nervous words— you really were a rookie still.

“Only cocky privates think close combat is the only redeemable job. If it werent for the specialists, the 141 wouldnt get any of our jobs done— that includes Sergeant Mactavish’s knowledge in demolitions.”

You swallow sharply, nodding to his words and taking them in. All this time you’d been so afraid that this was akin to giving up, admitting you’re weak and not cut out for this work. Little had you known that this whole time, the answer had been waiting for you. “Will I still be able to stay here?”

“Depends on what you choose. Might have to take a year out to move to a different unit.” You blink, suddenly terrified by that notion. It’s been a year and a half of living beside Simon, every single day without fail.What would you do without him?

“Relax, kid. You dont have to choose right now.” He stands, coming around the desk and pats your shoulder. “If you dont want to do close combat, you dont have to. But, I should still give you this.”

You hadnt seen him grab the envelope when he came over, clean white and you take it from his hands carefully. It seems a bit smaller than a4, and you carefully rip the edges before pulling out the sheet inside.

Certificate of Completion awarded to..

“This is mine..?”

“The other instructor signed it for you, as well as the General himself. For all the trouble his son caused to you.” Your thumb follows the curve of the signatures, before nodding quietly to his words. He didn't stop you from wanting to do another course even though he knew you achieved this one, with a high score too.  “Do you still want to transfer?”

“..Yeah. I do.”

A part of you knew that you always wanted something else but you were too afraid to admit it, fearful of what the others thought. But after everything you’ve experienced in these past months.. maybe it was a sign.

“Good. Then we will talk about it tomorrow after we grab breakfast.” He ushers you up and you follow him towards the door, rubbing your eyes without a second thought. You really were quite tired now, and the time blinks closer to one am. “You’re lucky you didn't want to actually quit.”

“Why?”

“Wouldnt let ya. My lieutenant relies too much on you.” 

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you shake your head, hands flailing about. “Sir, that’s not true— he probably hates me now anyway.. I totally freaked out on him..” You cant believe you’re telling a Captain about this of all people, but it comes out before you can stop it, shoulders slumping like a petulant teenager. “Sorry for disturbing you so late at night, sir.”

“I’m the one who caught you, to be fair.” He huffs chuckles, leading you out his office and walking beside you down the empty corridors. “You need to give yourself more credit— you had to navigate an extremely hard situation on your own, kid. It’s not easy having no one to back you. I’m sure Simon, of all people, understands your frustration.”

“You really think so?”

“Swear by it.” He stops outside the room, and knocks before you can, taking the pressure off. You stand there nervously but Simon soon opens the door, eyes softening immediately when he sees you and then moving to Price who had brought you here.

“Borrowed her for a bit” Price teases, a smile peeking through before he nudges you to move forward and you do, your throat bobbing nervously. “Come to my office tomorrow, kid, alright?”

You nod again, and Simon looks between you two before turning back to Price. 

“Thank you.”

“Sort yourselves out and sleep. You both look like your soul’s been sucked straight out of you.”

—————————-

“I’m sorry I never responded to your messages.” He says it as soon as he clicks the door shut, as if he cant hold it in any longer. The sheets on his bed are tousled, like he had tossed and turned until you arrived just now. “I read and listened to them— at least the ones before you deleted it.”

“It’s alright, i didn't mean to throw that back on you before, I know you were busy—“

“I wasn't busy.” He lets his chest sink, and you fall quiet, confused to what he’s getting at here. “On a mission, months ago, we had an ally turn against us. He had information he should’ve never had about us— naturally we assumed someone must’ve leaked it. He looked directly at me, and told me to look into the people i know.”

For a moment you pause, unbelieving he had surrendered information that easily. Sure, it was vague, but still more than he’d ever tell.

“Price explained it to me, about the General that’s causing you problems. I.. understand.” You say with a soft sigh, feeling guilty for freaking out on him but he adamantly shakes his head, not taking your words.

“No—I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid of me to be suspicious of you and i knew it, i did so i dont know why i was.” 

He falls silent, throat clogged, because of course he knows why he did it. He doesnt even trust himself, let alone others. You wormed your way in so quickly, he had jumped to the idea that you must be a traitor because there’s no way he could ever act like this. Actually be close to someone. Good things never last with him, and he was sure this must be the catch he was always waiting for.

“When I saw you getting interrogated, I knew deep down it would never have been you. The sergeants helped me realise it. I’m.. really sorry. I should’ve defended you sooner— I should’ve checked on you the night you returned and the entire past week.”

It hurts that he didn't trust you initially, but even a seed of doubt in this line of work is something you must listen to. Besides, he may have not communicated it to you the best, but it’s clear he worked very hard to get you out of the situation when he could’ve just let them ‘handle’ it. And you’re incredibly grateful for that.

“Let me fix it, okay? You can ask anything of me— absolutely anything.” He wants to reach out, it’s obvious by how his fingers twitch but still dont move forward, hesitant. 

