rskolny1kov

His body burns. 

Maybe it always has, he just never quite managed to notice it. Mere months ago he would consider that possibility entirely unrealistic - he is, after all, the one with eidetic memory; how could he not observe that, especially about himself? But however important intellect and perceptiveness might be to Spencer and how much he values those parts of him, the last few weeks have him doubting every step, every carefully measured decision he is expected to make.

His body burns.

The bruises have started to fade away at last, his system breaking the hemoglobin down into bilirubin and turning the angry purple-red blooming across his skin into a sickly shade of yellow. He is healing, finally, though the pain lingers more than he would have expected.

Whenever he stretches his limbs too much the damaged tissue still hurts, his scratches and cuts stinging as he meticulously applies the disinfectant every forty-five minutes. It's overkill even for him, but it has been a long time since Spencer had found this much comfort in a compulsory action as this. Breathing is much easier when he has something to fixate his brain on and not be drowned by the endless flow of information inside his mind, though even then he still could tell with pinpoint accuracy where the boot met with his ribs repeatedly.

(But the craving stays. It never gets chased away by something as mere as the chemical smell of the disinfectant.)

His body burns.

Spencer can't say what started it. Was it the first hit that Hankel - Charles - landed on his head? Was it when he was dragged into the car, half-awake and half-conscious? Was it when he looked into the eyes of Tobias and saw nothing but despair? Was it when the needle pierced his skin and the inside of the skull went completely silent for the first time in his life?

Spencer doesn't know. His whole life has been nothing but chasing after what no one could answer and he was excellent at it - but when he needed it the most to make sense, the truth fell out of his hands like it was sand.

His body burns and the vials in his pocket only amplify it and at this point, he doesn't even know if he wants it to stop or to go on forever until he is reduced to a pile of meaningless ash.

The need eats its way deep into his body, down to his bone and marrow, emptying him until there is nothing left of the man who was taken to that cold, dirty cabin. Nothing satisfies the hunger completely as nothing satisfies him either; not sleep, which is filled with creaking floorboards and the smell of burning fish organs; not the books that are piled in a strick order from floor to ceiling as he paces around his apartment like a caged animal.

Spencer knows all that is there to know about PTSD and what it does to people - what it makes them to do, hell, half of his job is spent around people like that - but he can't find solace in statistics and data anymore. Old coping mechanisms all fail and talking about it sound even less desirable than getting shot in the head, he thinks as he shifts on your couch, the soft cushions threatening to swallow him whole.

The vials click against each other in his pocket at his restless movements.

He wants it so much sometimes he forgets how to breathe. The last dose he gave to himself was almost eight hours ago and he can already feel the nausea creeping back in. He has to shot up one soon, he thinks as he feels his hand itch closer to his pocket. Just one. Then it will be easier.

Spencer already knows how the rest of it will go. He will take the vials out and then the needle - which is still somewhere hidden in his coat with an appropriate wrapping - and then tying the scarf around his arm to make his veins pop out more. After that, there will be the familiar pin-prick into the soft skin of his arm and then in one to five minutes the opioid will attach itself to the receptors in his brain and then cut off all signals of pain in his body, leaving behind all but the bliss of the absolute nothing.

He can already feel the outlines of the vials with his fingertips when something fells to the floor in the other room, the clanking followed by your quiet swearing and Spencer pulls his hand away like it has been burned.

No. Not now. Not here.

There is someone in front of him and he is afraid to look up.

Raphael stands above him, his face half-hidden by the dim shadows of your living room but Spencer can see the cold judgment in his eyes when he finally raises his head. He knows he is a sinner, an animalistic fear rushes through him as he goes to grab his elbow with an intent to cover up, but deep inside he knows that not his hand nor the long sleeved shirt he wears will hide what he had done from the relentless gaze of the man - Archangel? Devil? His tormentor? - staring down at him.

Raphael opens his mouth and there is fire where his tongue is supposed to be and Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the strike that will come.

The world tilts to the left ever so slightly when he looks up again. Raphael is gone by then but he doesn't let himself succumb to the false hope that he will stay that way. The archangel always came back and this time won't be an exception.

Your voice finds him, sweeping in all the way from the kitchen. You hum a catchy tune and the sound worms itself into his head and he swallows the urge to tell you to shut up for once. There are already more than enough people he sent away when they wanted to help and tried to pity him. You don't deserve that tone.

You still don't know that he died, Spencer feels a bitter taste gather on his tongue as he tries to think coherently again, the sound of your voice simultaneously comforting and maddening in is ear.

Spencer thought he knew death. All different kinds and methods of it, his daily work consistenting of getting into the headspace of murderers and victims alike, but it is completely different when you are the one looking down the gaping barrel of a revolver. He still remembers how it felt - the helplessness as he slowly choked on his own vomit and saliva as Charles Hankel looked down at him like he was the scum of the earth and how he thought that dieing must hurt while he tried to dig his own grave into the cold, hard ground of the cemetery.

Before that, Spencer had always been moving on a theoretical plane. Sure, he was out in the field and in the line of fire more than he cared to dwell about but it wasn't until his own, seemingly inevitable end was in front of him, when his own mortality stared right into his eyes with the face of TobiasCharlesRaphael that he understood what was it really like to know that you will die here tonight.

(Spencer dig his own grave that night. It doesn't get any more final than that.)

He didn't, but the terror remained. And that is precisely why Spencer will never tell you what happened in Atlanta, no matter how hard you pester him.

The kitchen is alive and warm just around the corner and he can hear your steps as you open cupboards and turn on the kettle. His left temple throbs, the memory of his own clotted blood still sticking to his hair and skin.

He shouldn't do it here. It isn't right and it isn't safe - Spencer knows how addiction works, how the places where you use will be forever tainted with that memory and while he knows he isn't an addict - addicts don't have self-control and Spencer has been nothing for his entire life if not the carefully catered version of himself - there is no need to risk it.

Instead, he forces himself to look around.

Your apartment changed since the last time he was here. It's much more regulated and organized - albeit previously he stepped in when you were still cleaning up from last night's party which he couldn't make it because he was too busy two states away chasing a man who skinned people for fun. But he promised to say hello and that was why he came straight from the airport after not even bothering to go home. The headquarters were much closer to your place than his, so he directed himself towards you as soon as the jet hit the ground and successfully managed to ignore all of Prentiss' whistles and Morgan's smug face.

Not like it's like that at all. You aren't his partner and you never would be.

(Besides, you always said you like when he comes straight to you. That the scent of the jet fuel lingered on him and it made you feel like you were part of something too. Part of his life in another way.

He never told you how glad he was that you will never see what his job really consists of.)

But you still welcomed him with a beaming smile you seemed to specifically reserve for him and Spencer could feel his face get flushed as he breathed in the smell of cheap booze and the detergent you tried to drown it out as you rambled about what happened since he was gone in a voice that was hoarse from sleep.

Dr. Spencer Reid doesn't drink. He values his neurons and what he can do with them too much to destroy them with neurotoxins.

(Instead, he numbs himself until he can't form a coherent thought anymore.)

Still, he thinks, if you ever offered him a drink, he would accept it. It wouldn't mean any good, he stares at the pictures displayed on the wall, your face smiling at him from every corner of the room, drinking isn't beneficial or non-destructive at any amount. You shouldn't drink either, as he warns you repeatedly but you only laugh his concerns away and put a hand on his arm.

"Please, I'm only young once, handsome. Can't you let me enjoy it as I want to, Reid?" Your grip tightens a little. "You know that not everybody can stay as responsible and logical as you do it all the time!"

Spencer doesn't want to stay responsible and logical, Spencer just doesn't want you to die. But he has known you long enough to know that no matter how many times he brings up the deterrent statistics of nationwide diagnosed AUD amongst people in your age group, you will do as you see fit. So, he stays quiet and only wrinkle his nose in disapproval when he spots an occasional can of beer or half-drunk wine bottle on your nightstand.

Your books are reorganized, he notices. It isn't anything similar how he would do it but it is an improvement, given the previously downright catastrophic state your bookshelves have been - he is certain that if she wouldn't be convinced that you were a government agent or an alien sent to take her son away, his mother and you would find common ground fairly easily.

For some reason, that is the thought that scares him the most.

The kettle sings in the kitchen and his heart beats along with the strange rhythm, the warmth of your living room enveloping him as he is part of you home but Spencer still feels like a dirt stain on the carper, something unclean smeared onto the cleanliness of your living room, an impurity that has no right breathing in the same air as you do. The vials burn in his pocket and he wants to sob but crying is a sign of weakness and he cannot be weak-

-and then he is back in the cemetery again, the single light bulb dancing above him in the cold breeze, it's the will of God says Raphael, the single round shining in the scattered light as he slides it in with a click and spins the cylinder of the revolver, the sound whirring into his foggy brain. Blood clots on the side of his head, the metallic smell mixing together with the stench of the burning fish and the screens flash in front of him, all the lives he - no, not him, Raphael - holds in his hands and then he chooses and two people are dead.

He watches the life drain out of them and then watches Gideon who tells him that wasn't his fault, that he is strong, that he won't break but Spencer knows that he hasn't been whole for a long time, some vital part is missing from him. Maybe he lost it even before he came to the BAU.

Tobias Hankel's eyes are two black holes, swallowing all light from the universe Spencer once understood and he wishes to fall back into the haze of hydromorphone. He feels the belt tightening around his arm and lets his head fall back as he feels the cut bite of the needle as it sinks into him along with the cold realization that nothing ever will be the same.

His mother looks at him as the men he called take her away, her eyes full of pleading and desperation and he can't forget her; Tobias looks at him with sadness running deeper than his bones and tells him no one can save them.

Spencer believed him then. Still does. What makes it worse that nobody else seems to think the same.

He can see the hurt flaring up in Prentiss' eyes when he barked at her concern. He can do his job perfectly and even if there would be something to criticize - there isn't - then sure as hell not the newbie will tell it straight into his face.

(Deep down, Spencer knows she only wants to help. That makes it worse.)

Footsteps come towards him but before he could turn around, something soft falls onto his head, obscuring his view. It takes an embarrassingly long time until Spencer realizes that you threw a towel at him.

"Sorry for not being here earlier," your voice is slightly muffled by the material on his head. "I just wanted to make some tea for you." Spencer feels the couch dip under your weight as you sit down. He takes the towel off and glances at you.

Your thigh is mere inches away from his, he notes purely out of profiling instinct. Also, you decided to wear shorts tonight. Spencer glances away before the analyzer in him notices more than he already had.

"That's for your hair." You explain, pointing at the towel in his hand as you look him up and down, surprise evident on your face. "You still haven't changed? Good God, Spencer, you are going to be sick if you aren't careful!"

"Why would I have to change?" He asks, his words sharp. You stare at him with confusion in your eyes.

"Uh, because you are dripping onto my couch?"

Spencer looks down. His clothes are beyond ruined. His shirt is crumpled and big droplets from his hair are falling down, making it even more wet. How did he even get like this? Was it raining when he left home? He can't remember.

"Oh." He mutters.

"Oh." You echo him, grabbing a pile of clothes from the small table in front of you and holding it out for him. "Now go and change, Spencer, before I call your boss and tell him that you aren't being concerned enough for yourself." It's an empty threat and you both know it, but Spencer almost smiles at the thought of you scolding Hotch.

"Yeah, before I forget!" You call after him as he opens the bathroom door. "There is a sweater amongst those that you left here before and I think I accidentally slept in it once or twice. Tell me if that bothers you!"

"No, no, it's perfect." Spencer says with what he hopes is the voice an unbothered person would use. "If it made you happy then I'm glad."

"Aww, you are so sweet, Reid. No wonder why all—" You would continue further but at that point, Spencer had long shut the door behind him. He is still cold and the frantic racing of his heartbeat does little to help him change, so he lists and categorizes all bird species native to states Alabama, West Virginia and California and tries not to think about the fact that you have slept in his clothes.

Repeatedly so.

When he emerges from the bathroom minutes later, you are still sitting on the couch, watching some nonsense documentary on the TV. Half of him hopes that you won't notice him, but you immediately turn to him as he steps out and shine a smile at him that makes his spine feel like molten glue.

"So? What do you think of my updated place, pretty boy?" You tease him as he sits down and his stomach does somersaults. Morgan will pay for teaching that nickname to you, the irrational anger flares up inside him again for a second. Though it does sound much better from your mouth and Spencer is sure that if you only called him that for the rest of his life, he would die as a happy man.

He fights the urge to drop to his knees right there, the vials be damned but he looks in your eyes and realizes you are still waiting for an answer. So he clears his throat.

"It's… unique. Very you." He says, the words fumbling out of his mouth. "I think you managed to encapsulate both your taste and the evident style of the apartment and merged it into a space which is simultaneously both comfortingly familiar and excitingly new. I especially like what you did with the windows! The old curtains were too thick and cut out all the sunlight, while these," he waves towards the windows. "let in much more natural light and enlarging the otherwise small space. Studies also have repeatedly shown that regular exposure to sunlight can decrease the possibility of mental health issues, so it's not only beneficial for the eyesight but also your brain. Not that only light will be the sole reason for your mental stability, but it is an important factor…" He only slows down as he spots the smile playing on your lips. "Oh… was that a hypothetical question?" He squints at you.

"Yeah, but I love to hear you talk. You can continue if you like." You grin at him. "But only after you drink some tea. You will definitely get sick is you continue rambling like that."

He scoffs.

"I don't want to drink tea." It's childish, really, but he can't help it. The nausea curls up in his stomach again and his fingers also begin to tremble. "I'm fine."

You glare at him and Spencer feels his heart jump again.

"Drink." You say with a tone that doesn't take no for an answer. You press the cup into his hand and Spencer swears that you linger a second longer than you should have. Or you don't. He doesn't know. His profiling skills are worth absolutely nothing the moment you look up at him, your lashes casting soft shadows on your face in the dim light.

He swallows and tightens his grip around the cut as he brings it up to drink.

Next to him you lean back, shifting in your seat. Your shorts ride further up and Spencer almost chokes on the hot tea.

At least he knows that his libido hasn't suffered seriously because of the hydromorphone, he thinks and for a split second, his relief almost drowns out his guilt. Opioids do have that long-term effect on their user. But it all comes crashing back when you stretch out yourself and he has to tear his eyes away from the way your top slides up.

Dr. Spencer Reid is a clever man. Terrifyingly so, his intellect alone is enough to make even the most seasoned agents stop and listen whenever he speaks up on a case. He is undoubtedly a genius, a once-in every generational talent, a prodigy that even the great Jason Gideon speaks about with open pride.

But Spencer Reid is still just a man. A very confused one at that.

Back at Quantico, he is celebrated as a mastermind, as an example of how all profilers should be.

Here, on your couch, he is just scared.

He knows that there is a real possibility of you liking him; no matter how small that might be. He isn't stupid or dense to that degree, no matter how much his coworkers baby him. It comes with his appearance, he supposes, the way he is still all long limbs and knotty joints, like the kid who always got the short end of the stick back in high school. Spencer doesn't say that had never happened but still. He is twenty-five years old and even if Morgan would laugh at what he calls - or rather, doesn't call - his dating history, he thinks he knows when a person likes him.

Or so he thought. Because the doubt keeps creeping in - what if this is how you act with all your friends? He certainly isn't around you enough to know what is your attitude around people your age and behavior is built by patterns, after all. What if he isn't as special as he wants himself to be? What if all he is to you is the weirdo FBI wannabe who can't even hold a single conversation without rambling about something completely irrelevant? And now he is also a junkie, wouldn't that be a funny story at your parties—

"Hey," your touch on his arm is light, and while most of the time, Spencer doesn't prefer physical contact, now he wants to press himself as close to you as he could. "You are overthinking something again, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he mutters, shame coiling in his stomach. Here he is making wild hypotheses about your ulterior motives and all you want to know if he is alright. "Sorry. I know you don't like it. " He adds, his hand clutching at his arm again.

"You absolute dumbass. I love you." You say it with such an ease and familiarity that for a moment, Spencer believes you. "but you always overthink everything. That is the curse of the job you choose. And it doesn't bother me as much as it worries me, Spencer. You do know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Anything, really. I'm here to listen. Just if you want to, of course."

"Mhm. Will do." He nods, staring at the TV before him. You look at him for a little longer, then turn forward with a sigh.

"Alright. Tell me if you need anything else." Spencer nods again. The marks on his arm itch. It's bone deep and he knows he could flay his arm in search for the source of the rot and still would only find the hunger that floods in his veins. Still, he rubs it and the need flares up in him again.

He briefly wonders that if there will be a time when the ache after the hydromorphone will be stronger than the ache after you, but the thought only makes him more nauseous so he just slides closer to you.

 Not like he doesn't crave you now, he thinks, it seems ridiculous to even consider that as an opinion. But Spencer can't deny that since he has been dead, it changed. Now, he wants you to tear open the buttons on his shirt and open up his chest and crawl into the space between his lungs to where his heart beats increasingly faster and replace it with your warmth, a place between his spine and sternum which is entirely and exclusively yours. That and another set of vials would mean the perfect world for him, he thinks, dizziness setting over his mind as sweat runs down his back along with the remaining water from his hair.

He has to leave soon. He doesn't want you to see him at his lowest.

If it was up to you, he would be sent to detox. Or at least a Narcotics Anonymous, and you would do it because you thought you loved him, the same reason he sent his mother away when she needed him the most. And maybe that would be the best course of action, if Spencer was an addict. But he isn't, his grip tightens around his arm, he is undoubtedly in control.

("I don't want it." He whimpered again and and again and it was a lie and it is a lie when you lean against him, your body warm and solid and he wants more, to press you even closer until he doesn't know where he ends and where you begin and he is a sinner and a liar and a bad friend for wanting you and an even worse son who sold out and betrayed his mother and he deserves nothing but to—)

"Hey." You tap lightly on his hand which is clasped around his elbow. He shivers at the contract. "What's up with that? You have been scrathing yourself for the last five minutes. Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, that? It's just a bruise that I got on my last case. Morgan almost managed to close the car door while my arm was still inside." He only hopes you don't notice his fingers shaking.

"Oh, my great hero, what trials you have to go through every day!" You lean closer to him, your arm pressing against his. "Thank you for protecting us every day!" There is a dimple on your face when you smile like that, Spencer notes and fights down the urge to run his thumb over it. "And tell Morgan I will kick his ass if he manages to injure you again."

"Realistically, you would get absolutely obliterated by him." He lets it slip and watches as the smile on your face widens. "Not only he is more experienced with hand-to-hand combat, but unsurprisingly, he also has his service weapon on him at all times. I think once he even tried to take a shower with it."

"Whatever. You didn't come over to talk about Derek Morgan, did you?" Your eyes skim over his face. "To be fair, I was surprised that you came. I honestly thought you didn't want to see me in the near future by the way you ditched every call I made to you. And I know, I know," You held up your hand when Spencer tries to interrupt. "Your job is hard. I get it. I just worry, you know? This must be hard for you, all those people you have to deal with, the things you have to think about every day… I know you want to do this, but you are also my friend, Spencer. And I don't want you to lose yourself in such a shitty place. Is everything alright? You look like you sleep even less than you did before. Did something happen? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He wants to tell you. He really does but then the guilt creeps up from his stomach and he chokes on his words. You can't see him weaker than he already is.