So instead, you take the leap. It’s like the block between you vanishes, and immediately you wrap your arms around him tightly, squashing your cheek against his chest, right to his heart. The feeling is so foreign and so familiar it has you letting out a deep sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “Just.. hold me, please.”

One hand rests on your back carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear into thin air. Slowly his other hand joins it too, until he’s holding you too. His nose presses against your hair, breathing you in as much as he can. “Y’can sleep in my bed the whole week, hell the month. I’ll do all your shopping, and whatever you need i’ll buy.” The promises are mumbled against the crown of your head as his arms lower, landing on your legs as he hoists you up easily and carries you over to his bed. 

Gently, he lays you down, and only now do you see the ointments he has arranged on his bedside table. “What’s this..?” You raise a brow but he sits down next to you, the mattress sinking before he starts to open one of the tins. 

“For your bruises, it’ll help. Roll up your sleeve, okay?”

Your mind eases as he spends the next few minutes rubbing soothing ointments to the aches in your joints, before pulling the covers high and sliding in beside you. The lamp flicks off and he wraps his arms around you, easily dragging you with how your limbs have become dead weight.

With you settled atop of him, looking content and not as miserable as before, he can finally let the anger leave him, chest sinking against your head. Sleep hasn't weighed so heavy on you in weeks, laying like a thick blanket over your mind now that you know you’re finally free from this torment. 

“Y’asleep?” His voice is quiet, probably expecting you to not answer at all. You were seconds away from drifting off aswell, but something in you forces you to let your eyes open, glancing up at him.

You give a lazy noise in return, and he chuckles, hand grazing your neck. “Just glad you forgave me. Don't know what i would’ve done, might’ve got on my knees and begged.”

“Still got time.” You mumble and he laughs, nose burying into your hair as he squeezes you tight.

“In the morning, you need some good sleep for once.” He breathes out another sigh, letting silence fill the air once more, and the weight of you on him settles deep into his bones. He made the right choice, even if it was terrifying. He refuses to ever regret meeting you. “Don’t think i didn't hear your stomach rumble earlier— i’m gonna get you eating normally, y’hear me?”

Fuck— you were praying he didn't actually hear that on the way back from the mess— right after you had literally eaten dinner. It just had to go and start making noises, didn't it?!

“I am eating normally.” You grumble, weakly pushing away from him in a weak attempt to express feigned annoyance at his insistence. Not that he lets you, easily pulling you flush against him again. 

“I’ll just tell the chefs to pile it higher on your plate, they aint gonna say no.” He chuckles at his own admission of abusing his rank’s power, and you attempt to hit him with your elbow, failing easily.

“But if i use your rank to get a better dessert that's somehow a crime.” 

“Dont make me bring up your dentist reports.” His hand rubs up and down your side, letting the warmth of his hand ease you. “I’ll get you some bloody good dessert for the whole month, you’ll pray the mess hall even gets close to it one day. Now, sleep, before I put you out myself.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” He lets out a snort at that, only to hear your breathing finally even out against him, chest sinking. 

Still, he just quietly watches your body relax, how you completely let yourself be at peace. He wants to engrave it in his mind, because only now he’s realised how easily he can lose you. This time his hands splay across you too, gently grasping your shirt like you’ve done to him many times too. He understands it now— he’s always the one leaving you behind— he knows what it’s like to miss you like this.

His grip is probably selfish, something Johnny would poke fun at him for and Kyle would say he’s ‘actin’ a little desperate there?’ whilst Price would nod along ‘like he’s starved’. But he lets himself have it this time, eyes slipping close as he lets himself sink the same way you did. If he didn't, then one day he’d regret it a million times over. Luckily that day wasn't today.

So instead he lets the breath that’s been keeping him stiff go, breathing in the scent of you that melts his mind into jelly. “Night, love.” He murmurs, his breaths finally evening out to match your pace even in his sleep.

—————————

buy me a coffee! Rookie masterlist

sleeping so hard tonight im exhausted and the first exam didnt go well, also fr going on a break now i need it thanks for the support hope you guys like this :)

taglist:

Rocky was very quiet when you slept, quieter than he was when he was watching Ryland. He thought it might be because you’re a woman; maybe the Eridian equivalent of the female sex was more fragile when they slept, but it never failed to make his heart squeeze a bit when he would walk in on you sleeping and see Rocky ever so still in the corner. 

Ryland was in the control room learning what more of the buttons did when he heard the skittering of Rocky’s xenonite ball across the floor. Maybe you were awake earlier than normal. 

“Rocky need help,” the little voice of the computer chimed. “(Name) not good. Temperature elevated, unusual muscle movements. Still sleep.”

Ryland’s brow furrowed as he climbed out of the seat. Rocky looked jittery, something that wasn’t common unless he was excited or nervous… but something told him this wasn’t excitement. “What do you mean, bud? Is she hurting?” Ryland followed Rocky’s rolling through the lab, stopping at the entrance to the sleep chamber. 

“Seem in pain, 🎶 present. Rocky not notice this during most sleep, not normal for humans.” 

“I don’t understand that one, Rock. What’s present?”

“Word for liquid on human skin. Come out of human skin when hot.”

Ryland nodded, typing in “sweat” on the computer as he passed by. That probably wasn’t good, you could have a fever. 

Rocky’s ball continued its journey into the “bedroom,” stopping by your sleeping body on the mattress. You were sprawled out across the bed, hair a mess around your head as your chest moved up and down in weird, shallow breaths. 

Gosh darn it, Ryland thought, stepping closer and crouching down next to your head. He put the back of his hand up to your forehead, a little hot. He needed to wake you up.

Hands found your shoulders, gently shaking you to make sure you weren’t scared awake. Rocky sat patiently in his ball a couple feet away, intently staring. 

Your eyes fluttered open, a small groan leaving your lips. “Hm,” you said, eyes still halfway shut. “What is it.”

Ryland’s hand went back up to your forehead, quickly stopping on your cheeks as well, and he spoke. “You’ve got a fever, we gotta figure out what’s wrong.” You stayed still as he held you steady, having zero reaction. “Do you feel okay?”

You stared at him, deadpanning, “No, I feel like shit.”

Funny, Armando didn’t catch this before Rocky did. Surely if it was an infection or illness he would have done something. You didn’t seem very worried, though. Maybe you were still asleep.

“Okay, well let’s go through the list so we can figure this out-“

You put your hand on top of his where he was holding your shoulder. “Ryland, it’s okay. I’m pretty sure I just started my period.” 

Ryland stared at you. “Oh.” A couple of seconds passed of the two of you just staring at each other. “Wait, that can give you a fever?”

You nodded, raising your eyebrows in a yea I know, it’s bullshit, and Rocky skittered next to you. “What is wrong, question. Rocky worried.”

You opened your mouth to speak but winced before you could say anything. “Ryland, get me a bag please,” you said, eyes wide with urgency. 

“Rocky no understand. (Name) is okay, question. Why elevated temperature, question.”

“I’ll explain it in a minute, Rock, just lemme do this real quick!” Ryland yelled from the corner of the room, quickly coming back with a clear bag that you snatched from his hand and immediately vomited into. A warm hand found your back, rubbing circles as you breathed. A few seconds passed, head still aimed for the bag. You were waiting to see if there was more. 

“You okay?” Ryland asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and you nodded. 

“Yeah, it happens sometimes. It’s fine, I just haven’t gotten one this bad in space before,” you said, wiping your face and closing the bag to contain the remnants of your last meal. 

“Rocky no understand. Grace explain.”

Ryland took the bag from you and let you lay back down, giving your back another rub. “Sure, bud. Female humans uh,” how do I word this, “they grow our children inside of them instead of laying eggs like you do.” He looked up at Rocky just sitting there. It felt like he was getting a stare, a very intense stare. 

Ryland was uncomfortable. 

“Because they don’t lay eggs, the eggs stay inside of them, but if they don’t get fertilized then they have to leave the body - hey do you want meds?” Ryland was looking down at you still curled up next to where he was sitting on the bed. You nodded and he squeezed your arm. “Painkillers!” he yelled at the sky, Armando quickly showing up with a little plastic cup that had two pills.  

He grabbed it and some water, turning back to Rocky as he handed them to you. “When the eggs leave the body, they take some tissue and blood from the reproductive organs with them and the body has to force it out. It can be painful.”

Rocky shifted in his orb, “Egg leave (Name), question? Hurt.” 

“Yea,” Ryland responded, “It hurts, but she’ll be okay.” He turned to you, eyes playful. “You’ll be okay, right? This is just a bad one?”

You nodded, setting the bag of water down. “Yea, I don’t know why it’s like this. Sorry I almost vomited on you.”

He laughed, “It’s okay, I already vomited on myself when I first woke up.” He got up, throwing the vomit bag in your makeshift trash bin for the room and shutting the lock to the room. You heard footsteps walking back towards you. “Hey Rock, you can get some work done if you want. I’ll stay with her.” You felt the bed dip behind you.

“Rocky stay here, watch Grace sleep. Human mates sleep together, Rocky stay to protect.”

You could feel the hesitation in Ryland’s body behind you, the way he tensed at the statement, but you closed your eyes. You wanted to know what he’d say, how he’d categorize what you had. It was unique, and you didn’t have a name for it, or at least the two of you hadn’t talked about it yet.

His voice was soft. “Yea- yea, okay Rock, you stay. I’ll take a nap.” A hand found your hair, pulling it back from your face, and he lowered his voice for you. “You okay over there? Need anything?”