"I'm fine, I promise. It's nothing serious, just the stress, I think." He says instead. "It's nothing, I swear."

You press your lips together and it seems like there is much more that you want to say to him. But you don't. The warmth in his chest only grows at the sight of that.

"Okay, whatever you want, genius." You sigh. "At the end of the day, you have a doctorate and only have my opinions. But seriously, if anything is going on, you can tell me anytime. Call or text is okay, if that's better for you."

Spencer wants to remind you that he has three doctorates, not just one but you look up at him from under your lashes and for a moment, he completely forgets how to breathe.

When he can induce his lungs and trachea back to work, you are already fussing over his arm.

"Can I do anything about that? It seems painful by the way you grasp at it."

"It's fine, it's just a bruise. The discoloration of the skin will disappear approximately in two weeks along with the pain. Surface wounds aren't that serious either and fortunately the hit didn't affect the deep tissue or the bone underneath it."

"Fine," you huff. "Then let me do just this. Take your hand off and hold up your arm."

He obeys without thinking and you lean closer. Much closer than he expect you to. Before he can react, your lips are almost touching his arm and Spencer swears he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin even through the thick material of his sweater. And then, right before he puts his hand back, your lips brush against his shirt for a fraction of a second.

Spencer lets out a whimper, a pitiful sound and he can only hope that you don't hear it over murmur of the TV.

It's just a peck, not even a full-blown kiss. The building doesn't collapse on his head and the world doesn't stop turning nor his heart beating but Spencer knows that something has changed in him fundamentally when you pull back and laugh at his dumbfounded expression.

"What? Now it will heal much faster that I kissed it better. And don't even try and come up with a scientific breakdown of why what I said is wrong on all levels, or you don't get to chose what we watch tonight."

"I wasn't going to say anything!" He protests just for the sake of it as you reach for the crumped cardboard box where all your old DVDs reside. "But I want to watch Star Wars, if you insist on me picking."

You grimace up at him from the floor.

"Again? We must've watched it for like, a thousand times? Didn't you said that you want something more grounded than swords made out of light and psychics?"

"Actually, this would be the eighth time we watch them together and the fifteenth time I do, and while the existence and work of the Force is utterly unrealistic, you could and can build lightsabers in the form of plasma blades with and appropriate core and hilt. Though kyber crystals do not exist, you can try and replace it with something else. I think I still have the one I made when I was eleven hidden away amongst my old stuff."

"Mhm. Of course you did that. Whatever you say, handsome." You grin and hold up six DVD cases. "Should we start with the OG trilogy or the prequel one?"

"Please." Spencer frowns. "The original, of course." He feels offended enough that he almost doesn't notice how your fingers flex as you put the first movie into the player.

"Okay, I think it soon will start." You sit back next to him. "Do you need anything else? More tea? Something to eat?"

Two more ampoules in my pocket and for you to never leave my side, Spencer thinks, but he can't say that out loud so he just shakes his head. You nod and turn back to the screen where the familiar yellow text has already started to roll up, followed by the familiar boom of the soundtrack. He tries to pay attention - not that he needs it, he knows the full script by heart, even the director's notes - but all he tries to do is to scoot closer to you. You don't seem to mind.

Spencer Reid has never felt this lost in his life. There is a fire inside of his body that never stops burning and there is an ache in his heart that only your presence can ease. The only thing he knows surely is that he loves you and you let him so, even if it's without realizing the full scale of his feelings. And that is enough to silence the burning in his veins, even if it's for a short time.

On the screen, the Devastator catches up to the Tantive VI and pulls it into captivity. You lean against him, your head falling onto his stiff shoulder.

The view from the roof can’t be considered great by any means, yet looking down is still miles better than being down in the chaos several floors beneath your feet. A light breeze caresses your face and the air is clear here - as clear as it can be in Pittsburgh at least - but you are determined to change that.

You inhale. The ember of the cigarette in your hand lights up, then burns down another millimeter, the floating, small particles of grime sticking to your fingers along with the filthy smell. The wind tries to blow it off from your hand but you know it will stay with you until the end of your shift, the smell crawling underneath your skin even after you clock out. That is just how things are in the ED. It stays with you long after you leave.

You look up. There are no birds nor planes flying above the hospital, just the sun burning mercilessly on the zenith of the sky, with a few pale clouds drifting across, the smog of the city already painting them sickly grey. You wish that it would rain. The heat is too much.

You exhale. Smoke curls from your mouth and dispenses into the air above you. There is no rush up here and you hold these rare minutes of solitude close to your heart as you feel the familiar rush of dopamine flooding your body. The cold metal of the railing digs into your spine- a small facade of stability. It is the final barrier that should always stand between you and the street that is several floors beneath you; and Abbot always says that you should never cross that line because it can lead into dangerous territories within yourself but he isn’t here right now to bother you. He always says shit like that and you never know if he took it from his therapist, the inner healing podcasts he’s watching, or the outrageous amount of soap operas he consumes weekly.

Robby doesn’t say a word anymore. Previously, he used to tell you to stop, that this won’t help you get better, that this isn’t a healthy coping mechanism and you would deliberately ignore him, but now he didn’t even spare a look at you when you made a break for the escalator during a momentary pause in the ER and that made your stomach tighten in unease for him.

You wonder if he started to visit this place as often as you and Abbott did.

This sucks, you hold out the cigarette in front of your face, watching intently as the ash stubbornly stays on its end, bound in an useless fight with gravity. This sucks so much. You lean back a bit more, the railing creaking under your weight as your legs slip on the concrete floor, itching closer and closer to the edge of the building. Maybe you should give up against gravity too, you think, but then again, it would be such a mess to clean up after you. It’s just not worth it.

You sigh, lungs burning comfortably with smoke, the relaxing effect of the nicotine already kicking in. Even the sound of an elevator dinging and hurried steps coming your way doesn’t startle you much.

“I don’t think you are allowed to smoke out here.” The voice of the new attending doctor doesn’t sound as confident up here as she had spoken down in the Pitt. You chuckle humorlessly.

“Sorry. Gonna write me up for this, boss?” Your voice sounds rougher than you expected. “Don’t tell Abbot though. He doesn’t like when I take away his spot.” Or when you do anything against your health in general. Your eyes are almost closed but you can hear it crystal clear as she moves next to you. “I always say that he is too jealous for someone as old as him.”

You feel a hand on your upper arm. Cautious and careful, but still securing. Supporting. Her perfume cuts through the remaining distance between you, now not oppressed by the artificial smell of chemicals - something heavier than you have expected, some kind of tea maybe? Or is that lavender in there? - but the smoke engulfing your senses quickly drowns it out.

“I know this job isn’t easy, but this is never the right choice.” Her grip is different from the way she touched you before, the light pats she gave the rest of the staff too - a grounding hand on the shoulder here, a gentle push to move one out of her way - there is something almost desperate in the way her fingers grasp your bicep. You don’t think you would be able to jump now if you wanted to, not with the way she holds onto you. “It is never the right choice. Please, step back. I’m sure we can find another way. We can talk this out.”

You turn your head towards her, a smile tugging on your lips. Al-Hashimi looks at you and there is a plea in her eyes. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to jump. I just wanted some fresh air, that’s all.” You say, the cold metal of the railing pressing hard into your vertebrae. “I may have had such horrible thoughts, but I got that evil, evil urge knocked straight out of my head by our masterful attending psychiatrist. You should meet him, bet the two of you would get along, Doctor.” Your voice is meaner than intended and your attitude crumbles a little as you see the confusement and hurt on her face. You shake the feeling off. Whatever. It’s not like this will spoil your image in her mind. You are pretty sure that taking a cigarette break on the edge of the roof while being in the middle of an institution-wide emergency did that already.

“Please, step back from the edge.” Al-Hashimi repeats and you are beginning to suspect that she really is an android with the way she stands so stiff now. But also, there is too much care in her eyes for that to be true, you think, and she has such deep eyes that you might just fall into them. “Please.” 

With a sigh, you look down, the city bustling with life beneath you. The urge to fall is still creeping around the insides of your skull, but maybe those tortuous sessions did anything because you are able to not care anymore. At least a little. 

Al-Hashimi inhales and you can feel her fingers tense around your arm. With a fluid motion, you straighten your back and step over the railing, back to safety. She is still holding onto you like you are about to leap over the edge of the building.

“You know it’s fine to let me go, right? I’m really not in a mood to jump.” Her hand immediately leaves you and she steps back a little. You already miss the warmth of her.

“It is not okay to joke about that.” Her voice is stern, like you are a child that is being scolded.. “Or to lead yourself into dangerous situations; it is your responsibility as a doctor to act as you would advise your patients to.” Her eyes narrow as she looks down at your lips, the cigarette still burning. “I hope you are aware how much risk you are putting yourself at. Of all the people, you should know that.” 

“Yeah, the risks are crystal clear. Cancer, stroke, heart and lung disease, type 2 diabetes, COPD, etc. etc. But I don’t even do it that much often,” you add as she shakes her head in response. “Just something little to take the edge of the day off.”

“It is barely past noon. Are you sure that you are fit to be working today?” There is genuine concern in her voice and the taste of ash on your tongue gets bitter on your tongue. “I’m sure we can arrange for you to go home and call in someone to cover for you. You shouldn’t be here if it further handicaps your full rehabilitation.”

You laugh, the smoke escaping your lips in a grey cloud.

“And what about you, Doctor? If I remember correctly, you shouldn’t be here either; how is your first day going? Is everything going according to your calculation?” Your words are cruel and her face drops. You want to slam your head in with a sledgehammer. Why are you so incompetent with everything today? It would be better if you just bit your tongue off already instead of always bothering others with your borderline assholeness. 

Al-Hashimi breathes in, the hurt in her expression disappearing as she collects herself.

“Yes,” she says finally, her smile maybe a little bit too rigid. “I might have underestimated the unpredictability of this department, but I also have seen the talent and competence that keeps this place together. The first day is always a challenge and although Dr. Robinavitch and I have our… differences, I am sure that he does everything he can to glue this place together. And I am more than excited to continue his work here.”

“That’s great to hear.” She is so clearly lying that it hurts. Even you know with your multiple missed shifts, that the ED is in a crisis right now - when wasn’t it, honestly? - and that Robby is barely holding on to his own sanity next to the entire place crumbling apart. Al-Hashimi seems to be more stable than him, but then again, you literally have known her for less than seven hours so your judgement isn’t as perfect as you would like it to be. Though the small scale of your interactions didn’t stop you from getting unreasonably tense whenever she was in your proximity. And that doesn’t even mention how her presence alone seems to suck all of the oxygen around you. 

That must be why your chest is so heavy right now. Or the smoking.

You breathe in again, stubbornly continuing to smoke the dying cigarette. It won’t last another two minutes, you think, glancing down the street again. There is the remote sound of a siren far, far away and you know that your time on the roof is limited by each passing second.

“Have you ever thought about doing it?” You ask, eyes still downcast. Al-Hashimi frowns.

“Smoking?”

“No. Suicide.” You wave the smoke away, careful not to send it towards her. “You don’t seem the type to dwell on it too much though. You look way more collected than that.”

“I think every person has their share of troubles that they go through in their lives.” Her voice is much more serious than yours. “For me, everything changed after the birth of my son. Being a parent takes a toll on you in many ways but it at least helps to keep me grounded, gives me something to hold onto. I assume you don’t have children?” She glances at your hand, no doubt noticing the lack of ring on your finger.

“No. Maybe I should have one.” You snort and Al-Hashimi presses her lip together in disapproval. “Not planning them for a long time, the concept of parenthood doesn’t really seem to click with this whole hospital lifestyle for me. Also, a steady relationship would make things much easier, but we all want what we don’t have, I guess.”

Al-Hashimi hums in response, her gaze steady on you but there is one thought sneaking in the back of your mind. She has a son. Based on that fact alone, she’s probably married too and that knowledge should be enough to get this stupid half-crush out of your head. It was already unattainable in all that ways it could be; you shouldn’t even think about her in any way other than from a strictly professional viewpoint.

Except that isn’t enough. Your eyes shift towards Al-Hashimi, her hands in her jacket’s pockets. She has such a pretty side profile in this light, the sunrays shining on her golden highlights. She notices your stare but doesn't say anything, just checks her clock on her wrist.

“We should get headed down back soon. I heard there are two more traumas coming in the next ten minutes.” You attending looks you up and down. “I’m taking you back from triage. We need all hands in the back for this afternoon, the amount of transfers from Westbridge will only increase.”

“Okay! Okay. Just give me one more minute before you drag me down to the seventh circle of Hell for another five hours.” You sigh, trying to get one last drag from your cigarette, the burning cinder smearing onto your fingers as a result.

Al-Hashimi’s eyebrows jump up to her hairline.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are quite overdramatic?”

You lazily blow out the smoke, closing your eyes slightly.

“Multiple people actually. Cannot seem to get the lesson yet though.” You look at her through your half-closed lids. Even out here on the roof Al-Hashimi still stands like she did down there, her shoulders pulled back, her spine straight as a ruler, her jacket perfectly fitting on her body without a wrinkle on it. The only sign of any stress are the stray baby hairs that had escaped from her hairstyling and even with that, Al-Hashimi still looks more perfect than you can ever hope seven hours into a shift. “Maybe you will be the one that makes it stick, Dr. Al-Hashimi.”

“You certainly have very interesting assumptions.” Amusement fills her voice and you duck your head lower, your eyes stuck on her jacket.

“I really don’t know how you bear all this with that on.” The summer breeze is warm and it makes your scrubs stuck against your skin, sweat dribbling down your spine. “It’s stylish and all, but I cannot imagine how your brain is feeling right now.” She freezes at that for a millisecond. “Why don’t you take it off? It’s crazy hot out here.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“Would you like me to strip here in front of you?” 

The drag of smoke you just inhaled goes astray, leaving you to cough a little. You manage to drop your cigarette and when you finally can look up at her, through the curtain of your teary lashes, you can see a grin on her face - the one you saw engulfing her face at the beginning of the day. Jesus Christ. Her tone isn’t different from when she asked you earlier to see the CT results of the glass-puncing patients.

“At least take me out for a drink first,” you manage to get out before turning back to your cigarette only to see it be burned down completely. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this was supposed to last for ten minutes at least. Sorry,” you glance at Al-Hashimi. Her eyes are serious again and there is not even a trace of that grin, all replaced by the most neutral expression you have seen on anyone, ever. It’s like she hadn’t just managed to shut your system off completely by a single sentence.

Pathetic, really. You sigh as you step on the cigarette butt laying on the floor, cautiously extinguishing the embers on its end - the last thing you need today is a fire breaking out because of you. With a final movement, you swiftly quick You can feel Al-Hashimi staring daggers into your back so you put up your hands in defeat.

“Okay, I swear I will get all the trash off from here by the end of the shift, but it was you who said we need to get going now.” You shrug. “Besides, no one comes up here, it’s just me ‘nd the old man. And he’s only here at night anyway.”

“Do you mean Dr. Abbot?” Al-Hashimi asks, eyes still fixated on the discarded cigarette. “I haven’t met him yet. I would like to know if he’s anything like Dr. Robinavitch.” Her words sound exhausted and you would very much hit Robby in the face if it meant the strain in her voice would disappear.

“What, already getting enough of his overbearing empathy? Relax, I’m just kidding.” You say when her head snaps towards you. “But Abbot is fine. He is more… stable than Robby, can be brash sometimes but I don’t work together with him anymore so it doesn’t bother me at least. He brings a certain… energy to the night shift and that is important too; he is kind of a boomer, but he’s chill.”

“A boomer?” Al-Hashimi asks, her lips twitching. “You call one of your attendings a boomer?”

“I did it before, I will do it again.” You smile back. “Besdies, he’s not my attending anymore. Those days are over, thank God.” Struggling with a smile, Al-Hashimi just shakes her head and starts walking towards the elevator. You follow her like a lost puppy. Before the doors close around the two of you, Al-Hashimi turns towards you again.

“If Dr. Abbot is a boomer, then what does that make me in your eyes?” She asks, a definite smile playing on her lips. You should hesitate but your mouth moves first instead, again.

“My new boss who seems not as serious as I expected.” You want to slap a hand on your mouth but she almost starts laughing at that and you can feel the warmth blooming in your chest. “And she is also great.” You add sheepishly.

“Alright,” She grins and the elevator starts moving downwards with a loud ding. “Let’s hope that your opinion will stay the same after the end of this shift.” The elevator suddenly seems too small and the two-step, completely professional distance between the two of you is almost too much. You swallow, and put your hands in your pockets.

“Fuck.” You mutter as you scramble through them in a futile attempt to find the last piece of gum that you stored for this specific instance, but it isn’t there. There is no way you are going to last through another five hours if your mouth tastes like straight-up filth. You grit your teeth so hard that Al-Hashimi probably noticed it, because redemption comes to you by shoving a pack of gum into your hand.

“Thanks, you might’ve just saved my life.” You sigh, closing your eyes, savoring the familiar freezing taste of the mint. “Definitely saved my life, don’t even know how to thank you properly.”

Al-Hashimi chuckles.

“I do have a few ideas. For starters, let’s get you right into the first trauma we get; I want to see those skills that I heard so much about.” Her gaze shifts to your hands. “If half of what they say about you is true, then I will be more than happy to get you permanently back from triage.” You ignore the stupid pictures your mind generates at her words and just nod. The elevator stops at the ER and she is the first to step out.

“Oh, and be a darling and try out the AI tool I sent you, alright? It would definitely make your life much easier if you accepted the offered help.” She casually mentions as you head to Trauma 2, the shouting of the paramedics already clear ahead of you. “Good.” She says to your indefinite nod and turns around. Her earrings catch a glimpse of the fluorescent lights as she strides forward, already giving instruction with a steady voice.

You don’t care in the slightest about the fact that your mouth tastes just like hers.

Things start to speed up after returning from the unorthodox trip to the rooftop. You are being pushed back into a flow you know very well and it’s too fast to think so you just move - trauma after trauma, the ambulance bay endlessly echoing the squealing of wheels as you run back to help the paramedics out until you are certain that the smell of blood has been permanently burned into your nostrils even through the layers of your mask, your ears ringing with the instructions shouted right into your ear and the constant sound of sirens seems to drill a hole into your skull. Everything is loud, everything is catastrophic and utterly exhausting and somehow, you love every second of it.

So this is what has been missing from your life, you lament as you hold a man’s heart in your hands, meticulously working on to keep it beating. You follow orders, check screens, hold body parts and sew things back together, all while keeping a tempo you can barely comprehend. The people swarming around patients, the adrenaline pumping in your veins and the blood rushing in your ears - throughout all of that, you still can feel that someone keeps watching your every move.

Somehow it doesn’t bother you at all.