You shook your head, feeling the warmth of him against your back. “I’m okay.” You turned around to face him, still curled up to stop some of the pain. “Thanks for takin’ care of me.”

His eyes met yours as you took off his glasses to set them on the floor. “Of course. Just- wake me up if you need to vomit again. I’ll get you a bag.” 

You laughed, letting your head lay back down. “Will do, partner.” 

Mate. Rocky was probably more perceptive than the two of you may have thought. He didn’t know about human customs, but he’s been married(ish) for- who knows how long. Of course he could tell. The two of you could talk about it later, maybe when some random memory eventually pops up in your brains.

You let your eyes flutter shut again, feeling more at ease with the warmth of Ryland’s body resting across from you. His hand was smoothing over your hair, and that lulled you closer to sleep as the soft pitter patter of Rocky’s building materials echoed from behind you. 

Maybe being stuck in space wasn’t so bad. 

=================================

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

The house you're in is alive with bustling movement. Drunk and drugged bodies are grooving to disco music, base thumping loud enough to be felt in your chest. If Holland could smell the weed permitting the place, he'd be horrified.

He looks over at you, eyes squinting as if that would make it easier to hear you. "What?"

You cup your hands over the sides of your mouth. "Find more clues. Talk to more people. Split up!"

Holland finally understands. His mouth opens into an 'o' shape, a hum falling from his mouth. He nods. "We can do that. I'll, uh, go over there!"

When you follow the direction he jutted his chin in, your eyes fall to the bar and woman dancing on the counter top. She was wearing next to nothing. but you knew she wasn't who Holland was looking at.

You look back at him, brows furrowed. You weren't surprised. "Focus on the case. Don't drink too much."

Holland rolls his eyes, moving his hand to pat your shoulder. "I won't. This is detective work, sweetheart. You know I'm good for it!"

You weren't sure.

But he's an adult. One who has a steady job, so, it would be rude of you not to believe him. You offer a nod before walking in the opposite direction.

While you were gone, you'd been able to talk to three people. Two girls and a guy. They were all related to Victoria Shnaps, the daughter of a dangerously wealthy local politician, who's recently gone missing. The girls were her sisters while the guy was her cousin. Two days before she went missing. None of them gave you viable information— except for her youngest sister, Jazalyn. She's seen her sister talking to some guy called Steve.

You only knew she was being honest because she's got quiet after she said that. Like she wasn't allowed to. Her words had faltered, mouth hanging open, before closing and forcibly clearing her throat. She wasn't media trained. And that was a slip up if you've ever seen one.

When walking through the throng of bodies, your eyes glaze over the room in search of your partner. It doesn't take you long to find his dirty blonde mop of hair.

He's not at the bar.

But even from a distance, you can see him swaying on his feet. It looked like he was being subjected to a gentle breeze like a hung up piece of linen. He's talking to someone. That's good.

When you walk up behind him, your fingers graze his back. Just a gentle way to announce your presence. A soft smile captures your lips when you gaze up at him and glance to the woman he's talking to.

Holland startles, looking down at you with hazy eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who's touching him and to feel comfortable. His eyes light up when he recognizes you.

"Oh!" His voice sounds like water running over rock. He motions to the woman standing in front of him, amber liquid sloshing out of the rim of his glass. "T—This is her! My partner.. in detective work. Told you 'bout her, yeah? Best—" Holland cuts himself off with a hiccup. "In the country, no, world."

The woman glances down at you, utterly perplexed.

You offer a tight smile.

The woman standing in front of you both was Cassandra Nettles. Long blonde hair, silk wrapped body, and a string of pearls around her neck that costs more than the budget for a presidential campaign. She's a person of interest.

And he's talking to her about things that don't matter— even if they are sweet.

"Okay." You splutter, taking the glass from his hand so he wouldn't spill any more of it. "My apologies, ma'am, it's been a long night."

Holland huffs. "We got here an hour ago." He looks back at the woman, eyes narrowing. "Wait, do I know you?"

Your hands fall to the small of his back and onto his bicep. The hand on his arm squeezes hard enough to shake him, not to be painful. "No you don't. You're drunk as a skunk— and you need to rest."

Holland relents, tearing his gaze from the woman fully. He looks down at you. Red-rimmed blue puppy eyes. Just a single look at the slight frustration in your eyes makes him quiet.

After an apology is given to Cassandra, you practically guide him by the scruff like a mama cat towards the door.

"M'sorry." He murmurs on to way to the car.

"We were here for Intel." You sigh, pointing in the direction of the car. "Not to drink."

"I know." He murmurs quieter this time, like those words coming from you hit harder.

TWO - The Time Holland Lost His Gun

"We'll be back later tonight." You're crouched on the ground, speaking to Holly with a soft smile on your face. "I left twenty bucks for pizza and cookies— don't tell your dad about the sweets."

Holly rolls her eyes. "He won't care. He doesn't."

You frown down at her. "He does care, kid. I promise. He'll be sad if he knows you got cookies without him."

She shrugs, standing from her criss-crossed position on the rug and walking away from you. She turns the corner down the hall towards her room.

A sigh leaves your lips, chest feeling the dull ache from the implications of her words. She didn't think Holland cared. You knew it wasn't your place to say anything more than 'he does'— but gosh, you really wanted to.

But you'd only joined the Nice Guys Agency a few months ago. You weren't enough of a permanent person to have any precedent in their lives.

So, you force yourself to stand up and walk towards Holland's room.

He'd been in there for the past twenty minutes, supposedly getting ready for a stake out. But he'd been in there for a little too long. Your knuckles wrap against his half-opened door to push it open further.

Holland is pacing around the room, dirty-blonde hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His fingers rake through his hair. When he sees you, he stops in his tracks. An annoyed huff leaves his lips.

"I can't find it!" He grunts.

"What?" Your hands fall to your sides, head tilting slightly.

"My gun." Holland turns around, hands jutting out to rip the comforter half-off his bed. There's nothing there. So he moves on to demolishing the pillows.

"Your gun?" Your voice rises, unable to curb the surprise that gets frayed with panic. Your throat works around a swallow. Then, softer. "You lost your gun?"

"Lost?" He breathes, turning to look at you. "Misplaced. It's just... not here."

A silent curse falls from your lips. Your hands find purchase on your hips. "Where'd you leave it?"

Holland shrugs his shoulders, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for it. Would I?"

His words land harder than they should. You physically recoil, taking a step back to look at him with widened eyes. There was no reason for him to have been rude.

"Shit— I— sorry." His voice quiets, head dipping down. "I'm frustrated. I can't— I can't just have a gun laying around the house."

You nod. Being sensitive was something you understood. Especially when you were on a time crunch and lost something important. "I know. I'll go look— just, please, lets find this quickly. Healy's gonna be pissed if we're late. We'll find it."

Holland runs his palm down over his mouth. He hums.

On a whim, you turn to walk down the hall. The bathroom was just a few doors down. You'd seen him go in there a few times in the mornings you came by to pick him up for work. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd find it in there.

The bathroom light is turned off, the room bathed in darkness. It takes a few seconds of whacking your hand on the wall to find the switch. When the room is emerged in golden overhead light, the first thing you notice is the Jack Daniels.

It's practically empty— say for the sliver of brown liquid barely coating the bottom of the bottle. There's an empty glass next to it.

Walking into the room, you step on a balled up towel. The sudden change in flooring startles you, almost taking a tumble. A ghost of a smile twitched at your mouth. Getting scared over a towel. Yep, seemed like you.

You bend down to grab it when you see it. The glinting metal. Half shoved under the bathroom sink, like it had been kicked by accident. It was Holland's gun. You could tell by the 'H' poorly etched into the handle.

The towel drops to the floor. You grab the weapon and stand back up.

Your eyes once again drop to the empty bottle of booze. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. As much as you adored March— he had a problem. Enough of one to make him forget where he 'placed' his killing machines.

"Hey, March." You call his name, trying to keep the frustration in your chest from fraying your words. "Come here for a second?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then, his feet pattering down the hall.

He slides into the door frame, hand grabbing at the wall to stop himself from tumbling. He looks at you with big, hopeful eyes. "Did you—"

"It was kicked under the sink." You say softly, trying to keep your voice down. So Holly wouldn't hear you and he didn't think you were accusing him of anything.

Holland pauses. His brows furrow like he was confused— he raked his brain for the memory of even bringing his gun into the bathroom. Just to come up empty.

"How the.." His gaze drops to the empty bottle.

Oh. That.

Holland's cheeks heat up. His arm bends to scratch the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "Guess I must have had a bit too much last night."

"I can't believe you're legally allowed to carry this." You sigh, looking at him with a disappointed expression.

Your words sink into his skin. His mind immediately puts him on the defense, arm dropping back to his side. "Christ, c'mon now—"

"Holland." You whisper-shout his name, shaking your head. Your voice stays a fevorent whisper. "You can't leave this for Holly to find."

Holland gapes at you, trying to find some way to come back to that. There wasn't much. He puts his hands on his hips, grasping at straws. "She knows how to handle a gun."

You stare at him.

He looks at you.

Holland wants to flinch. It sounded terrible to admit out loud. What other twelve year old little girl knows her way around a gun? Most girls were probably drawing rainbows in their notebooks and listening to the beetles.

You just keep looking, waiting for something. Like he'd take back his words. But he doesn't.

You inhale a deep breath to keep yourself grounded. "That doesn't matter. She shouldn't be around this stuff— you know that."

Your voice is quiet, almost a plea.

Holland's lips press into a line. He glances down at the floor, like the tiles turned into the most interesting thing in the world.

He's quiet for a minute.