When it quiets down a little so you can manage to get away to chart your cases, the latex gloves stick to your hands unbearably like a second layer of disgusting rubber skin. They snap as you peel them off your hands, the antiseptic chilling on your already drying skin as you automatically rub it into every pore of your palms, making your way towards your workstation. Princess and Perlah are chatting a few feets aways from you and Dana is currently talking on the phone, but it doesn’t bother you. Noise automatically drains out of your ears as you start to type down the first patient’s data, the keyboard clicking comfortingly under your fingers.

Halfway through you start to notice that someone is watching you, but you just continue. If Dana wants to stare daggers into your back, so be it. If she wants to say something important enough, she will tell you. If not - well, you don’t exactly have the brain capacity for that today.

“You have an expression on your face that screams bloody murder, just so you know.” She speaks finally, her tone amused. “Might want to change that before some poor kid sees you and becomes terrified of doctors for the rest of their life.”

You shrug.

“I think if they are unlucky enough to come here, they will never step foot in any hospital without a great amount of anxiety.” You lean back, carefully stretching your arms. “At least I’m sure I would develop some kind of disorder if someone like Robby would stare at me. I hope that our new superbaby won’t be scarred for life.” That comment earns you a slap onto your arm. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Mind your mouth when you are in my ER.” Dana answers, not looking up from the screen before her. You roll your eyes but you are careful to turn her back to her. “For your question, Baby Jane Doe is perfectly fine. She’s taking formula well. And just for you know,” she shoots you a judgemental glare from beneath her glasses. “She seems to like Robby a lot. Also don’t roll your eyes, it’s very impolite. Weren’t you supposed to leave this behavior in high school, kid?”

“Yeah, okay mom, whatever.” You step back to your computer, staring angrily at the few lines that you have written. What a pain in the ass charthing is. You almost get tempted to use Al-Hashimi’s new AI tool. Almost. You are not that desperate yet. “I should have gotten ran over by that car on the way here.” You mutter, eyes scanning the screen as you half-heartedly proofread the text.

Dana shakes her head disapprovingly.

“You have been saying very questionable words since you arrived, kid. Don’t do shit like that, in the end you will be giving me a heart attack before due time. And stop smoking while on the clock. You don’t think that I cannot smell that shit on you from a mile?” 

“Seriously, Dana? That’s literally the pot calling the kettle. Besides, you have been bullying me since the beginning of the shift. I should honestly report you to HR." She fully ignores you, calling out for Perlah instead and you turn back to work too with a renewed disgust for the whole process. Unfortunately, it isn’t long until someone else manages to interrupt your neverending calvary.

“God, sometimes I wish that this place just got a bomb alarm or something.” Trinity drops onto the chair next to you and buries her face in her hands in despair. “Any distraction would be warmly welcomed, actually.”

“I'm pretty sure that they still would make us finish our charts in that case.” You mutter, rubbing the bridge of your nose. You can feel another migraine building up. “Even if a fucking plane crashes into this shitty place we are not getting out here without staying overtime.” You are sure if Management could pull it off, they would chain each of you to your work stations the moment night shift arrives. Something something about maximizing efficiency, you groan silently as the words start to blur in front of your eyes.

“Don’t even say shit like that.” Trinity groans, her voice agitated. “Our dear Robo-Doc here already threatened to make me repeat my R2 year if I won’t catch up on charting before the end of the shift.”

“Wow, and here was I thinking I was special.” The fluorescent lights above burn your eyes. “She told me that I might not get a good recommendation after I end my residency here. That really motivated me.” 

Trinity snorts.

“I bet.” She squints at you. “So what is your opinion about her?”

“Uh, I don’t really know. She could have been worse I guess.”

“Worse? After she threatened both of us? I swear she is one step away from starting to turn all of us into brainless clankers.” She grips onto the recorder like it personally offended her. You just shrug.

“She seems balanced enough to keep this place together. That’s all I care about, honestly. Though I would appreciate it if she gave me a top-tier recommendation.” You add dryly. “Also earlier I might've flirted with her by accident.” 

“You did what.” Trinity turns towards you, her eyes widened in disbelief. “You are kidding me.” Her shoulders start to shake and her laughter is so uncontrollably loud that Dana looks over at you over her glasses. You just shake your head at her. “Oh my God, tell me everything! Was it awkward? I’m sure it was, you are physically unable to execute any type of pickup line without failing miserably. What did you exactly say to her? I really wish that I could have seen her face!”

In your opinion, Trinity is acting far more gleefully than it would be appropriate.

“I mean it wasn’t flirting flirting but like… the vibe was weird enough. I think, at least. I’m not sure if she took it that way. I kind of really hope that she didn’t.” Your eyes are not leaving the screen. “And what is with you saying that I’ve got no game? Do we go to the same clubs or not?” Trinity pretends not to hear that.

“So this is your idea of getting a good recommendation? I did not take you for the type but sure, go for it! Just please tell her during your pillowtalk-session that leave me out of her app-promoting shit. And don’t make me repeat this year.”

“What are you even talking about at this point?” You sigh. “I won’t tell you that because I will not be getting into that situation in the first place.” You shoot Trinity with a sideeye. “And even if I did - which is majorly impossible - I certainly wouldn’t do anything for you after this.”

“You are the definition of ungrateful.” She snorts, turning back to her charts. “Here I am trying to improve your dating history, which is miserable to say the least and this is the gratitude I get? Shameful.” You roll your eyes at her, submitting yet another patient’s chart into the system.

“I think you should focus on finishing your job instead.”

“Yeah, a girl can dream.” Trinity mutters, staring defeated at the computer in front of her. “I genuinely think I will be retired before I get to the end of this.”

You frown.

“Why don’t you try and use that AI tool that Al-Hashimi recommended? If you got threatened… I'm saying that you might as well try it.” She shakes her head.

“It makes a ton of mistakes, it’s better if I do it myself. It’s better than having Robby shitting on me again today.”

“You and me both, sister.” You mumble. Trinity hums in answer, and when you look up you find her staring towards South 15. Following her gaze, you find yourself looking at a pretty stressed-looking Langdon trying to appear calm and collected as Robby talks to him quite vehemently. You look back at Trinity. Her lips are pressed together so hard that blood had completely left them.

“Hey.” You kick her chair slightly. “Hey. Earth to Trin. What’s up with that stare? Was he an asshole with you again?”

She looks at you as if she had woken from a dream, her eyes finally focusing only on you.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She shakes her head. “He tried to apologize for being so hard on me on my first day here or whatever.” She looks so out of place and you cannot tell why.

“And? Did you accept it?” You continue to press on. Her face changes at your question, the same stubborn expression appearing on her face that you know so well.

“Please. Of course not.”

“Then is there something else? Someone else? You seem… off.”

Trinity just shakes her head and scoffs.

“Maybe becasue I’m tired as fuck? There is nothing else. Why don’t you just leave me and go play Lovergirl for Dr. Al here, don’t you have anything else to do than to bother me?”

“Okay, ouch. I got it.” You should leave now but the words slip out your mouth anyways. “Oh, yeah, what about you and Garcia? Are you still going with her to watch the fireworks? Or did she cancel yet again?”

Her jaw goes slack and you prepare for another brutal dig at your (nonexistent) love life for the comment but a hand weighs down your shoulder and it is not yours. Spinning around you half expect Al-Hashimi to stand there just by habit at this point, but it’s just Robby, you realize it with a wave of mixed relief and disappointment. He has an expression on his face you really don’t like.

“How are you holding up?” You do not like his tone from the start.

“I think I’m doing fine. Why? Is there something wrong?” He shakes his head.

“No, not at all. I was just surprised to find you here, when I remember it pretty well that I told you to stay in triage.”

You swallow.

“Oh, yeah. True.” He did say that.

“Then tell me for the love of god, why the hell did I see you in with the last trauma patient?” Robby doesn’t raise his voice but it’s worse that way. “Are you deliberately ignoring my orders or are you just plain stupid?”

“No, you misunderstand, it’s not that!” You say, voice trembling just a little bit. “Dr. Al-Hashimi specifically ordered me back here to get back into rhythm quicker, it wasn't to defy you, I swear!”

“Al-Hashimi, huh?” Robby asks, running his hands down his face. “She told you to come back here and you did? Even when told specifically not to?”

“Well, she is my attending. What was I supposed to do?” You feel the anger curling in your stomach. What does Robby think you should have done? “Say no to my superior?”

“Yes, maybe!” He snaps. “Maybe don’t overrule my instruction in favor of someone who isn’t even supposed to be working today! Maybe, just maybe don’t come in to work while you are still clearly not capable of handling things! The last thing I need now is another incompetent resident who can not fucking do their job because of whatever bullshit they decided to pull out of their asses this morning!” Robby is almost shouting the last sentence and you can feel the eyes focusing on the two of you. Trinity is dead silent on your right, not even moving a muscle and you can make out Dana staring at the two of you in the corner of your eye.

You look back up. Robby is angry, and by God, you do not enjoy seeing him like that. He is breathing harder than usual, mouth twisted into something cruel and sharp and you almost want to throw up the way he looks at you now. Like you are nothing but a nuisance. He too, seems to come to the realization that the two of you became the spectacle of the hour so he leans in, quieting his words so only you can hear them.

“Get yourself together, but quickly.” He whispers and the wrinkles on his face look deeper than ever. “I don’t need someone who doesn’t follow what I say; and this department is still under my lead until the end of the shift. Remember that.”

Since the beginning of your sessions, your therapist has been saying that it’s better to indulge in your violent thoughts, as long as they are strictly in your head - this way, you can avoid repressing them until it blows up right in your face. You decide to follow her advice this once, so you imagine bashing Robby’s head with a metal pipe until the grey matter emerges from behind the sturdy bone of his skull.

Surprisingly, it does help a little. So instead of saying what you think or straight just spit in his face, you swallow the words that wish to be said and nod. Robby doesn’t say anything else either, instead storming away towards where a muffled I need an attending here is coming. You turn back to the screen, staring at the nonsensical words you wrote, the letters buzzling against the white background like hundreds of ants trapped in amber, preserved for eternity.

Eventually people turn away from you and the ED quickly returns to the steady flow it was minutes ago, but you still can feel your ears burning. Trinity doesn’t say anything for once, and you are grateful for that. There is nothing that can make this day worse, you think and that is a mistake, because the next second, your screen goes completely black.

“What the fuck?” You almost scream at the useless machine, turning towards Trinity with despair on your face. She looks at you, eyes wide in horror.

“Dude, don’t tell me that the system just-” The next second it’s announced that because of the potential risk of a cyberattack, the whole system is shutting down. “Fuck.” You lean forward, silently cursing whatever stupid idea had led you here in life. There is no way you are getting home in reasonable time.

In the end, it isn’t as bad as you expected. Sure, going completely analogous on a national holiday in 2026 is more than shameful and it's a complete misery to get through it, but it isn’t as bad as it could have been. It’s still terrible, but you would take this any day rather than another Pittfest. You shake and push the memories of that day back into a hidden corner of your mind - unfortunately, you still have a job to do.

It turns out all of the new med students are freaks, because while the guy - Ogilvie - is a walking medical lexicon, Joy apparently has photographic memory, so you don’t have to activate any neurons to remember where and which patient you have to look out for. God bless whoever decided that her rotation starts today, you think, watching as she recites each and every piece of information written on the patient board like she just lists whatever she had for breakfast. You don’t even remember what you had for breakfast. 

God, one day back in the Pitt and you are already contemplating another voluntary psych hold.

The shift keeps racing forward like a bullet train without a driver without any sympathy for those who can’t keep up with it. Transfers are still arriving from the places that shut down, a collapse at a nearby waterpark brings multiple victims into the ER, Robby is getting more and more aggravated by the second, Dr. Mel King goes for her deposition hearing because of an asshole parent, and then ICE shows up and you all have to act like it’s totally normal as their presence alone makes the ER feel like a bomb waiting to be detonated. Then Jesse gets thrown to the ground, ziptied and dragged out right in front of you eyes and then you have to go back to work and pretend that it’s just a normal workday; that one of your nurses didn’t just got fucking abducted. Great. 

Then to top all of that, Emma, the sweet new nurse from earlier gets put into a headlock by a patient before he gets knocked out, and there is a fair amount of suspicion in you that Dana might’ve done something but you do not care at that point.

And there is still no answer of who left Baby Jane Doe here.

Donnie asks you to check on her after seeing you wandering around for minutes in Central, staring at the board absentmindedly. It isn’t something you usually do - there is a reason why you didn’t want to do your residency in Pediatrics - but you go anyway. 

The baby is more quiet now, not even waking up as you step into Peds and lean above her crib. You observe her quietly. She lays on her back, her face moving slightly in her sleep. You check her for any signs of discomfort or indication for any deterioration of health, but fortunately you find nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Okay. You keep holding on, kid.” Your finger brushes against her cheek. “You are doing much better than me, if I was brought here as a baby, I would have been tweaking out this entire time. You are doing great.” She starts tossing and turning when you want to leave, a cry threatening to form on her lips so you carefully pick her up and lay her on your chest. She doesn't calm down immediately but you start to rock her back and forth while humming some long-forgotten lullaby, and she slowly settles down as she listens to your singing and your persistent heartbeat drumming right next to her ear.

“There, there.” You mumble, your thumb soothing small circles onto her back. “You are safe now, everything's gonna be alright; I promise. You little survivor. It’s gonna be fine now.”

She ends up falling asleep on your chest. It’s a weird feeling, honestly. Not bad just… weird. You don’t remember what was the last time you held a baby in your arms or let alone see a child who wasn’t injured or crying because of fear. It’s a better alternative, you smile to yourself as you gently caress the baby’s head. Much better.

You continue to mutter sweet nothings to her as you stand there, so immersed that the sound of footsteps doesn’t register to you immediately. It’s only when someone politely clears their throat and when you turn around, Al-Hashimi is standing there, holding her tablet like it has been soldered to her hand. She looks you up and down.

“Dr. Whitaker was asking for you earlier; figured it would be easier if I just told you.” She says. “He was in South 15 last time I saw him.” Her gaze slides to the baby in your arms. “I hope you aren’t planning to take her with you?”

“No, of course not.” You look down awkwardly, starting to place her back into her bed but a light touch on your back makes you freeze.

“Let me,” Al-Hashimi says, her voice softer than you ever heard. She extends her arms and you reluctantly hand her the baby, your skin brushing against hers in the process and a shiver runs up your arm. Though you do your best in order to ignore that as every neuron of yours is focused on not dropping the baby. You step back once you gave her away, strangely missing the warmth that another person could bring you. 

Al-Hashimi doesn’t put her back immediately, instead holding her against her chest for a moment. She takes a step forward and places the baby into the crib, handling her with the utmost care. Realizing you have no reason to stay anymore, you start to walk out but you spare a look back and the sight stops you dead in your tracks.

Instead of following you out the door or doing a routine checkup on the baby, Al-Hashimi had frozen in place. Leaning over the bed with her hands placed on for support, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip, she genuinely seems to stop all movement, staring down at the child below her. You hesitate. Her face isn’t visible from where you stand and you don’t know if she is alright or something is genuinely wrong but you don’t know if you should step back in. You decide in favor of simply calling out.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi?” Her name hangs in the air like an incomplete thought. “Dr. Al-Hashimi? Is everything alright? Do you need help?”

No answer. You decide to go back in, but just as soon as you take the first step, she starts moving again, straightens up and moves her shoulders slightly, still facing away from you. She only turns around after she stared at the wall for a second. You open your mouth to ask if she’s okay but she is already walking past you, muttering something about an urgent case she needs to be on. You would let her go with that - you yourself aren't a stranger to weird and unexplained departures, possibly more dramatic than they should be - but then you see her face for a second. 

Her eyes are glistening with something that seems to be more than simply tiredness but she hurries away before you could ask any further questions. You sigh, shake your head and start walking back to Central. Is there a full moon today or is it for some other reason that everyone is going total nuts? 

The rest of the shift drags towards the end like dying roadkill and then passes 7 PM. The digital system gets restored and the night shift starts pouring in, bringing some life into the department but that doesn’t matter to you as you stare yet again at the copious amount of charting in front of you that is needing to be done, angrily kicking the shredder when the papers get stuck yet again. Dennis suggests that you just try to restart it but quickly stops speaking when Trinity slams her feet against it so hard that it falls to the floor. You try to smile and laugh at that but at this point, moving your facial muscles feel like chewing on titanium.

Around half past eight, you spot Abbot standing alone under the board, staring up at the vibrating screen. He notices you looking at him quickly, waving a hand as an invitation for you to come over. You jog to him, appreciating the way your limbs still work as they supposed to be after the neverending charting-session.

“Rough day, kid?” Abbot asks as he gives you a quick hug.

“You can’t even imagine.” You huff against his shirt then step back. “I think there is a new record of how many different ways people can blow themselves up.”

“Believe me, I can.” He grins but then his face drops. “Heard you got quite beaten down by everything. Are you still okay? This must’ve been hell of a first day back.” You shrug.

“Could’ve been worse; our new nurse, Emma got attacked. I just got a killer migraine from all the beepings and stuff.” Abbot chuckles, his voice ringing deep in his chest. “Is your buddy alright? The one you bought in a little after noon, gunshot wound and transected trachea was it maybe?”

He sighs.

“Yes, he has stabilized, last I’ve heard of him. Hope he can make a full recovery. He’s a great guy.” His eyes squint. “Speaking of good guys, is this new attending of yours treating you fairly? I’m getting mixed feedback on her, but I think she seems alright.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“Coming in not even by the time your shift starts and you start gossiping immediately? Very cool, Dr. Abbot.”

“What? Can’t I form an opinion about a fellow colleague?” He asks. “Didn’t even ask many people about her. But what do you think?”

“I think that thirteen hours is too little amount of time for me to form a solid take on her.” You sigh. “It’s just not enough for me to judge her entire character.” But it’s apparently more than enough for you to develop a much awkward attraction towards her.

“You know, you can learn more about a person during a shift here than a lifetime out there. And that knowledge extends to yourself too.” Abbot says with a completely serious face. You just stare at him unblinkingly.

“Why are you looking like that? You know it’s true.”

“And that is why you are a boomer.” You mutter then continue with your normal voice. “Anyways, as I was saying, it’s not like she’s terrible or something; she’s just new. If we give her a week to settle in, she can run this place like the navy.” You hesitate for a second. “That’s what I think, but….” Abbot finishes it for you.

“Robby doesn’t like her?” You nod, eyes averted to the floor.

“Yeah. Not at all.” You look up at him. “He is behaving weird, Jack. I know he was never the nicest guy around but the things that he said today…” You shake your head. “It scares me. It’s like he doesn’t care about anything anymore. Dana said he talks about his motorcycle trip like he won’t be coming back. He’s lashing out at everyone who tries to ask him if he needs any help and I swear that he is seconds away from starting to argue with Al-Hashimi in the middle of the ED.”

“Not so far from the truth.” Abbot scratches his nape. “I saw the two of them a few minutes ago, they were really going at it. Shouting and cursing, and all.”