"I'm a good dad." He says quietly.

Your guard falls at his words. The gun gets placed onto the counter, your arms falling to your sides.

"Of course you are." Your voice is gentle, filled with conviction. "I never said you weren't. This—this is an accident. It happens. It doesn't mean I'm calling you a bad dad—I'm telling you to be more careful."

Holland absorbs your words, sniffling.

He nods.

"You're a great dad, Holland. Okay?"

"Yeah."

THREE - The Crisis That Leads To Cuddles

The more time you spent with the March's, the more glaringly obvious it became that Holland had no idea how to handle a teenage girl.

His approach to more sensitive topics was that of a man's: meaning, if Holly was upset about something, he'd ask her if she was getting her period. He'd have such a straight face when he did it too. Then, of course, he'd wonder why she got even angrier.

Holland tried. Don't get him wrong. He'd bend over backwards for his daughter in a heartbeat, no matter how he acts. Being in any kind of argument with Holly felt like his chest was being ripped apart.

That leads you to tonight.

You came over to make them dinner— something you did on Friday nights. It started a few months ago when you joined the Nice Guys Agency. Holland made a passing comment about not having a real home cooked meal since his wife passed, and you decided then to make sure he and his daughter had a slice of familiar domesticity. Even if it was once a week.

Over those few months, you and Holland got closer. There would be laughter drifting through the kitchen, the occasional mini-food fight, and even, if he was feeling bold, hands trying to take bites of the food before it was set. That always got him a chaste whack to the hand.

For a while, Healy would come too. It would be all of you sharing a meal after work. Eventually Healy didn't come as often. He had other arrangements on Fridays. So, it would just be you, Holly, and Holland.

Tonight was different. Holly was sitting at the counter, swiveling in her chair. The two of you were talking about school and whether or not she was excited about the next year. Her answers were less vague than they used to be— she was coming out of her shell around you.

When Holland came into the kitchen, he'd have to swear his brain turned off. There was just something about seeing his daughter comfortable with you. It was a glimpse back in time to what used to be. His heart broke a little when you told her a story about your 8th grade graduation. Holly threw her head back like a little kid and let out a big belly laugh.

He hadn't heard that laugh in over a year.

He walked up behind Holly, palm pressing against her back. He leaned over himself to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Hey, ladies."

Holland made his way around the counter top, acting on pure instinct. The floral pattered button up he was sporting was less buttoned than usual— with no glinting ring strung around his neck.

You look over to watch him advance towards you. The scent of aftershave and pine filled your senses. It was unmistakably Holland, earthy and cozy. His hair was damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Hey, dad." She muses, leaning over to grab a piece of pepper you'd cut up.

Holland wraps his arm around your shoulders like he'd done it a hundred times. The warmth of him instantly bleeds into your skin. The proximity makes your pulse jump, throat working around a swallow. You fit perfectly against his side when he pulls you into his side.

Then, he presses his lips to your temple.

It's gentle. Loving.

Holly watches the interaction, expression falling. She blinks. Almost like she couldn't even begin to believe what she'd just witnessed.

"How are my girls?" He questions as he pulls back, a genuine smile gracing his face.

You look up at him in disbelief. Holland had never been so affectionate— especially in front of Holly. You were used to winks and side hugs when leaving. Or the occasional thumb swiping across your cheek if you'd wiped flour on yourself by accident. This was uncharted territory.

"We're fine." Your voice comes out heavier than you intended it to. "Uh, tacos are almost ready."

"Smells good." He nods, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder. When he finally drops his arm away, he looks over the both of you with a small smile on his face.

The smile doesn't last long.

Holly stands from the chair, offense clear in her eyes. "Where's your ring?"

Holland's head snaps to his daughter, her harsh tone startling him. His ring? His hand goes to his neck, finding only the neckline of his undershirt. He wasn't wearing his ring.

He splutters for a second. "Honey, it's just upstairs. I took it off to shower—"

"You're never supposed to take it off!" Her voice rises, hurt fraying her tone. It sounds like there's something in her throat. Like the words are physically painful for her to speak.

She turns and stomps off, her hands going to her face before turning the corner.

Holland stands there absolutely stunned. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide, and palms facing upward like he'd just gotten smacked.

You didn't even need to be observant to know what that was about. A dull ache forms in your chest for Holly. She must feel betrayed— like her father was replacing her mother with you. And that's not your intention at all.

With a flick of your wrist, you turn the stove knob down.

"What the hell was that about?" He questions, turning to look at you.

"Go talk to her." You breathe, glancing in the direction she ran off in.

Holland bites his lower lip, hands taking purchase on his hips. "I don't understand. I just forgot to—"

"Holland."

He quiets at the serious tone of your voice.

You watch as his shoulders deflate, slouching in on himself. A somber expression takes over his face. You can see the gears turning in his mind, replaying exactly what happened.