“That’s… not good.” You can hardly imagine Al-Hashimi shouting or cursing but after the events of today, maybe her composure can be breached too.

“No, it’s not.” Abbot sighs.

“Could you… maybe talk to him?” You quiet down. “Robby, I mean. Speak some sense to him, he always listens to you.” And if he doesn’t, that means that there is something really bad going on.

Abbot nods, his eyes already seeming exhausted.

“I will talk to him.” He puts his hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “And kid, get out of here. Get some sleep. You will need it tomorrow.”

“Wish I could. Still have some charts to finish.” You grimace. 

“Then do that but head straight home after that. You drive here?”

“Yeah, brought it back yesterday from the mechanic. Hopefully it works too because if not, the amount of money I put into it to be repaired is nightmarish.”

“You good enough to drive?” Abbot asks, worry creeping in his voice. “Would be a damn shame if you got brought back by an ambulance.”

“I’m just tired, not blind.” You roll your eyes. “You worry about me too much.” 

“Okay, okay, just make sure to stay safe. It’s already hard to see Robby treating everyday traffic like a race without a helmet on, so don’t you dare to endanger yourself.” Abbot pats you on the back. “Be safe, kid. Get some rest.”

“Thanks.” You smile at him and he gives you one last pat on your back before you hurry back to your desk. If you get the rest of it done in less than fifteen minutes, you can get almost eight full hours of sleep. You start the typing with renewed elan and things finally stop looking so bleak as you start to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Too bad that Trinity Santos doesn’t want the same things as you.

“Hey.” You ignore her hissing at first. “Hey. Look up, shithead.” You don’t look up. That earns you a forceful kick to your shin.

“Ouch!” You hiss, biting back a curse. “What was that for?”

“So now you’re listening? Great.” Trinity huffs, leaning forward in her chair. “You wanna go out tonight? I’m thinking karaoke at the usual place. Seems like Mel is coming too.” She ads as she senses your hesitation.

Your eyebrows jump up at that.

“You mean our Mel? What type of blackmail did you need for that to happen?”

“Hah. Very funny. She’s coming because I asked her. I’m doing the same with you. So? Are you going to be lame and go home or are you going to have fun?”

“Oh, I’m going to be so lame today you can’t even imagine. There is one place for me to be tonight and that is my bed.”

“What a loser.” Trinity rolls her eyes. “Even Huckleberry seems to have more of a personal life than you do and that says something, don’t you think?.”

“He’s going to Amy’s tonight?” You frown. “Isn’t this like the third time this week?” She doesn’t answer you, just shakes her head. You sigh, and close your eyes for a moment. “Man, that is so weird. I mean, no shade to him but like doesn’t she kind of use him? He exhausts himself here everyday and then goes to the farm and does the majority of work there… Are they dating? Dennis said they aren’t together but like… meeting her parents for lunch every week? That’s kind of weird.”

“Well, if you find it weird, tell him. Maybe he will listen to you.” Trinity grumbles. You stare at her questioningly.

“Are you two having roommate issues again? Did he forget to do the dishes or what?” She doesn’t answer you, just stares back before speaking.

“Do you want to be better than him? Then know that you can be a loser and still have fun.” You raise your eyebrows at that. “Some of us will go up to the roof to see the fireworks; will you come there? You can even bring Dr. Al too if that would make you feel less scared. You can pretend to be scared of the explosions and cling onto her arm in pure terror.” She pretends to dramatically faint like a malnourished Victorian lady with anemia.

You just laugh in her face.

“What do you think I will do, ask out my attending on the hospital rooftop? Gee, thanks Trin but I would pay for that not to happen. Besides, she is married so I would’t even make a move even if she had happen to like women, or I don’t know, wasn’t my fucking boss in the first place!”

“She isn’t married.” Trinity’s grin is full of smugness. You stop speaking, mouth hanging open.

“Yes, she is? She talked about her son before.”

“No, she isn’t.” Trinity stares at you with triumph in her eyes. “She’s divorced, Princess told me in the morning.” Of course she did. “ Also, do you think everyone who has kids is married? You are being very prejudiced right now."

“Shut up.” You mutter. “Just shut up for a second.” Oh. Al-Hashimi is divorced. You blink once. Then again. Let the reality of that thought settle in your brain. Let it turn around inside your head as you inspect it from every angle. Let your mind write two thousand and thirty-four different scenarios based on one simple fact. You blink again.

Yeah, you still got no fucking chance with her.

“So, are you going to invite her with you or are you going to chicken out?” Trinity asks, the smirk still on her face. You shrug as you collect your stuff from your desk, drinking the last drops of lukewarm coffee from your mug. It tastes terrible, one more reason why you want to get out of here as soon as possible.

“I haven’t even said that I would go up there with you. Somehow I think I could endure this evening without spending one more second within your presence.” You stand up and stretch, your scrubs clinging onto you with a familiar uncomfortableness. You shoot a grin at her. “Please do me a favor and send a video of your karaoke performance, God knows how much I need a laugh today.” She gives you her middle finger for that and you still chuckle as you walk away from the station, waving goodbye to Dana who is still stuck waiting for her replacement.

“Don’t be a pussy and come up!” Trinity shouts after you and follows that up with something more insulting but you are already far away, opening your locker and dragging your stuff out. If you don’t take your scrubs off immediately, you are going to have a generational crash out, you think as you head towards an empty bathroom. Minutes later you emerge with your daily clothes on, your scrubs haphazardly thrown into your backpack.

You don’t leave yet, though. There is something in the air tonight, and no matter how badly you wanted to go home all day, some part of you just isn’t ready to leave the proximity of the building yet, like you are afraid of going home for some reason. So you start to find a place for a moment of loneliness. The rooftop is out of question, the ambulance bay is far too loud, and you don’t even consider going back inside where you can meet someone that might’ve wanted to talk to you.

In the end, you decide in favor of the parking lot. The night shift had already arrived and the remaining part of the day shift will probably wait up on the roof until the end of the fireworks. That and the fact that the area isn't as lit as the other places might be gives you enough space and solitude to have another cigarette.

If you are lucky, no one will tell this to Abbot, you think as you click your lighter, watching the small flame igniting the end of your little lung cancer-stick. He can make such a fuss about something as minuscule as a quick smoke and while he is right about the health factors of it, he certainly can’t dictate every single part of your life, your mouth turns into a thin line as stubbornness spreads in your lungs along with the smoke. Besides, two cigarettes isn't too bad. You will start quitting tomorrow anyways.

The concrete floor of the parking lot is still emitting the warmth of the previous day even with the sun down, and it almost makes it comfortable enough as you lay on your back and stare up at the starless sky. Light pollution is such a shame, you think as you take another drag and blow out the smoke. You should travel to a place where you can actually see the stars next time you go on a vacation. Maybe when you are fifty, you can afford it.

You continue to lay there, lazily blinking. 

Just moments before you reach your inner peace, it gets ruined by the buzzing of your telephone. Pulling it out from your jacket, you see three messages flashing on the screen.

theunholy_trinity: hey

theunholy_trinity: where r u????

theunholy_trinity: dont tell me u went home

You sigh and start to type back.

you: im in the parking lot lol

you: gimme 5 minutes ill be up

theunholy_trinity: better be here in 3 seconds

theunholy_trinity: even samira came up and you dont?? bitch

She continues to type but you turn off your phone, putting it back into your pocket. You glance up at the night sky. The fireworks could start any second now and there are twelve floors separating you from the roof. It might not even be worth it. But still…

You could go up. For a little. Stare at the explosions and try not to think about Louie and how much he wanted to see them. Go home and sleep dreamlessly until your alarm goes off.

The cigarette ends up extinguished before you smoke even half of it, but you aren’t ready to stand up yet. Two more minutes, you think as you close your eyes as you feel your phone buzzing endlessly in your pocket, your body melting into the concrete like it was the finest mattress. Then I will stand up.

You don’t get two more minutes.

After approximately thirteen seconds since the last message had arrived from Trinity, someone gasps above you.

Peeking out under your eyelids, you see a familiar silhouette standing above you, illuminated by the orange lights of the parking lot. Her hair is let down now, taken out of her usually kept together hairstyle, strays of hair curling around her face as if she just stepped out of a Botticelli painting.

“Hey, doctor.” You greet her, still laying on the floor of the parking lot. “We gotta stop running into each other like this, people might start gossiping.”

Al-Hashimi gasps your name and you know it then and there, that you are a lost cause.

The moment you step into the PTMC waiting room, you immediately want to walk out. It isn’t as bad as you remembered, it’s worse. So much worse. 

The leather chairs that always seem filthy no matter how often are they cleaned, the noticeable lack of air conditioning, the humid warmth that sneaks under your clothes and sticks onto your skin, the neverending flood of patients, the collective smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, clotted blood and other bodily products that infects everything, the constant murmur of aggravated people - seems like your mind somehow softened all the memories and upon return it all came crashing down.

That, or your hate for this place has surpassed all expectations upon your return.

God, you really wish there was another way, you think as you push through the crowded rows, trying not to turn around and run away, but sadly, rent doesn’t pay itself. You wave towards the reception and catch a smile from Lupe before she turns her attention back to the endless line in front of the window. 

You nod towards the security guard at the door as you push your card against the scanner, the buzz ringing familiar to your ears as you walk inside. The change of atmosphere hits you immediately, instead of the tired humidness of Chairs there is tension in the air, like a rubber band that is stretched out continuously, waiting to snap back into your face. You pass through triage quickly, careful so you don’t have to look into familiar faces just yet but the smell of disinfectant already conquers your senses when you reach the lockers. It even invades your mouth, coating your tongue with the repulsive taste of chemicals.

The paper the hospital sent you is filled with mostly meaningless blabber - Welcome back; Happy for your succesful recovery; and Eagerly waiting for your return - but it’s the only thing that has the combination for your new locker which, by the looks of it, was probably used last when the current attendings were still interns. It’s still good enough for you to put your bag and jacket in there so you don’t complain much.

Besides, you are already late on your first day back in… how many days exactly? You don't think it lasted longer than two weeks, but it should have. If it wasn’t for your roommate finally moving out after threatening to do so for two years, you would have probably continued to ignore the emails from the hospital that were piling in your inbox for days before getting an answer.

But you came back, half a month and four therapy sessions later, being deemed ‘stable’ and ‘able to work within a few days’ by Dr. Jefferson. He probably wanted to keep you away from work for a longer time, but you are not in the place financially where you can let yourself get fired. He made you promise that you won’t have a breakdown yet again and while he didn’t look convinced, he got your point.

And the point is that your evaluations are good and you are mentally competent to start working again. That is enough for the hospital and enough for the department and should be enough for you. It is enough for you because you need to keep this job. You just have to suck it up and not kill someone while on the clock; patient or otherwise.

You close your locker with a forceful slam and start marching towards your doom.

You need this job, you chant inside as you push the door and finally step into the ED, the awful noise of the Pitt blessing your ears instantly; the white lights shining so bright that you have to close your eyes for a second. It almost manages to cancel out the absolute cacophony of sensations that the ER is, the beeping of machines, the yelling of the staff, the air full of the smell of antiseptic. With gritted teeth, you head to the nurses station and glance at the board that is already - or rather still - covered with patient names. Great. The start of an absolutely fantastic day in the greatest hospital of Pittsburgh.

Beneath the cursed board, a blonde-haired nurse is standing and reading swiftly from a tablet while she’s talking to another younger nurse next to her. She has a sweet face framed by dark curls and she is hopefully new because you don’t remember her from the last time. But you know the other one - the charge nurse - and she notices you almost immediately.

“Oh, look who decided to drag themselves in today! Must be a special time for all of you missing faces to show up.” Dana Evans presses her mouth together and looks you up and down in a very disapproving way. “I hoped that after all that talk about ‘mental health’ and ‘improving yourself’ you really did get help this time.” There is a smile hidden beneath her words.

“I too am very glad to see you again, Dana.” You answer dryly. “Yes, I am alright now, thanks for asking. No, I won’t be away again. Yes, I did get the help that I needed.” You lean against the counter. “Anything else I forgot?”

“Shut up. It’s good to see you again, kid. You look good.” She gives you an one-armed hug and you notice the absence of the smell of nicotine but Dana pulls away before you can ask about it. She raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you really good? You were in pretty bad shape last time I saw you. Thought that you might not be back for a good while.”

“Funny, I thought the same about you. But I’m fine.” You smile at her, your rusty face muscles creaking under the strain. “I just had to take a break, but it’s all super okay right now.” She presses her mouth together at that. “I’m really fine, I promise.” You insist. “I got the help I needed. Do you believe me or do I need to call down Dr. Jefferson to prove it to you?” 

Dana doesn’t seem as convinced as you hoped her to be but she doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you again, like she is searching for something else in your eyes. You blink, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden under her piercing gaze. She seems to catch it and she backs up, giving you one last pat on your arm.

“Whatever you say, kid.” She sighs. “I'm glad you’re back. It’s early and we are already overwhelmed and Robby is in a real shitty mood right now.” Her eye twitches.

“Why? What happened? Did someone fuck up again?’

“No, but this is his last day before he leaves and he is all jumpy because of it. You know how he is with his ‘responsibilities’. Thinks he can carry this whole department without any help or advice. He is one stubborn old bastard, that’s for sure.” Dana shakes her head. At other times, you would be shameless and say that Robby is younger than her but today a different phrase gets your attention.

“His last day? He’s leaving? Since when?” You have known Dr. Robby since the start of your internship and later residency and he never once took even one day off. “He isn’t quitting, right? That man practically lives here.”

“Not anymore.” An excited voice chimes in. Princess is there on your right, leaning closer and you automatically follow her movement. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He apparently wants to go on a long road trip. Supposedly it’s a sabbatical leave. He has a motorcycle ready to go and everything.”

“He still has that ‘69 Bonneville?” You ask, confused. “And he leaves tomorrow?”

“He leaves after this shift.” Dana says. “But no more gossiping. Go back to work.” Princess sighs and walks away but not before giving you a look that says ‘I will catch you up on everything’. You grin back at her. The last two weeks must’ve been if she acts like this.

“Are you done with gossiping while on the clock? You are already late.” Dana just stares back at you from under her glasses until you mumble a low ‘sorry’. “Great. Now let me introduce you to the newest addition to this place.” She gestures towards the young nurse who has been awkwardly standing next to her the whole time. “She just arrived today so mind your mouth before you speak.”

“When have I ever not done that, huh?” You grin at her but turn to the girl quickly. “Sorry for not introducing myself, I was just trying to get back into the old routine.” (“I’m sure of that.” Dana snorts next to you.) You say your name, your hand extended to her. “I’m starting my third year of residency here but recently I have taken a break for my mental health.” That’s the easy way of saying it. “Nice to meet you.”

The new girl seems hesitant for a second but when she takes your hand you are surprised at how firm her grip is. Huh. She seems very much captable. You have a feeling that she can do more than just survive here. Maybe even has a good first day. You hope so at least. She looks very sweet.

“I’m Emma Nolan, nurse. But you know that, of course.” She adds quickly and you have to restrain yourself from giggling. Emma seems utterly terrified - you cannot figure out if it’s because of Dana or you or both of you. She reminds you of Javadi on her first day, though you really hope that Emma won’t faint during surgery - one more person for Santos to bother is one person too much.

“Glad to meet you, Emma.” You let go of her hand and turn to Dana. “Hey, do you know where Robby is? I haven’t seen him yet but I want to talk to him before he leaves.”

“He was in Trauma 2 a minute ago… and still as it seems.” You look towards the room and there is Robby, standing there with his arms crossed as usual, the others are gathered around the laying patient. You spot some familiar heads - Whitaker, Santos, Javadi - but there is someone else standing next to your attending. You can make out the curly brown hair and a pair of earrings that glimpse in the bright lights but you can surely say that you have never seen this woman in your life.

“Yeah, I think I see him… But who is that next to him? The woman with the curly hair?” You ask. “Is she new too? I haven’t seen her here before.”

Dana chuckles.

“That’s your new attending, honey. And the reason why you should be cautious around Robby today.”

You look at her in disbelief.

“Why, is she that bad?”

“No, but from the few that I have heard, she is a real strict rule follower.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “And you know how much Robby hates regulations.” Yeah. You have a slight  idea about that. “She came in a day early, already started torturing the med students with a mock code. Apparently has some AI tool that she wants to introduce to regular usage. And those ‘Patient Passports’ you see in Chairs? That’s her work too.”

“She sounds far too passionate for a place like this. Remind me,” you mutter, eyes still glued to the mysterious woman’s back. “how long will Robby be on his sabbatical?”

“Around three months maybe. Not even he knows for sure.” Dana sighs. “If you ask me, he acts a little cryptic for what the trip is supposed to be. He’s not ever in the mood for talking about it.” 

“This all sounds very promising.” you rub your eyes. “I’m so happy to be here.” You glance at the board above you and let out a scream internally. Why do you always have to work? Was this what humanity was made for? Was this the reason why you were born? All those years in med school just for this? 

Well, the last one checks, You did go to medical school for this exact thing.

A light slap on your back is what wakes you from your inner tirade.

“Alright, enough of you moping around.” Dana says, voice already sounding tired. “If you really don’t know what to do without talking to Robby, go to North. There still are plenty of handoffs to be taken care of. Dr. King is already there and I sent Langdon too. Ask them for specifics”

You perk up at his mention.

“Is he back? Since how long?”  If your colleague with the substance abuse problem came in before you did, you are jumping into traffic after this shift ends. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Two minutes before you. You barely avoided each other.” Dana gives you a look. “Both of you had their fair share of bullshit to get through recently so don’t get into a fight with him before noon.” She checks the time. “Or before the evening. The only thing we do not need is for you two to irritate Robby even more. Now, go, go!” She waves you away like people do to an annoying fly.

You sigh and flash an encouraging smile at Emma for the last time then head towards North, but before you could do anything that counts as working, a tired voice calls out your name. Turning around you see your boss along with the mystery woman walking towards you.

“Oh, hey Dr. Robby! I was just looking for you but Dana said you were in with a trauma-“ 

He interrupts you immediately.

“Well, I’m out now; great to have you back again and all that. You better have gotten yourself together because today is going to be hell of a first day so sorry for the no ‘Welcome Back’ party you may have expected.” He’s rubbing disinfectant over his hands, his words rushed just like always. “Are you going to keep yourself together this time?”

“Ouch. Forgot how optimistic you always get, boss.” You mutter. “And I’m fine. Fourth of July always kicks our asses but I can deal with it, no questions needed.” The woman next to him furrows her brows at that but Robby doesn’t seem to care. 

“Were there any fireworks accidents yet? Those are always a delight to treat.” You ask, peaking over Robby’s shoulder to look into Trauma 2, but you only see Esme cleaning up the massive puddles of blood.

“No,” Robby shakes his head. “but now you certainly jinxed it. This was just a very unlucky guy with a weird dishwasher. Knife right in his chest.”

“So I didn’t miss much.” You say. “You can see stab wounds every day, but firework explosions happen just twice a year. How lucky we are.” Again, why did you decide to come in today in the first place?

“Do you think they ever considered putting up a betting pool for that?” Robby mutters but before you can ask ‘what the fuck’ the curly haired woman next to him clears her throat and you sweat that Dr. Robinavitch rolls his eyes before he straightens back up, turning towards his companion.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi, this is the resident I have told you about. It seems they decided to come in earlier than expected.” Robby turns towards you. “And this is Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, the attending who will fill in for me when I’m away on my sabbatical.”

Al-Hashimi steps forwards to extend her hand to you and in that millisecond, there are exactly two thoughts speed blitzing through your head.

First, is she really wearing a Lululemon jacket to a hospital?

Second, your new attending is so, so hot.

Her firm grip on your hand is what gets you out of the momentary stupor the sight of her put in - apparently you did take her hand even if you don’t remember starting the motion. You grin at her over your hands clasped together trying to seem like a competent and normally functioning person. Inside, you are freaking out.

“Oh, so you will be Dr. Robby’s replacement? Very nice to meet you.” Her smile widens a little at that and you almost fold into two at the sight - her eyes seem so warm and deep and her lips are so pretty too - is that a dimple? “Dr. Al-Hashimi.” Her name has such a nice ring to it. You wouldn’t mind saying it often.

“I feel the same way. Although I would’ve liked to introduce myself,” Al-Hashimi’s eyes slid to Robby for a second. “It’s good to finally put a face to a name that I heard this much about.”

“Oh, so you heard about me?” You raise an eyebrow. “I hope only the best.”

She tilts her head, her eyes glistening with amusement.

“Of course. Only the best, doctor.”

This time Robby is the one who coughs, and you realize that you are still holding onto Al-Hashimi’s hand. You let go of her immediately, feeling the warmth of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You mutter something akin to ‘sorry’ and shine a bashful grin towards the woman but she doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite actually, you notice, her smile grows even wider.

God, you love when pretty women laugh because of your stupidity. 

“As I was saying,” Robby starts again, shooting you a glare. “I told about your… situation to Dr. Al-Hashimi and she agreed to check up on you from time to time during my leave. Just to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Your face immediately drops.

“What? There is no need for that. I’m totally fine.”

Robby sighs, rubbing his temples.

“You had a breakdown so bad that you had to take a two week long break in the busiest time of the year; I don’t need to hear that you are fine, I need to hear that you will not hold us back. And since I’m not sure that you are the correct judge for that, Dr. Al-Hashimi promised that she will cover for me. Okay, “Robby claps his hands together. “Any questions?”

You just gape at him like a fish. 

“No questions? Great. Then go to triage for today. I sent Langdon already there and Donnie can keep the two of you in check while you get used to proper work again.” He glares at you. “Now please, go and do your job. We had covered for you this whole time so I would very much appreciate if neither of you would fuck it up today. We have enough problems already.”

Hot shame starts to boil beneath your skin but before you could even react to anything that was already said, the new doctor speaks up.

“I’m sorry, are you sure about this? Putting two of our more experienced physicians in triage during a major holiday?” Now you are certain that you see the annoyance on Robby’s face. “Our priority should be to reach the highest level of care given to our patients and that is much easier if we have all practiced residents in the ER.”

Robby runs his hands down his face, voice growing more and more aggravated.

“I’m sure you think this is a good idea, Dr. Al-Hashimi, but until the end of the day I am in charge of this department so I kindly ask you to leave my subordinates do as I say.” He looks at you. “You understand what I need from you? Good,” he acknowledges your hesitant nodding. “now go and do your job. No more distractions.”

And then he is gone, striding away and leaving you in shambles before your new boss.

“Well,” you start, “I was hoping for a better first impression.”

Dr. Al-Hashimi doesn’t seem to appreciate your attitude.

“Is Dr. Robinavitch always like this?” She asks, stepping directly in front of you. She looks after the receding figure of Robby, her eyebrows furrowed.

“You mean being harsh?” You laugh but it’s much too bitter for your liking. “I suppose. But I did just go on a multiple week long pause in the beginning of summer so I get why he said that. I really cannot afford to be a liability right now.”

Al-Hashimi shakes her head.

“This attitude is unacceptable from an attending towards a resident, no matter the circumstances. I have to report him for that.” Dread coils in your stomach at her words.

“There is no need for that, I swear! Please, don’t do that. He’s just… stressed, that’s all.” You almost grab her arm but you stop yourself in time. “And he will be gone after today, so please, let me just do whatever he wants me to! Tomorrow you can put me wherever you want but I don’t want to argue with him on his last day!”

Al-Hashimi doesn’t answer you immediately. She just stares at you like she’s trying to figure out something, but when the horror that you had crossed a line starts to awaken in you, she just nods.

“Alright, I can wait with the report after he has gone away.” You open your mouth to say something but she quickly shuts you down. “I might not yet know how Dr. Robinavitch runs this place, but I do recognize unnecessary commentary and that was way above the limit of encouragement.” She puts a hand onto your shoulder. Her grip is even firmer like this and you can feel the hard metal of her rings pressing into your skin through your scrubs as she continues speaking.

“I truly heard great things about you, Doctor, and I expect no less from you.” Al-Hashimi smiles at you, her canines showing for a second and your mouth goes dry. “I eagerly wait for our chances to work together.” 

“Of course!” Your voice sounds far more enthusiastic than usual. “I can’t wait for that either!”

She squeezes your shoulder once more, and then Al-Hashimi is gone too, and you are left there all by yourself in the beeping of the ER.

Maybe this shift isn’t going to be as bad as anticipated.

You do manage to get to triage in the end. Langdon and Donnie are already there treating patients and you quickly follow their example. It’s automatic, the way you do your work there - routine questions, checkups, scans, exams - and then they are going back to Chairs again for who knows how long. You fall back into rhythm relatively easily. It’s just a little monotone enough not to overwhelm you already but you are still kept on your toes and it’s more than enough to keep the unnecessary thoughts of pretty brown eyes and sharp teethed-smiles out of your head. Distraction is the last thing you need, you grimace as you lean over a burnt thigh, listening to the old lady scoff above your head.

The last thing you need today is another one of Robby’s motivational speeches. You need to be effective at least until he goes away. Though Al-Hashimi seems even more strict, she at least looks more stable than your current boss. And doesn’t want to berate you for every moment you waste, you think, rubbing disinfectant onto your hands yet again.

But despite your efforts, distraction finds you anyway, dressed in hospital scrubs that almost have you choking on your own spin for. Even that stupid lilac jacket just adds to her, you observe as you turn towards her, setting down the pair of scissors from your hands.

“Hey there,” she starts, her eyes shining. “There is no need to worry. I just came here to check if everything’s alright, but I can see what capable hands we left triage. Good job.”

You decide to blame the nonexistent AC for the sudden warmthness of your cheeks.

“I introduced myself to Dr. Langdon too, but I think there is one more thing to do before I can head back. Could I talk to you for a second?”

‘Yes, if Donnie can cover for me.” You shoot a questioning glare at Donnie who is in hearing distance and he gives you a thumbs up. Al-Hashimi sits down next to the chair next to yours and takes a deep breath.

“Have you ever struggled with charting?”

The question kind of hits you out of nowhere.

“I mean, yes. But that’s not unique, everyone has problems with it. What about it?”

“Great question. The fact that everyone struggles with it is precisely the problem.” Al-Hashimi pulls out her phone and unlocks it, clicking onto an app you don’t recognize. “Did you know that physicians working in the ED spend more than forty percent of their shift working on their charts. That significantly lowers the time they spend with each patient, resulting in the drastic decrease of patient satisfaction.” She turns the screen of the phone towards you. “Have you ever considered using AI for lightening your workload?”

“No, not really.” You shake your head. 

“Well, then, let me introduce you to the future of medicine.” Her smile beams at you and you already find it hard to follow what she says.

Al-Hashimi starts to explain the concept more in depth but unfortunately it takes one glance at her wildly gesticulating hands and the way her rings shine and your ears shut off as you continue to shamelessly try to check out your boss. God, you are terrible at this job.

“...so those are the base conditions of using it. The important thing is to fact check it before submitting because while it does have a ninety-eight success rate, those remaining two percent can be crucial.” You nod, finally snapping out of your daze. “So what do you say? Are you ready to give it a shot?” She must see the hesitation on your face because she leans a bit closer. “Think of all the time you could spare if you didn’t stay after shift to catch up on charting. And you do want to get a good recommendation after you finish your residency, don’t you? The delay of your charting might prevent that.”

“Yes, that would be my goal.” You say, trying to mask your astonishment. You never expected her to go this low.

“Great! Then all you need is to give me your email to send you the link for downloading the app and you are ready to make your life a whole lot easier.” Al-Hashimi hands you her phone and taps the notes app like she didn’t just threaten your whole career. “Write it here, please.”

“Thank you, I will be sending the link soon.” As soon as you hand the phone back to her, she stands, her posture so straight that you fear her spine might just break into two under the strain. “Now I will let you back to your work.”

You stare up at her, unblinkingly.

“Yeah, thanks boss. Will be sure to make great use of it.” 

Her eyes slightly narrow at your last comment but she leaves without a word. Not before her hand accidentally brushes against your back though. Your skin tingles there for a long time.

The email arrives and you download the app.

Maybe this day is not going to be as bad as it started, your smile is tense as you welcome the next patient who, in a fit of rage, managed to punch straight through a car window. There might be a way that you manage to go home with your mind still intact, you pluck another minuscule piece of glass out of his skin, but first, this shit will need so much stitches. You look back up at your patient with a sigh.

“We both had better holidays, didn't we?” He asks, his eyes studying your face.

“What, do I look that tired?” You chuckle humorlessly. “I mean yeah, but I had it far worse.”

 “Tell me about it.” He sighs, careful not to look at his numbed up arm. “When I was in college, once my best friend got so blacked out at a Fourth of July party that he genuinely started to think that he was C-3PO from Star Wars.”

“Well, that isn’t too bad.” You pluck another shred from his index finger. “When he was ten, my little brother pretended to be Gollum from Lord of the Rings for a full week.” You shrug. “The worst part was that he was kinda good in that role.” 

Your patient laughs. It’s maybe a little too loud for your taste but it’s always nice when people don’t moan because of pain underneath your hands.

“That must had been a handful to deal with! Our bad luck came from the fact that our friend didn’t only believe he spoke multiple fictional languages, but he tried to demonstrate this by calling all our parents to talk to them in what was supposedly Serbian.” He leans a little bit closer to you. “It was 2 AM when he started.”

Your patient laughs again at his own words and you smile back. 

Maybe there is still a slight chance for a good day.

One hour later, Louie Cloverfield is announced dead. You throw up in the bathroom before joining the others, your trembling hands searching for your last piece of gum in the pockets of your scrubs.

It shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s not like this is the first time a patient of yours died. Far from that. And you weren’t even his physician, just someone he knew. He knew the entire department by name, you think as you walk towards the viewing room. He even spoke to you in the morning, complaining about his teeth and complimenting your ‘new style of clothes’  - you wore the same scrubs as always and laughed at your lame jokes about going to a psychiatrist.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

You laughed along with him too, and it wasn’t as forced as it had been with the glass-punching guy; you mentioned how you don’t even want to hear about fireworks until New Year’s Eve and he scolded you for that, commanding you to watch it in the evening. Your grin was so wide when you gave in that you were afraid your face might rip into two.

Louie was still grinning ear-to-ear when Langdon took him back to one of the newly emptied rooms, waving goodbye as the bustle of the ER swallowed him whole. You went back to work and forgot about him as you were presented case after case.

Three hours later, he lies on a gurney in a viewing room as the whole department surrounds him and you cannot forget him anymore.

Robby is saying something that you are sure is very emotional and important and you should be listening because this is Louie he is talking about and Louie should be remembered as you saw him and as you didn’t saw him and you are sure now there is something wrong with your ears because you can only see mouths moving but no noise reaches you.

You are pretty sure Langdon said something to you amongst the words ‘pulmonary hemorrhage from liver failure’ and ‘there was nothing I could do’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ and he doesn’t look you in the eye. You want to comfort him somehow because the two of you both fucked up real time, letting everyone down multiple times but your head feels like it’s under anesthasia again and thinking isn’t as easy as it should be. You just stand there, at the end of his bed and watch as the new nurse holds Louie’s hand. Then you walk away because there is still work to do and the ER never stops.

There is another hour after that which you won’t remember later; injuries and wounds and scans and arguing family members and Westbridge shuts down so transfers are constantly arriving from there and you are sure that you will be eventually called back from triage and at that thought, you feel like you have been punched in the stomach.

Around 12:30, you find yourself at the nurses’ station, staring mindlessly at the board. Your patient - a young kid with abdominal pain of unknown source - is already under Mohan’s care, waiting for his scans to arrive but you stay still for a moment under the guise of charting, praying that you can steal a moment of peace for a second.

It doesn’t work of course. By the moment you type the first words down, someone already steps next to you. Or rather, steps so close to you that when you turn towards her, your arm almost brushes against her chest. 

“How are you holding up?” Al-Hashimi asks, her head tilted sideways. “Are you still flooded in triage?”

“I’m good and yes, it seems like everyone in Pittsburgh decided that today is the perfect day for getting injured.” Your smile is strained as you step back a little, the table pressing against your side. Did she really just sneak up on you? Does she think this is funny? “Still trying to catch up on charting though so it might be a hot minute until I get back.”

Up this close, you can see the faint freckles spread across her face, like constellations in the night. You can determine that even with the usual tiredness of someone who works in the ER, she still looks very put together and fresh somehow.

“Yes, about that. I wanted to ask you if you have tried my app yet.” Al-Hashimi looks at you curiously and you know that she has the prettiest brown eyes you have ever seen. “I would like to hear your feedback about it.”

“Really?” You lean back as far as it doesn’t seem impolite. Naturally, you haven’t even thought about the app nor tried it.

“Yes, of course. It’s important that all members of this department get a word in how our common future will be shaped. Also,” Al-Hashimi steps closer, seemingly unaware of your attempts and also seemingly having no regard for your personal space. “It seems like despite your age and his earlier words, Robby seems to trust you. That signals me that I can trust your opinion too.”

“I-what - Robby trusts me?” You are at a loss of words. She stands so close that you can feel the smell of the mint-flavored chewing gum on her breath. “That’s a new one.”

“Seems like it.” She winks at you. Your brain shuts down for a brief moment. “You might be more popular than you expect.”

“That’s… that’s great to hear.” You mutter, careful not to look Al-Hashimi in the eyes. “Sorry, but I really need to go back to triage. I kind of just left them there so I should get going. Excuse me.” You have never been so eager to go back to work. Or to get away from one of your superiors.

“Of course.” She says, disappointment apparent in her voice as she steps aside. You almost manage to escape when she calls your name. You turn around, eyes hesitantly settling on her figure.

“Just so you know, I’m fully planning to get you out of triage.” Al-Hashimi says. “Your abilities should be used to the limit of potential and you don’t get to fulfill yourself out there. Dr. Robinavitch is a great doctor, but even he can have a temporary lapse of judgement. You do belong in the ER, no matter what people might say and it’s important that you realize that.”

She steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder yet again, her hand setting confidently against your body. You hope she doesn’t sense how tense you are.

“Do you realize that, Doctor?”

“Yes.” You try to say but your voice croaks a little. “Yes,” you repeat again. “I do understand, Dr. Al-Hashimi.” 

“Great. It is important to know your own worth.” Her hand squeezes your shoulder and then she lets you go. You too, take a step back and almost collide with one of the tables. Princess looks up from the charts she’s reading and gives you a questioning look but you just shake your head and hurry back to triage where Donnie points at your next patient who happened to drink two gallons of milk because of a dare and now is currently vomiting up his guts. 

At least there are no distractions in your mind this way.

Surprisingly, you manage to stay in line for another thirty minutes before your not-so-solid resolve breaks and you decide it’s time for a brief break before you have to listen to another person gagging on their own stomach acid. Langdon promises to cover for you after looking at you like a sad dog when you said you will take a quick break. It makes your head ache, the way his eyes shine so you just take the small package from your locker then make your way quickly towards the elevator, all while slaloming through beds and unhappy patients littering across Central. 

Dana shoots you a disapproving look glare from under her glasses when she clocks where you are headed, but then someone starts screaming uncontrollably and she hurries off, the new nurse, Emma shadowing her every step. She understands it anyway, you think and check if you still have your lighter. You will definitely quit next week.

As you step into the elevator, you can still hear Dana’s voice cutting through the chaos like a knife, but then the doors close in front of you and the elevator starts moving upwards. Your fingers slip into your pocket close around the small box inside, grasping it so hard that the cigarettes inside might break before you reach the top.

There is something that has gone rotten inside you since you started working at the BAU.

It isn’t just you, that’s certain. No one stays unscratched, not in this line of work. The eyebags that never seem to disappear, the exhausted faces, a slight tremor of the hands, the nightmares you don’t speak of - no one escapes them. It’s happening to everybody.

You lay on the bed, the covers silk and soft underneath you, the golden rays of the afternoon sun infiltrating your room with unearned peace. Dust dances around in the light, careless and aimless and you follow their journey through the shadows through your barely open eyelids. Her hand rests on your thigh, nails digging into the soft skin beneath. You look down at her fingers and all the cruel comfort that they bring to you.

She lifts her glass and the ice clinks slightly as she swirls the amber liquor. The room will smell like whiskey for at least a week but you don’t stop her. Few of your friends can get you as well as she does.

Her grip tightens on you as she takes a sip. You follow the movement of her throat with hungry eyes.

——————

The relentless whirr of the fan above you drowns out all other noise, bringing you what little relief can one get in such circumstances. Summer is tough and it’s even worse when you are in Louisiana, all your clothes sticking onto you like it was flypaper and you were an insect. The stale cup of coffee they gave you thirty minutes ago just makes it worse, so you leave it untouched as you stare at the case file. This job used to make you feel something, you think and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Look where it got you. Deep into summer, stewing yourself alive in business casual as you look at the remnants of a life that may have been destroyed forever.

The sheriff is still talking with the rest of the team and you can’t find the strength in your body to stand up and go to them, the humid warmth climbing down your throat and choking you with its moist tendrils. You decide to flip through the pages of the case file instead, your fingers leaving fading prints on the yellowish paper. The pictures are always the worst. It should be nothing, honestly, you have seen so many things, have done so many things that a few pictures were far from the worst you have ever witnessed. Still, the smile of the girl who had been seen last exactly fifty-nine hours ago seems to be mocking you as you aimlessly turn to another page.

You glance at the clock and another wave of bile rises in your throat.

It’s always worse when Elle comes along. Or it gets worse when you come along, furthermore complicating the already maddening chaos that exists between the two of you. Tension grows higher with each passing day and you know the others are starting to notice. Not what really is happening - they probably wouldn’t even consider it as a possibility - but you had caught Hotch looking at you questioningly, like he was searching for something. Like he was profiling you. She noticed him watching too, you are sure of that, and it’s enough for her to stretch the few inches that are always between the two of you into a mile.