"She's sad." Your words come out soft. Almost gentle. Like he's fragile and you're horrified of breaking him. "You should go talk to her."

Holland absorbs your words.

He lets them sink into his skin and roll around in his mind. Finally, he nods.

"Alright." He shakes his head, reluctantly turning on his heel and following in Holly's footsteps.

Your palm flattens over your chest, trying to soothe the ruminating ache. There was no way you could imagine just what she was feeling. You weren't in her mind.

Minutes pass.

Or, what feels like minutes.

Your fingers drum against the counter top. Anxiety starts to creep up your throat. There's a second where you think it would be best to leave.

Then you hear it.

The unmistakable muffled sound of Holly shouting 'I hate you'. You flinch. Your eyes close and a sigh leaves your lips, head dipping down. This was not how you envisioned your Friday night going.

Glancing at the half prepared chicken tacos, you give leaving some extra thought. That's what's probably best. To do it quietly, maybe make up their plates before you do so. But you were probably the last person Holly wanted to be near.

You're about to grab your purse. It's hanging right on the edge of the counter chair. It almost glows like an exit sign.

Holland sulks back into the kitchen. He looks like a smaller version of himself. Slouched shoulders, trudging steps, and gaze tilted to the floor. Your name falls from his lips like a plea.

A curse enters your mind.

Then, you get a good look at him. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry.

One thing about Holland that most people don't know: he values his daughter's opinion more than anyone. Losing his wife was terrible. But if he even thought Holly had a negative view of him? His whole world shattered.

"I don't understand." His voice sounds paper-thin. There's a lost look in his eyes, like he was a second away from falling off a cliff. It broke your heart.

"Hey." You murmur, motioning for him to come over. Moving around the counter, you tentatively step towards him.

"She... she.." He clears his throat, head turning away to blink roughly. Try to stop the tears that threatened to fall. "Am I bad dad?"

A frown tugs at your mouth.

"No." You say quickly, shaking your head. Certainty drips from your lips like honeysuckle. "She doesn't mean that, March."

His gaze stays on the ground.

He blinks hardly.

"She does." He whispers.

You want to hug him and slap him at the same time. Once he gets an idea into his head—good or bad—he's a damn bull. Too stubborn to avoid tunnel vision.

Is this even your place?

It's not like he's your boyfriend or anything— though those professional lines have been blurring. And that kiss definitely meant something. But do you even have any place here? If anything aren't you just his kinda-situationship?

Maybe it was best to have left.

But now you're here.

And you feel like you're being ripped in half knowing some of your favorite people in the world are hurting.

So, you outstretch your arms and motion for him to come in.

Holland accepts. He walks slowly towards you, arms snaking around your waist. His nose gets buried into the crook of your neck. Little droplets land on your skin. Your arms wraparound his back and give him a gentle squeeze.

Silence envelopes the two of you.

There's a moment where you just let Holland soak up your embrace. He shakes a little, sniffling to hold back the mess of tears that threatened to fall.

"You're doing your best." You whisper, voice barely audible. "Kids don't come with manuals, right? Even the best of the best make mistakes."

Holland slumps against you. Like a giant dog jumping onto your lap, thinking he's smaller than he actually is.

"Mhm." He mumbles, pulling away from you to wipe at his face. His movements were quick— like you'd suddenly burned him. Or he realized he was leaning on you and got embarrassed.

"You're a good dad." Veneration wraps your words. "Say it."

Holland huffs. "I'm a good dad."

"Little louder. Like you mean it." You offer a gentle smile, rubbing at his arms for motivation.

Despite his saddened expression, the ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm a good dad."

"There he is." You murmur, chest warming a little.

Holland wipes at his eyes with his wrist. He blinks and gazes down at you. Eyes hazy, he looks like a kicked puppy.

"I still don't know what I did to make her..." He trails off, cutting himself off with a sigh.

There's a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts.

There wasn't any good way to say this. Especially since you and Holland weren't together.

"I think she's feeling a little betrayed." There's a softness to your words. "You usually wear your ring. Tonight, you didn't. And these past few weeks I've been coming over to cook for guy—"

"I don't see why that means—"

"Let me finish." Your correction is gentle, keeping your voice calm.

Holland closes his mouth. He nods and mumbles an apology.

"She might think you're replacing her mother." You opt to get straight to your point, trying to cushion the blow with your tone. "Having me here, cooking for you guys. You even kissed me tonight, Holland."

For the first time ever, he's quiet.

"I know that's not your intention." You watch for his response, trying to see how he was taking your words. "But she doesn't. She sees me doing things her mom did— and that makes her feel some kind of way."

Holland darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. His head twitches in a half-nod, like he's barely able to move anything. Like he's frozen.

Silence settles.

It's the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that worms into your ribs and presses against the walls of your bones, stabbing at your lungs when it tries to make space for itself.

Holland sighs.

"What should I do?" He asks gently, puppy eyes boring into yours.

"Give her some space. Then listen to her." You raise a brow at him. "Really listen to her. Then talk with her."

"Okay."

You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm gonna.. uh, get out of your hair. I feel like I've outstayed my welcome." A soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Dinner's ready. All you've gotta do is assemble the tacos."

Holland's brows furrow, taking in your words. "No." It tumbles from his mouth quickly, hands jutting out to grasp at your wrist. But he drops his hands, teeth sinking into his lips. "You... you could never overstay your welcome here."

Your heart flutters at his words. "I know." You offer a smile to reassure him. "But I think it's best for Holly to be alone with just you."

Holland eventually accepts it. That was what was logical, after all. You were always right about things like this.

"Okay." He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you... for everything tonight. I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"

You nod, turning to collect your purse. "You will."

Holland follows after, gingerly grabbing your coat and handing it over to you. He watches you slip yourself into it. There's something stirring in his chest. Something he hadn't given much thought to.

He did kiss you. Pressed his lips to your temple like it was nothing. Called you his. He wasn't sure what that meant. Though, he knew he'd have to dissect it to know.

The two of you walk towards the front door. He opens it for you, standing at the threshold to make sure you get to your car okay.

"Have a good night, March." You say with a small smile, waving your fingers at him.

He does the same. "Yeah. You too."

Join the taglist here! Request something here or in my inbox!

older bf! frank who goes quiet in the middle of ordinary moments because something about them feels too fragile to trust, like you sitting on his couch with your shoes off and your hair slightly messy is something the world will eventually take back. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you can see it in the way his eyes linger a second too long before he looks away, jaw tightening like he’s physically stopping himself from naming it. when you ask what’s wrong, he just shakes his head once and says “nothing,” but he sits closer after that anyway.

older bf! frank who is very controlled with his words, but changes completely when it’s just the two of you. at home his voice drops softer, slower, like he finally lets himself exist without armor. he’ll sit near you, not necessarily talking much, just staying present, occasionally breaking the silence with something unexpectedly gentle like “you eat today?”

older bf! frank who gets quietly soft at moments he doesn’t fully anticipate, like when you fall asleep near him or reach for him without thinking. he’ll pause for a second like he doesn’t know what to do with it, then settle into it anyway, staying still so he doesn’t disturb you.

older bf! frank who is extremely precise about boundaries, especially yours. if someone pushes you too fast, too close, or keeps talking after you’ve gone quiet, he doesn’t escalate theatrically - he just appears at your side like he was always there, posture slightly angled between you and them. the conversation dies immediately because he doesn’t need to threaten anything; he just looks at them like he’s already decided how this ends if they don’t stop.

older bf! frank who is almost irritatingly practical in the middle of emotional moments, but it’s because he refuses to let things spiral. if you’re upset, he doesn’t flinch or overreact - he’ll ask direct questions like “what happened” or “what do you need right now,” and if you can’t answer, he shifts into action mode: water, sitting you down, checking you’re physically steady before anything else.

older bf! frank who rarely raises his voice, but when he goes quiet, it’s worse. not angry shouting - just that controlled stillness where everything in him goes sharp and contained. you learn that the real warning sign isn’t volume, it’s the lack of it. if someone crosses a line, he doesn’t argue loudly; he just stops talking entirely and the room changes temperature.

older bf! frank who tries not to fall asleep first when you’re together. he’ll sit up longer than he needs to, watching you drift off while pretending he’s still awake enough to keep watch, even when his eyes are heavy and his shoulders have finally started to drop. if you catch him doing it and tell him to sleep, he’ll give you a quiet, almost tired scoff like it’s not a real suggestion, but he’ll eventually lie down anyway - just not before making sure he can feel you close enough to notice if you move.

older bf! frank who doesn’t talk about the past unless it slips out by accident, and even then it comes in fragments, never stories. you’ll notice it when something small pulls him out of the present - a sound, a smell, a certain kind of silence and for a second he’s not fully with you anymore. then he comes back, slower than before, and you can see the effort it takes to re-anchor himself in the room, in your presence, in the fact that this moment is not that one.

older bf! frank who loves you in a way that feels almost mournful sometimes, like he’s constantly aware of the fact that everything he touches has historically been temporary. it’s not that he doubts you - it’s that he doesn’t trust permanence at all. so when he looks at you, there’s this quiet heaviness behind it, like he’s memorizing details he doesn’t want to lose: the way you talk with your hands, the way you breathe when you’re relaxed, the way you say his name without hesitation.

older bf! frank who doesn’t say “I love you” often because it feels too close to admitting vulnerability he’s spent years surviving without. but when he does say it, it’s not casual or light - it lands heavy, deliberate, like something he had to decide to give you rather than something that just happens. and afterward, he’ll go a little quieter than usual, like he’s waiting to see if the world reacts badly to hearing it out loud.