At least when there is somebody to see. You glance across the room. Elle is standing next to Gideon, her eyes tied to the list of potential suspects like she wants to pull out the truth from between the lines. She feels almost predatory when she is like this, her body tense and mind sharp and the sight makes something bloom in your chest which you are not entitled to feel.

A muscle clenches in her jaw. She knows you are watching.

You turn back to your papers and try not to think about the disapproving curl of her lip when you step too close or how her rules of keeping the distance at work suddenly vanish when she wants it to, hovering over you during the whole case and then ignoring you as soon as it’s done. You haven’t told her that maybe this might be more noticeable than acting like normal people would. You don’t think she would take the implication that she isn’t normal very well so you keep your mouth shut and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary.

The fan slows down and then gives up with a sharp whirling sound that echoes in your skull for the rest of the day. Your palms are slick with sweat as you adjust your collar, fingers trembling with exhaustion. Reid brings you another coffee from the breakroom and it’s almost better than the one you got minutes before. Or maybe you are just starting to get used to the taste, though you have to put it down after a few sips. You could only endure unpleasant things to a certain limit, after all.

The clock ticks away mercilessly, another hour gone without any meaningful progress.

She sits down next to you during the briefing, her shadow falling onto your files, making it harder to figure out the words on the pages. An arm brushes against yours when she shifts, the uncovered skin emitting warmth. She took off her jacket a long time ago yet her presence still feels suffocating.

Gideon presents the profile which you have not contributed to in any meaningful way. The headache grows stronger and your eyes find their way to the board, the girl - Amy, that was her name - still smiling at you as she is surrounded by her family. You saw her parents on the way in, their desperate hope obvious on their exhausted faces as they begged the sheriff to get their daughter home. The walls slip closer by the second, slowly caging you, trapping you with the pictures of someone you are sure you won’t ever see alive. You grit your teeth together and stare forward, your fingers tapping on a meaningless rhythm on the table.

The sound of movement comes from your right and a hand comes to rest on the top of yours, stopping yours. You stare down at it, taking in the moisturised skin and the small scars spotted here and there - a memento of her whole life. You are not allowed to ask about any of them. Not anymore.

She stopped chewing on her nails, you think as you spare a glance towards her. Elle doesn’t look at you - you don’t think she really has since you had left the jet - but she is here and she is real and warm and alive and still breathing and that for now is more than enough, even if you can feel your heartbeat speed up at her touch.

You lean back, eyes back at Gideon who sends you a questioning look. He must’ve noticed you are out of your depth today. You have been out of it for a long time now. Focus, you tell yourself and Elle smooths circles into the back of your hand, her touch grounding and distracting all at once. The unsub. The profile. 

The air in the room grows a little more warmer.

Her hand doesn’t move away as soon as the debrief ends and even when she does pull back to file through another pile of dubious evidence, your knees are still touching.

——————

It is relatively well-known in the BAU how good terms the two of you are on. How good friends you are.

(Good friends. Right. That is what the two of you are. Good friends who work together effortlessly, who go out after work to get a drink or two, who laugh together at inside jokes, who get into meaningless arguments to pass the time and who sometimes - more often than not - will fuck each other in cheap, shabby motels as they chase serial killers across statelines.)

At first, it was easy; easy enough to call it an accident. This is normal, you reassured yourself as you slid your fingers through your disheveled hair, your face still flushed as you stared into a mirror in a bathroom that wasn’t yours. Friends do it all the time and it doesn’t have to mean anything; your friends did this while in college. The thundering bass of the shitty club music sweeps in from the outside, beating the same erratic way as your heart does. You glanced at Elle who was fixing her lipstick in front of another mirror, her hair falling into her face. You couldn't take out her eyes. No need to overdramatize it. It’s gonna be fine.

You swiped your thumb across your lips that still tasted like her. The mirror in front of you fogged up quickly, hiding the doubt in your reflection's eyes.

Neither of you said anything when you came to work on the next day. Or after the second time or the third time or God knows how many times you ended up in bed with your friend and coworker. You don’t say anything because you desperately need to keep this friendship alive and Elle seems to wipe her memory after each time, pretending that it never happened right until the next opportunity comes and her hungry lips find yours again.

But no matter how desperate you get, it never gets to the point where either of you are fully undressed. It’s always messy, even more than the situation you are already in - spit and sweat smeared all over your body, which will be disgusting in the morning but is precious to you in the dark; clothes half rolled up and half sticking to your skin and your underwear torn apart because you were too slow for Elle and her taste smeared over your mouth as she kisses you because she forgets herself again, her fingers tightening their grip in your hair as she pulls you impossibly closer and bites down on your lip - and then she is gone, leaving you behind with sore limbs and an useless ache that is buried deep within you.

The bruises lettered all across your body does little to make you forget the way she looks at you when she closes the door behind her, the relief that rolls off her in waves when she can leave you behind after getting her fill with you and your fingers and your queerness, and she can go and be normal again.

Sometimes you think about telling her that the best for both of you would objectively be to stop this, but you are too much of a coward for that. 

Neither of you calls it quits. You don’t know what Elle thinks and you suppose that it’s better to have fleeting moments of real pleasure and false bliss mixing inside of you every week than to continue to choke on this useless longing that had infested your lungs and throat; making you into a stuttering, disoriented mess. Working together is weird; to come in day after day is pure torture, to watch Elle stroll in casually as another set of hickeys hide beneath the collar of your shirt - though you seemingly never can defeat the sharp eyes of Garcia. Going on cases is worse; the two of you usually get assigned to a room together, your lives - both professional and personal - are too much untangled to say no. 

So you take the keys out of Hotch’s hand and you do not drop them as he says the two of you are good friends, this shouldn’t be a problem, right? and you only smile at him through your clenched teeth. When you turn to Elle, she is already walking towards the room, her steps impatient on the shitty linoleum floor. For her, it’s just another opportunity to push your head between her legs and to pretend that it didn’t happen in the morning. The crescent shaped, deep marks on the back of your neck beg to differ, a sharp ache cutting into your skin as you move your head, the hem of your bulletproof vest roughly brushing against them.

(Yeah. Good friends.)

——————

The heat stays unbearable even after you find the missing girl, sixty-three hours after she disappeared. 

Sun burns your skin as you stare at the ground, adrenaline still pumping in your blood after chasing after the unsub through half of the town, leading you to his hidden dumpsite. You want to cover your nose to stop the smell sweeping into your mouth but the sight paralyzes you. The body isn’t right, with limbs twisting in ways they shouldn’t and the look of distorted agony that had frozen onto her face already carved into your memory strong enough that you are sure you will be visiting this place again in your dreams. Eyes stare at you, once warm and happy like on those polaroids that were hung up in the police station, now look at you filled with a silent accusation. You can’t find a reason why they shouldn’t.

You can only pray desperately as they take away the body that the coroner or the mortician can do something about those cuts. No parent deserves to see their child like this.

On the jet you sit as far from the others as you can. You can’t fall asleep so you just hope to disassociate until the end of the flight. But those eyes still creep back into your head every second, the staring, the blame in them-

“Hey.” Her voice is what cuts your internal litany in half. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You don’t look up. You already know what you would see; sharp, questioning eyes and lips half turned upwards in a smile that could be called soft if you didn’t know her. “Just tired. Haven’t slept normally in two days.” You doubt today will be any better. “I don’t think you should come over tonight.” 

Elle exhales, like she breathes out a question she has been keeping inside and though you don’t see her, you know she rolls her eyes.

“You say this like you expect me banging on your door in the middle of the night.” You feel the seat dip down next to you as she sits down. “I’m not that desperate. I have better things to do too than to travel half an hour to your place.” Elle leans back and stretches out her arms above her head. Her jacket is still discarded so you can see the smooth skin covering her collarbones and the dip where her cleavage begins. You look away, the cool leather creaks under you as you shift. The jet’s engine hums, almost drowning out the endless ramble of Reid in the background.

Her thigh presses against yours as if she wants to remind you of her existence. Like you could ever forget her. You close your eyes and try to calm your stupid heart. Like she would ever let you.

This is as close as the two of you can get to normal; a moment where you could pretend that there was nothing between you except friendly affection, that there isn't anything hanging over you like a shitty sword of Damocles, threatening to slice through whatever silent copy of peace you could build. It feels good, her body against yours, the evidence that she is real and not just some hallucination your mind made up in its desperation for connection.

But then Elle goes stiff. Her muscles flex and then she pulls away, taking whatever small sliver of hope was still left in you. Your eyes follow where she was looking but Morgan already turned his head away from you, paying either of you no mind. He must’ve stared just a second too long.

You look out the window, the settling sun painting the clouds into shades of red and gold and you try not to think of anything.

——————

Elle arrives around midnight, shattering any and all of your hopeful thoughts you may have about a quiet and peaceful evening. It’s rare that she is the one that comes, you stop for a moment to look at her through the peephole, her impatiently shifting her weight from one leg to another. Almost all your hookups previously were either in a motel room or the bathroom of a bar; and if she did show up at your place, she always made sure to only take the back staircase, ensuring that none of your neighbours would notice anything strange - such a degree of absurd caution that it almost made you feel as hysterically amused as nauseous.

You open the door.

“Hi.” You greet her, your eyes studying her expression, deciding to stay merciful and don’t comment on the fact that she is still in the same clothes that she was on the jet. “Long time no see.”

“Hey.” Elle says, her hands flexing at her sides. She still wears her gun. “Will you let me in or do I have to stand here for the whole night?” 

For a moment you think of slamming the door into her face.

You step aside to let her in and her lips crash onto yours as soon as she’s over the threshold, kicking the door shut as she pushes you further into your apartment. She tastes like whiskey and you can only hope that she didn’t drive here.

Elle only rolls her eyes at the comment you make about being a shoes off household, leading you backwards until your legs hit the couch. She pushes you and you land amongst the soft pillows, staring up at her for a moment. Your chest heaves and you are certain that she will leave as quickly as she arrived but then she climbs into your lap and kisses you so hard that you forget your own name. Her hands slide down from your face to your chest, almost ripping your shirt into two when she couldn’t get the buttons open fast enough. Now it’s your time to roll your eyes as you throw the offensive piece of clothing into an uncertain direction of the room and then immediately slam a hand onto your mouth as Elle slides down a hand into your sweatpants; your back arching off the couch as her fingers find you hot and wanting between your legs.

Her hot mouth returns to its place on your neck as you throw back your head, sharp teeth scraping against feverish skin while you bite your tongue harder in order not to make a noise. You can feel those beautiful lips stretching into a devious grin as her fingers slid closer, lower, deeper and you couldn’t help yourself but grab onto her shoulders for support. Elle doesn’t shake you off for once and she is all that remains for you in the next hour; her and her eager hands and more eager mouth; the sensation of her skin on yours and all the sounds that leave you against your will.

Later, when you are laying in your bed and stare at the empty ceiling in the bedroom, Elle goes to shower. You wonder if she uses these showers the same as you do, as a border between the mistakes of the night and the reality that the morning brings with itself. How many times have you stood under the hot water, scrubbing yourself as if that would wash away all that you did in the darkness? How many times have you wanted the scorching water to burn all the indecency out of you?

You can hear the shower turning on and a quiet curse at the cold water. The pipes buzz in the walls and your neck pulses in the shape of her mouth. The bedsheets are warm against your body as you start to doze off, your half-lidden eyes following the shadows on the wall that are only interrupted by the passing of a car. It’s late at night and you wonder if you will get noise complaints later from your neighbours - not likely, though. You are too careful for that.

The water is still running and your mind instinctively drifts towards Elle, how her skin glistens under the weak light of your bathroom, how the water runs down her long legs that you want to worship every inch of, how it can see her in such way you never can - all of her walls let down, vulnerable, without anything to stand between the two of you. She must look beautiful, you think as a traitorous little shred of hope settles between your ribs. 

The hairdryer turns on and it almost sounds like a lullaby.

When Elle emerges from the bathroom, you are still laying on your back. With a sigh, you raise your head. Her hair is freshly washed, still wet in some places. You follow the droplets that fall from her slowly drench your carpet as she stands there, wrapped in your towel with her skin shining in the dim light of the outside billboard, smelling like your shampoo and your bodywash. 

You expect her to grab her clothes and go back to get dressed and then leave, maybe don’t even say goodbye. Instead, she walks over and climbs onto the bed. You don’t say anything even when she looms over you as her knees settle around one of your thighs. She has a look in her eyes that is different from what you have seen before, something dangerously close to want but she leans in before either of you can address it. Her eyes drop to your collarbones then lower, enjoying the full view of your bare chest. Your hands which until now have been laying paralyzed on your sides now find her waist and pull her closer until all that separates the two of you is that flimsy towel.

Her wet hair falls into your face and neck, the small droplets cold against your skin.

Elle leans even closer and presses a kiss to your chin, her lips lingering for a moment too long before she passes. Her movements are hesitant at first but she still continues to go lower - jaw, throat, neck the dip between your collarbones - growing bolder by the second. You lay still, your hands resting on her hips and you bite back a moan.

Her lips find their way back to your neck, her hot breath now shallow and fast against your skin. Sharp teeth graze against the place where your jugular is throbbing, your pulse getting faster as she lingers above it, tasting your skin with a quick flick of her tongue. You instinctively tilt your head back just a little to give her more access and for a moment, she stops and you think you might’ve done something wrong, that you had crossed a boundary again that you shouldn’t have.

A jolt of pain cuts into your skin as Elle bites down on your neck, the feeling causing a moan to slip out, a sound much louder than anything that you dared to let out during any of your encounters but it only seems to drive her further, her teeth sinking deeper into the delicate flesh of your neck, legs tightening around her thigh in a desperate attempt to keep her close. 

Elle lets out a broken sound at that, her hips jerking involuntarily in your hands as she drags herself over you. The towel falls from her chest and quickly gets discarded off the bed as Elle rolls her hips over your thigh again and again and you can feel the space between you start to get wet.

You stay like that for a while. Elle is lying on top of you, her mouth moving against your neck as she presses herself closer and closer in such a terribly intimate way that you would throw up if she wouldn’t move her fingers down your chest, circling your nipples and caressing the sensitive skin your stomach and past the hem of your pants. You spread your legs without a question and she laughs at that but it turns into a choked moan when you press your leg harder against her center. 

It’s only the beeping of your phone that breaks the two of you apart, its sharp sound cutting into your head like a scalpel. Elle lifts her head and stares rather confusedly at the object and you just have to giggle at her expression. That earns you a half serious scowl as she rolls off you, muttering some wild profanities. You are still dazed, with your chest heaving as you sit up and see her already dressing up, searching for her shirt in the gloomy room. You sigh as you rub the bridge of your nose. 

You clear your throat. Elle snaps her head towards you like you just shot at her.

“Where are you going?” You ask, lifting an eyebrow. “It’s very late and you definitely should not be driving.” You send an exaggerated look at the clock besides the bed, the numbers bright and red in the dark.

“I need to get home.” Elle grits her teeth as she tries to put on her shirt. You watch her with barely hidden glee. “I have to… do something that you have no business with.”

“Wow, rude.” You feing a yawn. “You know that you can stay, right? It’s not out of the picture, if that's what you are afraid of.” There is a challenge in your voice that you know she won’t be able to resist, ever the competitor. “I won’t kick you out. I can even drive both of us to work tomorrow if you aren’t well in the morning. But you can go alone if that’s what you like, I don’t mind. Or we can say you came over to drink in the evening and we got a little… too into it.” You add quickly as her jaw tightens. “Whatever you prefer.” 

Elle presses her lips together as she looks back from the door to you.

“I still have those clothes you left here months ago.” You mention, pointing at your closet. “You could change in the morning.”

You expect protest, even an argument breaking out so it surprises you to see her nod.

“Alright. I’ll stay. Just for tonight.” She adds because when she doesn’t have the last word. “Don’t read anything into it. This is strictly just a one-time thing.”

You nod and watch as she climbs back into the bed. She stays as far away from you as she can without falling off but she still stays in your room. You know she knows that your couch is more than enough to sleep on for a night. Still, as per usual you don’t say anything, only close your eyes and try to fall asleep. 

It doesn’t work very well. The case still runs its circles in your head and when you close your eyes you see those pictures again, plastered all over in that office with the broken fan, the heat sticking onto your skin with slick joy. So you lie there motionless and listen to how Elle’s breathing slows down as she falls asleep, her shoulders becoming uncovered as the blanket accidentally slides off her.

If you look at it hard enough, you can spot the small marks you left on her bare skin, the quickly fading signs of what happens in the privacy of your room.

You shiver as her spit cools on your skin and the bruise on your neck only grows darker.

Elle tosses around a lot when she sleeps. It starts with her strictly facing away from you and in thirty minutes, she has turned towards you. Her mouth is slightly open, her usual intense expression long gone. The room is dark, only illuminated by the outside lights and the cars passing beneath your window, painting alien shapes of shadows onto the walls. The curtains are still open and you have half a thought to close them, but you can’t move from where you are, completely paralyzed by the sight of the woman sleeping inches away from you.

It’s always rare that Elle stays this long. Usually, she is on her way out as soon as you get done, dressing up swiftly and moving to the bathroom then to pick up her shoes; before you get yourself together, she is already out the door, leaving you behind with a messed up bed and an even more messed up brain.

Another car passes beneath your window and its light falls perfectly on her face. Her lashes tremble in the light draft; she looks peaceful, something you don’t usually see with her, always so tense and impulsive and explosive, ready to fight or get into a car chase at any given moment. Now, her muscles are relaxed, her jaw doesn’t clench together so hard that you can hear her teeth grinding, there is no urgent questioning or interrogating look in her eyes, her lips part as she breathes, the sound calm and deep. Steady.

It feels good, having her in bed like this; safe and resting, your fingers inching towards her bare skin. She is beautiful, the thought flashes through you again. She is ethereal in this light, you could watch her forever like this, the gentle glow of the giant billboard outside shining on her disheveled hair. You oppress the urge to tuck the stray locks behind her ear.

In this light, she almost looks like someone you can love. 

In this light, she almost looks like someone that can love you back.

When you finally wake up to the sound of traffic outside and the sun shining through your window without an obstacle, you lay alone in your bed, the imprint of another body still clear beside you and your neck pulsating in a silent ache.

You press your face against the pillow where her head was and inhale the scent of her. If you lie to yourself hard enough, you can believe that it still holds her warmth. 

——————

Thinking about the first time it happened still confuses you. 

It was after a particularly rough case that you decided to go out with the others. Drinking was one thing that could help you while you have this job, though it’s definitely just a temporary opinion. JJ couldn’t come that time and Reid was away on yet another lecturer gimmick along with Gideon so it left you, Morgan and Garcia. And Elle.

At that point, she had been working with the team for five months and you would have been lying if you said that being in the BAU didn’t suit her. She totally fascinated you - she was razor sharp, cunning and meticulous as she solved cases with an intensity and accuracy you simultaneously found incredibly threatening and electrifying. It felt like - still does - like there was a tension coiling inside of her like a serpent, deadly and ready to strike at those who deserve it at any moment. You couldn’t say how many times she made you almost have a heart attack whenever she jumped headfirst into action without an ounce of care for her own well-being, her recklessness both  impressing and intimidating you.

The fact that you found her lethally attractive wasn’t anything to look over either.

It wasn’t anything serious and you would have never acted up on it - you weren’t an idiot at all the time. Dating was already hazardous and you had no intention in getting involved with someone from your work. Still, it wasn’t a surprise when you found your attention drifting towards her during the hours of eventless paperwork or specifically boring debriefs. What did surprise you was when you noticed her watching too, following your every move in the office, almost studying you.

That wasn’t enough for you either to act up. Elle was a great person overall and you enjoyed the friendship blooming between you, the extra coffees and the inside jokes and the late night drinks at your place. You decided that the tingle you feel deep inside you when you see her doesn’t mean anything. 

It didn’t matter, until that night in the bar where the touches started.

A finger brushing against your collarbone as they fiddled with your necklace while you leaned against the bar waiting for your drinks. A hand placed on your hip, guiding you through the crowd as you made your way back to your table with glasses in your hands. Her chest pressed against your side as she slid next to you in the booth, her leg thrown over yours as you got deeper into your drinks and conversation. A thigh sliding between yours on the dance floor as she pulled you in by your waist, her breath hot and heavy against your throat.

All the plus Elle needed was just some shots, apparently.

After that, you unsurprisingly ended up pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom lit only by a pink neon sign flashing over your head, the bass rumbling through the walls, your heartbeat quickening at the feeling of hot lips pressed against yours in a rush. Elle’s hand sneaked into your hair, pushing your head closer until there wasn’t enough air between the two of you to breathe anymore; her thigh finding its way back between your legs, nudging your knees apart. Her tongue licked its way into your mouth in a way that sober you would consider too much but you weren’t sober nor restrained so you just grabbed her waist to pull her even more closer to you.

It was then that Elle broke away from you, her chest heaving, with eyes wide and dark, her pupils dilating in the low light. A whine almost escaped your mouth at the sight of her. 

“This is strictly just a one-time thing,” She said, her voice low, spit and lipgloss shining smeared over her mouth. You couldn’t tear your eyes off them, the way they moved as she spoke, glistening in the neon light. “This won’t happen again, you understand?”

You should have just walked out after hearing that, left her and this stupid attraction behind in that dingy bathroom. 

“Okay.” You nodded, licking your own lips, already missing the taste of her . It is so hard to focus when she is looking at you like this, you tilted your head back slightly, eyelids hovering heavy. “Okay.”

“You need to understand.” She leaned closer, her breath hot and feverish on your mouth. “I’m not like you. I’m not gay or a dyke or anything.” Ouch. That must’ve stung hard if you weren’t drunk. “I’m not gay. I don’t like women.” She repeated, her eyes sliding down to your lips.

“Yeah, I know that.” Your tongue was heavy in your mouth. “I know that you aren’t. Can you kiss me now again?”

She looks up at you, her mouth slowly curling into a smirk. 

“Maybe. If you ask nicely enough.” Her teeth shined beneath her lips, looking far more sharp than they should have. The taste of something strong lingered on her breath and you found yourself wanting to be more and more drunk of it, until she was the only thing that keeps you tethered to life, until she was more important than the air that you breathe in.

Elle tilted her head to the side, lifting her brows expectantly.

"So? What do you say?"

You nodded. There weren’t many things you wouldn’t allow her to do.

——————

It didn’t stay a one-time thing. 

It never can with her. She doesn’t seem to be able to stay away for too long and you can’t say no to her.

It’s easier like this, you repeat it as your chest tightens anytime you hear Morgan questioning her about her love life, the teasing in his voice reminding you of your own irrelevance, that you are not and never will be a factor in her life that way. 

Elle laughs right in his face and does not look at your way even by accident, only cursing at Reid and Morgan in a half serious way to back off. She turns her phone off with a click - the picture of her in a man’s arms hidden from your prying eyes - and throws it in her bag. You feel its thud in your gut.

You don’t bother covering up the bruise on your neck when you go in that morning.

“Jesus, baby, what happened to you?” Garcia gasps  as she stares at the purple spot that is definitely in the shape of a mouth. “Did you go on a date with a vampire or is this some new kink of yours that you forgot to discuss with me yet?”

You groan, your head already pulsating with a migraine.

“It’s too early for me to ask questions like this, Pen. Try it an hour later when the caffeine hits.” You mutter as you stare at your desk over as the sorry excuse of a coffee burns your fingers. On the top of it, there is the biggest pile of files that you have ever seen, towering over your other equipment. “More importantly, what is that? Is this some kind of prank again?”

“Nah, that is from Hotch.” Morgan steps next to you with another pile in his hands. “And this also belongs to it.” He drops it onto your desk and for a moment, you are sure that the poor piece of furniture will collapse immediately. “He says that this is all your delay that had piled up in the last three or two months. Seems like that escape of yours yesterday earned your fair punishment.” He finishes grinning as you drop into your chair with another defeated groan. You only look up when Morgan lets out a sound like he is choking on something.

“Oh my God, what is it now?” You immediately regret asking it because he too is staring at your neck. “Please don’t even say anything, I don’t know what to tell you. It happened and I forgot about it until Garcia here was nice enough to remind me of it.” You run a hand down your face. Both of them look at you like they don’t believe a single word that comes out of your mouth.

“How come you didn’t notice it? It’s big big!”

“It also looks like it hurts like hell. Are you beefing with this guy or what is his problem?”

“Weren’t people looking at you strangely when you were coming to work? You must’ve noticed that!”

“Okay, enough.” You close your eyes for a second and pray for mental fortitude until the evening. “No, I didn’t notice it because I was having bigger problems; yes, it hurts like hell but I don’t know what his deal is; and no, they weren’t looking weird, I drove here. Now, please, can I do my job? If I don’t start soon I will have to stay here until midnight. And I do not want that on my last day.”

Garcia and Morgan exchange a look that definitely means that they will gossip about you to everyone and anything that will hear them out but they nod.

“Thank you.” You lean back with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling until you are certain they have walked away.

When you straighten your back, you are face-to-face with Elle.

Her workstation is across yours, now only separated by the giant pile of files. And now, over the stacked papers, a pair of ice-cold eyes stare at you. They slide down to your neck and something flashes in them  that you do not want to name, her fingers drumming the same patter on her desk that you do when you are on edge. 

Elle hums quietly, the sound just loud enough for you to hear. You swallow as you pull the first stack of papers in front of you.

You bury yourself into your caseload for the next hours, trying to avoid anything that might lead you to look up. You are painfully aware of the pair of eyes burning into you. It kind of works until the end of the day. Then Morgan comes back again, staring down at you with a grin that shows all his thirty-two shiny, white teeth.

“Did you come back here to continue to bully me?” You squint at him, your eyes hurting in the sharp overhead lights.

“Depends on what you call bullying, babygirl.” His smile doesn't falter even a little bit. “If you mean an invite to a relaxing, reduced price, two-week long stay at an all-inclusive Jamaican holiday resort where you can forget all about your problems, then yes, I came here to bully you.” His giant hands land on your shoulders, squeezing them encouragingly. “Why are you still so gloomy? You look like you are gonna go to a funeral after work. You should cheer up a little, y’know, flash a smile and come with us.”

You sigh.

“Please, never call me babygirl again; if you want to harass someone, go to Garcia. Besides,” You continue with a grimace. “I already told you multiple times that I’m busy. I can’t go, I have stuff to do.” Yeah. Definitely not because you don’t want to watch Elle flirt with hot guys for two weeks on the beach. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”

Morgan scoffs, his hands still heavy on your shoulder.

“Come one, it’s not like I broke your heart. You don’t have to act like this.” You raise your eyebrows. “Also I have better things to do than be your lifeline if one of your one-night stands decides that she wants more and you want to jump ship. You have Greenaway for that.” Elle shifts in her seat at her mention.

Now it’s Morgan’s turn to grimace.

“You really should get laid.” He says. Somewhere behind you, Reid chokes on his oversweetened coffee. “And I mean a good, proper laid. Not any of this biting bullshit.” He nods towards your neck and you suddenly find the floor very interesting. “But someone who knows what they are doing because you are unbearable when you are sexually frustrated.”

“Yeah.” you mutter. “Sure thing.” You decided to let it slide, but Morgan hadn’t yet given up.

“Damn. What is up with everybody here? You are boring. Reid is boring. Maybe you should get together to be boring together, huh? What do you think?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you have to choke down a hysterical laughter that threatens to slip from your mouth.

“About what, Derek?” You sigh, your migraine increasing. From the corner of your eye you can see Reid taking off with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, presumably to hide in the bathroom before Morgan notices him. You deeply envy his foresight.

“About our terrifyingly intelligent and devilishly handsome Dr. Reid, of course!” He grins down at you again then snaps his head towards the opposing desk. “Hey, Elle! What do you think?” You go completely still in your seat.

She looks up with her eyebrows furrowed.

“What?” She asks. You can’t help yourself but see the dark circles under her eyes and instantly feel the familiar wave of worry washing over you. Did she not sleep well last night? Was she drinking again? After she left you, the radical part of your brain adds, the part that somehow doesn’t need her to function. Again. She literally couldn’t make it any more clearer that she doesn’t want to talk to you.

You still find yourself examining her face with more attention than you would do it for anyone else.

“Well, I think two people in this department are in desperate need of some relaxation, and as they don’t want to come with us to have real fun,” Morgan glances down at you. You stare back, your face unflinching. “I think if they are boring, they should be boring together. What do you think about it?”

“About her and Reid?” Elle purses her lips together, eyeing the way Morgan’s hands rest comfortably on you. “If you want them to have fun you might as well just put them on a carousel. That might reach the height of excitement these two could bring to each other. I wouldn’t give it much hope if you plan something like that in the future,” her eyes shifted towards you, cold and cruel. “I’ve seen five year olds who were more coordinated than them.”

You look at her with wide eyes, rendered speechless and even Morgan seems to be taken aback, only patting you on the back and reminding you that the offer stands until sunset or something like that, then he finally backs off. Elle is still staring daggers into his back as he walks towards the lair of Garcia. You decide that you do not understand her at all. Has she gotten to hate you so much that she cannot be civil even when others are around? Wouldn’t be surprising to be honest, you spin a bulletpen uselessly in your hand, the memory of waking up alone still fresh and painful. You should have known it back from the first time her gaze lingered a little too long on you.

“So, you and Spencer are the new thing?” Her voice cuts through the silence, ruining what thin facade of peace you still clutched desperately. “You sure seem to check out everyone on the coworker list. Who is next? JJ? Hotch? He seems neglectful enough. Or is it Morgan? It sure seemed cozy, the way his hands were all over you.” You look at her, your face frozen in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, but what? You sneak out of my house like some creep, don’t even say goodbye and this is the first coherent sentence that you say to me? God, sometimes I can't believe you.” You rub the bridge of your nose. “How do you even get to this conclusion?”

Her eyes narrow.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I needed to make a report in person every time I came over.” She hisses, voice full of venom. “Next time, I will make sure to submit a handwritten request to humbly ask to leave when I want to.”

“That is not my point and you know it!” You close your eyes for a moment. “And besides, I don’t think there will be a next time.”

Elle freezes. Her lips are slightly parted and you hate how much you still want to kiss her. 

“What?” She asks, her body stiff and rigid. “What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. This,” you gesture to the space between you.” us is not healthy. Not for you and especially not for me. And I get it that you don’t want to talk about it, believe me I really do, but this can’t go on like this anymore.”

Her jaw tightens, muscles tensing in her face.

“Is there someone else?” The disbelief in her words almost makes you laugh out loud.

“You care? It’s not like we were dating or any of that gay shit.” You spit out the same words she said to you multiple times. She doesn’t react. “I mean, what were you expecting? That this will be enough for me? The late night calls, the ignoring? I get it, you aren’t into women and that’s fine, but leave me out of it. You don’t want anything from us but that doesn’t mean that you can walk all over me whenever you want, y’know. I’m not a doormat, even if you seem to think of me as one.” You shake your head. “You can’t just fuck me over again and again and then expect me to be happy with it! I had enough of your contempt for the way I am. For the way I feel.” 

The blood is humming in your ears as you pack your stuff together, papers and notes crammed into your bag. The chair‘ legs creak on the floor as you stand up, your eyes still fixated on her. Unsurprisingly, Elle doesn’t respond but you could feel her eyes pinned onto you as you walked towards the exit, two laser-hot points burning themselves into the back of your head.

“Tell Hotch that I went home, okay?” You shut the door, leaving the BAU and Elle for two weeks behind you.

——————

Eighteen hours later, a package is delivered for you. When you open it, you find a severed left hand and get a phone call from Hotch. Elle has been arrested for apparently decapitating a man in Jamaica.

——————

When Hotch brings them home, she looks more tired than you have ever seen her. One look at the deep circles beneath her bloodshot eyes tells you that she probably hasn't slept on the plane either. You hesitate for a moment, then walk out the room without saying a word and return minutes later, a steaming cup in your hands. The coffee is black, with just enough sugar to make her mouth taste something other than bile. Elle looks up at you questioningly, her mind no doubt playing the events of your last meeting.

“Just thought you might want to stay awake until we catch that bastard.” you mutter, rubbing the back of your head. “It isn't exactly a cafecito or anything good but it's strong enough to keep you going.” 

Elle takes the cup, her fingers brushing against yours. She doesn't pull away as soon as she used to. You look at her as she takes a sip, her lashes casting soft shadows onto her tired face. I love you, the words bubble up in your throat with the sole knowledge that they will never be spoken. You choke on them and swallow and they burn your windpipe on the way down like acid. Your lungs expand and contract in a futile attempt, you already know that without her even oxygen would be useless, all of her and what that means to you has long since eaten its way underneath your skin and it’s there and never will be gone.

Thankfully, Gideon calls you over before you could do anything stupid.

You don't see much of Elle after, you are all too busy thinking about the odd clues this unsub is leaving behind; staring at butterflies and keys and books and human body parts and playing the video tapes again and again until your eyes are burning. You only know that Hotch sent her home not long after the press conference went down. She didn’t say goodbye. Neither did you.

Later, it's Reid who tells you what happened, his voice trembling. The unsub had gone into her home.

It takes thirty minutes to get to the hospital by car. You make it in ten.

——————

The worst thing about getting shot isn’t necessarily the pain itself. It’s the slow realization that nothing will ever be the same. That something has been irreversibly taken away from you and you will never get it back.

Everything hurts in her chest. The pain is a burning inferno; emitted deep beneath the sinew, muscle and bone she had confidently called herself for all her life before and it doesn’t stop, not even when she is so high on morphine that the overhead lights in her room start to spin around in an endless circle of defeat. 

It all blurs together eventually, just like the countless hours she spends there, laying on the bed in infuriating helplessness. Time is nothing but an endless ocean with some occasional lighthouses shining on the horizon; she remembers Hotch and his constant adjusting of his tie as he explained how she got here, how they got her here; Gideon as he tells - pleads - her that she must understand and she does. She is a great agent, he says, his eyes distant and silently desperate, one of the best that they have.

The hole in her chest doesn't get any less deep or agonizing after his words.

Gracia, JJ and Morgan must have visited her too, their faces orbiting around the ceiling like some kind of fucked up solar system. It makes her feel like she is still a little girl stuck on a carousel, spinning around in a stomach-churning frenzy, scared for her life and crying for Daddy to come and save her; but Daddy will never come and save her because Daddy is dead, long buried and rotten away under the ground and nothing was left behind but the useless awards he got postmortem, the tearless eyes of her mother, the fake, sweet words of an uncaring councilor and the terrible vacuum that he had left behind that can never be filled.

Elle has known for a long time that no one will come to save her.

She is sure all of her colleagues who visit her are kind and patient and sick with worry - the thought makes her vomit up the remaining stomach acid and then has to watch as the night nurse cleans it up. There is nothing in her to throw up anymore, she thinks, her head getting blurry again. Maybe this is her purgatory now, cleansing her until there are no sinful thoughts left in her.

There is one sinful thought that she could never purge out and it is given to her by Reid. Elle might find her thoughts betraying her recently, but she can recall his visit with crystal clarity; the way his body stiffened at sight of her; the way his eyes were squirting in the too-bright light; how his throat bubbled with words he wasn’t quite brave enough to say. At first.

Until the end of her life, she will list these words in her head, praying it like a litany - explosion; self-inflicted; burnt to death. The words father and daughter and family tragedy also leave Reid’s mouth but she sweeps them aside. She has to deal with enough dead fathers and lost daughters already for her breathing to feel impossible sometimes, she doesn’t need any more of them.

But the flames? The fire? Elle sure does hope that it was painful for that asshole. At least as bad as the shot to her chest, she thinks, the wound inside of her pulsing with rage. People like him - men like him deserve to burn far more and longer than the scumbag did. Elle knows men and what they want and what that want means for the likes of her, but even that couldn’t save her.

He had his fingers inside her, she thinks and she vomits again. This time it’s her own blood that fills her mouth.

It all gets worse when you come to her.

Every day, you sit down next to her bed and smile at her - like she isn’t a dead woman somehow still breathing - and stay for hours on end or at least it feels like that; every second that Elle lives in your presence both drags on and races forward. She can’t do anything about it, of course. She can barely sit up on her own.

So for once, she lets you help her tuck pillows behind her back and listens to your endless ramblings - you prove to be worse than Reid, talking about whatever you did or where the others went, the plot of the episodes of whatever show you watch after work, catching her up on all the drama and cliffhangers she missed while in the hospital. 

You don’t mention the BAU or that scumbag at all. Or what you said the last time you talked. As always, Elle doesn’t know if she wants to strangle or kiss you senseless for that.

After three days of this, she starts to suspect that they raised her painkiller dosage because her hallucinations are getting more and more frequent. Your eyes seem to have a glimpse in them she hasn’t ever seen and your face is almost glowing even in the sick light of the ward. Your body temperature has raised too, she realizes as she glances down, your fingers much warmer now as you gently hold her limp hand, your thumb smoothing circles into her skin.

She squeezes back. Just a little movement but your breath hitches in the middle of a sentence. You both pretend that didn’t happen.

Still, no matter how much morphine they will pump into her, Elle clearly can see that something is wrong with you. Your words are too fast, slurred together and your posture is slightly off, your shoulders pushed back by an invisible weight. When you gesticulate to explain something she can see the nervousness in your movements and in the silent peace of you holding her hand, she can feel yours trembling constantly. There is a thin layer of exhaustion and tiredness that settles onto your face, the dark circles underneath your eyes getting deeper and deeper as the days go on.

The next time the surgeon comes to visit her, she starts pestering him about leaving the hospital. 

After a week of arguing with the doctors and taking endless tests to make sure she won’t collapse moments after she leaves, they let her go. On the way out one of the nurses stops her and gives her some brochures - the two As in the triangle catching her sight immediately. 

Elle tears up the papers as soon as she is out the building. 

——————

The hospital proves to be far better than anything else that is waiting for her at home.

Her apartment is unbearable. There is a brand new security system installed - CCTV, better locks and sturdier windows that can withstand gunshots - not like her, she thinks, hysterical laughter bubbling in her throat - but it still isn’t right. 

She cannot stay in the living room anymore. The couch and the carpet is gone, along with all the blood that it had soaked up. There is no message on the wall either, not a speck of blood, no sign of what he had done to her home, what he had done to her, like it has passed and all had moved on like she can’t still feel his fingers inside her, placing this festering rot inside her.

Elle has to walk out before she hits a hole into the smooth, white surface.

The mess that the medics left behind is also gone and there is nothing she can do. It’s a cage of her own making - pacing back and forth from wall to wall, her gun resting against her hip, burning her with the urgency to shoot. Her chest still hurts so much when she tries to lift her arms up and she can’t seem to hold her weapon still anymore. It makes her stomach curl up in dread. There is no way she can protect herself like this.

That thought makes her throw up last night’s dinner, the terrible hospital food tasting even worse than before. She wipes her mouth, saliva tasting like bile as she glances at her phone. She can feel the stitches loosening a bit in her skin, the pain washing over her again like a second wave of nausea.

Useless, Elle thinks as she stands up, her knees shaking. Weak.

Her reflection looks back at her with judging eyes and the half-healed wound on her chest throbs at the sight. If she doesn’t get out of here right now, she might never leave again.

That night she somehow ends up in the nearest bar leaning against the counter to balance herself. The drinks get to her head far more quickly than usual and there is no way she can get out the door much less get home but Elle Greenaway is nothing if not stubborn and she clings to her pride like it is her last lifeline. 

There is simply no way she will call you, Elle thinks as the room slowly starts to spin around her, the dim lights of the place casting shadows onto the blurred face of the man speaking to her. She had already forgotten his name but he is enough for now. Elle follows the guy to the alley behind the bar, slaloming amongst drunken patrons and trash cans. She doesn’t kick him in the nuts when he starts calling him babygirl but the temptation is strong. His hands roam around her body and Elle lets him - only swatting his hands away when he gets too close to the buttons on her shirt. It’s disgusting, truly - letting herself slobbered over by a stranger and she feels relief wash over her when she sees a familiar car pull up in front of the building.

It’s 2 AM when you arrive, jumping out of the car immediately, scanning the crowd for her. Elle can feel it when you find her, half hidden by the shadows. You jog over her and don’t say anything about her company - though your eyes narrow as you look him up and down.

You speak first, before she could send you away.

“What are you doing here? I thought you won’t be out for another week at least - why didn’t you call me? I would have taken you home.” The concern in your voice is undeniable. Elle hates you for caring.

“They let me out early.” She mumbles, leaning against the brick wall behind her. The guy next to her tries to sneak an arm around her waist but almost falls onto his face as Elle moves slightly to the right. “What are you doing here?”

You frown.

“You… texted me?”

“No, I didn’t.” Elle’s mouth goes dry.

“Yes, you did.” You wave the phone in front of her face, the text that definitely came from her phone still on the screen. “Are you drunk again? How much did you drink this time? I thought the doctors said-” 

“Fuck what the doctors said. It doesn’t matter anyways, you shouldn't have come here, it wasn’t -” He cuts into her words now, taking a wobbly step forward towards you.

“Hey there, beautiful.” His words are slurred together but he still puts his hand on your shoulder, his fingers curling around you. “Haven’t seen you around here. Where did you come from? Don’t you want to join us? I think we could have a great time together-” He gets shoved in his chest and he falls back, his head slamming against the wall with a satisfying thud. Elle barely stops herself there, struggling with the urge to break both his arms. She grabs your arm instead, trying to steady herself.

“Nobody will be going anywhere with you.” She spits the words towards him, her fingers tightening around you. “You absolute trash. Learn to keep your hands to yourself, you dickhead.” She snaps her head towards you, your shock reflecting in her irises. “You got what you came here for, right? Then let’s get going.” Without waiting for an answer, she drags you to your car, not letting go of you until both doors are shut close and you turn towards her with wide eyes.

“What the fuck, Elle? What was that?” You look angry and Elle wants to scream into your face, her wound opening ever so slightly under her shirt. “You can’t just pull off shit like this then expect me to listen to you?”

She leans forward from the passenger seat, the gear switch pressing against her abdomen. Your noses almost touch like this and her fingers still curl around you like vice.

“You shouldn’t have let him touch you like that.” She breathes against your lips, her grip on your arm firmer than ever. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“Well, I didn’t like the way he was looking at you either.” You shoot back, ripping your arm out of her hand. “Still doesn’t make you entitled to drag me around like a ragdoll.” 

Elle lets her head roll forward, her hair cascading down her face.

“He didn’t deserve your attention.” She mumbles, voice and mind hazy. She can feel your eyes burning themselves into her - you probably have never seen her like this before. Her teeth grind together again. “Nobody does.”

You stay silent for a second.

“Okay. I am going to take you home now. Don’t even try to convince me, I won’t stay over.” Your words are serious and quiet. She doesn’t bother to answer. 

You end up getting into the shower with her, the hot water burning both of your skin as you carefully wash her hair, the smell of her shampoo and conditioner seeping into your pores. 

She is half asleep when you leave quietly, the door locked by the spare keys you take from the cupboard.

——————

They say that she should rest. That she should take her time to heal. Like hell she can do that, Elle thinks, the anger scorching hot beneath her skin, like she can move on with her life as if nothing has happened. 

She sits in her bedroom for hours, staring at books she bought and then never read. Never had enough time back then; and now, when there is more than enough time to do whatever she wants, she just sits there. Her head is pounding as she sips something strong from a glass, her hair falling into her face like a thick curtain shielding her from the rest of the world.

It doesn’t stop the nightmares. Neither does her gun, no matter how close she holds it, it will never help when the bastard is in her room again, leaning above her and she can’t do anything just gasp as the bullet tears through her body and her life and then her blood is on his fingers and then when she looks up, the shadow above her has turned into you. You smile too wide, something red is staining your teeth and Elle knows it’s her blood. 

You raise the gun a little bit higher and shoot her in the face.

Elle lasts another three days before she calls you again.

——————

The walls seem to creep closer every day and there is a construction site next to her apartment, demolishing a nearby building. The sound of the sledgehammer feels like it’s banging right onto her skull.

It’s too hot inside. Even loose clothes stick to her body, slick with sweat and her head feels like it’s cooking itself alive, her hair covering her, heavy and warm and useless. She somehow walks through the living room, her heartbeat quickening as she refuses to look at the couch and the wall and the floor as she makes her way into the kitchen. The cupboard opens without any resistance and the bottles inside shine with a reassuring presence.

The drawer where she keeps her scissors is only one step further from there.

When you arrive, they are still in her hands, fingers rigidly warped around the handle that you almost have to pry them off one by one as she sits there in still silence; her hair - or what is left of it - falling into her face. The rest of it is all around her, on the floor and on her clothes, the edges cut roughly and carelessly. 

Elle doesn’t immediately look up when you arrive, but you kneel next to her and cup her face gently. There is affection in your eyes that makes her stomach turn with disgust, the feeling creeping up her spine and settling into the broken warmth of her chest; her ribs cradling whatever horror you just passed onto her.

“Wait a second,” your breath caresses her face, smelling of mint and something else she can’t name. “I’ll figure out something right away, just… where the fuck is my phone?”

Elle watches you scramble through your pockets, the disgust growing stronger and stronger in her chest. She really wishes that you would just disappear and take the trembling of her hands that you always bring with yourself.

You eventually find your phone and then a few frantic calls and twenty minutes later Elle is staring at her own reflection in a small, downtown hairdresser’s place. She looks terrible, she realizes as she examines the colorlessness of her face and the dark circles under her eyes. At least the two of you match, she glances at you in the mirror. You also look like you haven’t slept in days. Elle knows damn well who is the reason for that and it fills her with a strange satisfaction. She wonders how you would react if she shot into your chest.

Your friend starts working, quick hands turning her head from left to right like a puppet’s and Elle has to bite her tongue if she doesn’t want both of you to be kicked out. She doesn’t make it any easier, trying to make small talk in the worst way.

“My God, this is kind of crazy, not going to lie.” She snickers as she washes Elle’s hair. “You look like someone attacked you on the street with a pair of scissors! Did you really do this to yourself? Whoah, you must have something seriously wrong with you if you end up like this!”

She would hit her square in the jaw not even bothered by possibly opening her wound again, but her right hand is still in yours, holding it gently, your fingers making a warm cage around hers. Elle leans back, her chopped hair getting even shorter. She doesn’t look at her reflection.

You take her home after, the touch of your fingertips still warm on her skin. 

“What do you think about it?” Elle asks, her voice quiet as you take your shoes off. You look up. She is the last person that gives a fuck about what others might think of her but you hadn’t said anything since you walked out from the hairdresser’s, and you hadn’t taken your eyes off the road even once as you drove home. 

You tilt your head to the side and Elle can feel something disgusting swirling in her stomach, a horrid mix of desire, vulnerability and loathing that threatens to be vomited out. You walk around her, stopping only as you get behind, your hands not quite touching her hips.

“I like it.” You murmur, leaning closer. “It makes your pretty neck look even better.” Your hot breath leaves goosebumps behind. And maybe because it has been a while since she told you off, you decide to be brave and lean in to kiss her skin. Your lips are warm and in their departure they leave Elle wanting to scream and claw your eyes out. Maybe shoot you in the chest, just to make it clearer how she is feeling, since you always want to know so badly.

Instead, she turns around and kisses you. Not gently either, her teeth catch your lower lip between them and pull and she basks in the way you hiss. One of your hands leaves her waist and cups her face gently as you lean back for a moment, your fingers grazing against her as your eyes intake her face in a way that almost can be called tender. But she cannot take any of the growing nausea in her gut so she pulls you back into a kiss before you can say something both of you will regret later. 

Your mouth tastes faintly of iron but that has never bothered either of you.

——————

She starts drinking again.

At first, it’s the usual. Work is hard and the following nights are harder - the pile of empty bottles next to her bed grows steadily, though she tells herself she can control it, that she knows when to stop. Who can deny a comfort as small as this? There is not much else that can stop her from waking up shaking every night. And who is there to judge, after all? Hotch and Gideon certainly not, hell would freeze before either of them smelled the alcohol on her at work - that is the only rule she makes, no drinking while on duty - Morgan and Gracia are too preoccupied by harassing each other; JJ is constantly under immense stress and while Reid probably can figure out in one of his freakish ways, she doubts that he would do something about it; the guy trusts her to a dangerous degree.

You are graceful enough not to use it against her in front of others.

“Elle.” you say, your voice hesitant yet still reprimanding. “Seriously?” 

She really has to stop inviting you over. Though maybe no matter how hard she kicked you away, you would crawl back like a beaten dog, she thinks, ignoring the panic that always rises in her whenever you don’t pick up your phone at the first ring.

“What?” She hisses back harsher than intended. “See something you don’t like?”

“You know I do.” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose slightly as you look at the half full glass in her hand. “This isn’t healthy, come on. You know that.”

"Oh, really? Next time you are going to tell me that excessive partying is the key to a safe and healthy life?" Elle drops onto the bed, not bothered by the sheets wrinkling up underneath her. It was already a mess to begin with. Lately, she cannot seem to find the strength inside her to do the mundanest tasks. Dishes, used clothes and newspapers lay where she left them. There is something shooting about the chaos but she can feel the shame creeping up her throat when your eyes scan the place. 

You sigh again and sit down next to her, your thigh almost touching hers. Today you wear a button-up shirt and the first few buttons are undone, giving everyone who cares a rare glimpse of skin. Elle swallows hard and forces her eyes to turn away.

“That’s different, I know where my limits lie. Seems like to me that you have been forgetting yours recently. You should look after more, you know? It’s not good to be like this then go and chase after criminals.” Now it’s her time to roll her eyes. “Seriously, it hasn’t been that much since you came back to work.”

“Did you really just come over to criticize me? Very mature and responsible of you. Have you been spending too much time with Hotch lately?”

“No. I came over because you asked me to.” She goes still. “What do you want from me, Elle?” Your voice is lower, more serious this time and hearing it makes her stomach do an unpleasant turn.

“Do I really have to say it out loud?” Elle scoffs, sitting up. The room feels terribly warm now, her shirt sticking to her skin. “What are we, teenagers, together for the first time?” There is a lot more anger in her voice than for it to be justified but anger is all she has these days.

You never question it either. You just accept it. That alone makes her hate you more than anyone else.

“I just want to know where we are standing, that’s all.” Your eyes search for hers stubbornly but she refuses to look at you. “It’s not a complex question, Elle and I need to know what you want me to do.”

“What I want is that you finally shut up.” She bites back. You sigh again, leaning a tad bit closer to her. Her pulse picks up when she smells your perfume. You reach for her to take the glass out of her hand, your fingers steady and warm on her skin. Your gaze sits on her face, pupils focused on her and only her. 

She hates when you look at her like that. It makes her feel small and completely naked, defenseless in a way that she has been loathing even more since the incident. One look, just one look is enough and she is ten years old again, sitting in the office of a councillor and crying after a father who will never come back to her. 

You shift in your seat slightly, the concern on your face tangible and in the next moment Elle is kissing you.

Elle has always prided herself as a rational person but she seems to throw it out the window when you are around. Because logic is important not when your hands on her body like this, not when your lips are soft and welcoming of her cruel tongue and sharp words, not when everything seems to begin and end with the thought of you creeping in the back of her mind.

The truth is, it’s never hard to invite you in. Sending you away is harder especially when all the walls try to close around her when you leave.

Elle asks you to let her move in with you that night.

——————

Living with you is weird. Sleeping is still impossible, but some nights are easier than others and she sleeps in your bed now, so she has someone to latch her mind onto when she wakes up, drenched in sweat and on the verge of sobbing. Still, there are days that are worse than the usual and when even the usual means nightmares and paranoia and whatever else her brain produces, it’s downright terrible.

She can’t even stay in her own apartment alone anymore. Every little noise, crack or sound manages to drive her insane, her hand never leaving the handle of her gun. It’s unbearable, jumping at the sight of every shadow as she waits for a long dead man to emerge from the darkness and shoot her and write onto the walls with her blood.

He had his fingers inside of her, Elle thinks and she can’t find the strength inside to throw up anymore.

She looks at her phone. You haven’t called her back. Or answered her texts. Or voice messages. 

You are on a date tonight.

Elle breaks a glass in the kitchen, the shattered pieces covering the entire floor. She leaves it there. Maybe you will be stupid enough not to turn on the light when you come home and slice your feet so much that you won’t be able to stand. Maybe it will hurt enough to make you understand.

It’s not normal. She knows it’s not normal. Your friends should be happy when you go out with someone, your friends are happy and she is supposed to be your friend, but recently she feels more like a parasite than anything else.

She picks up her phone again. Nothing.

You never miss her calls.

You are always so clingy anytime else, she thinks as she pours herself another glass of wine. She can’t really drink when you are home - you don’t like it when she drinks, apparently - and her all too dried out throat welcomes the familiar liquid with a relief. The one time she wants you to be there, you aren’t. Nowadays it’s like she can’t even exist anymore without you breathing down her neck with a worrying look in your eyes, following her everywhere. 

Pathetic, she swirls the liquid in her glass and decides to ignore that she was the one who insisted on moving in with you.

She takes another sip, the wine feeling all too sweet in her mouth.

Some part of her wishes that it had happened to you instead of her. Maybe then you would understand this anger, this choking need to break and hurt and scream into the world that had failed you, to let everyone feel what you feel. That how it feels when you lie in bed, incapable and useless as the smell of disinfectant and your own sweat rules out all senses that matter.

The others don't understand. 

Going back to work is harder than she thought it would be. Everyone has these cautious looks in their eyes, like they are walking on eggshells around her, like she might just get a nervous breakdown at any moment. Elle thinks maybe she should threaten to shoot someone just for fun but then sees the worry in JJ’s eyes and the careful jabs Morgan throws at her and she isn’t keen on the idea anymore.

Hotch doesn’t understand. Because Hotch is a good man, a good father, a good husband and a good boss, but he is still a man and he doesn’t understand how it feels when someone puts his fingers inside of you in the safe haven of your home, desecrating it forever, desecrating you forever. How it feels when all that remains of you is the ugly, pulsing wound with all its infections and filth condensated into cauterizing rage.

Elle knows Hotch is a good man but she cannot believe in it anymore.

He tries. Of course he does, but that makes it even more worse when he looks at Elle like she is broken, like she is something to be fixed - everybody looks at Elle like that since she came back and her stitches still sting when she tries to hold her gun up and you on a date right now and she only doesn't know what to do with the burning feeling in her chest. 

That is until she finds a piece of paper on the side of your bed, an address scribbled on it and today’s date.

She gets into a cab to get there faster.

The restaurant she arrives at is nice. It’s elegant and classy yet it’s still affordable so that no one has to hide their grimace when the check comes, but it's not something she would choose for a first date. Or what you would choose, she thinks as she walks in, searching for you immediately. She finds you sitting at one of the side tables of the restaurant, your back turned to the entrance which gives Elle the opportunity to size up the guy across from you.

He looks utterly and completely normal. Someone called Josh, Daniel or Robert, his clothes slightly wrinkled like he forgot to iron them, his hair basic both in color and style. The type of guy who would open doors for you, would ask you to split the bill and then would try to get in your pants immediately after the first date. Someone not particularly complicated or offensive, perfect in a mundane way, the one you wouldn’t be nervous about when meeting with your parents. He definitely doesn’t snap at people who annoy him, doesn’t start drinking before noon and doesn’t look at you like you are a defect in his life and, Elle realizes it with horror, if you were given enough time, you might just delude yourself hard enough to fall in love with him.

You won’t get the chance for that, she grits her teeth as she marches over, her heels clicking on the floor. Not with a bum like that.

If she could take the expression that spreads on your face when you turn towards her after she knocks on your shoulder, she would frame it and put it on the wall. It has everything in it - surprise, disbelief, anger, frustration and that bone-deep confusion that feels so similar to what she feels when she thinks of you. Happiness isn’t one of them though and you quickly rise from your seat. But not before turning back to your date.

“I’m so sorry, I need to arrange something.” Your apologetic tone is sickeningly sweet. I’ll be back in just a minute.” The guy nods and Elle can see how his eyes fall to your cleavage as you stand up. Pig. 

Then your hand is on her lower back and she finds herself escorted out of the room. She only makes an attempt to stop when you pass the reception, but you just continue walking on and soon, you are standing outside. The air is visible when you exhale, clearly pissed.

“Care to explain what the fuck are you doing here?” You hiss, taking a step closer. Elle retreats instinctively, pushing herself against the wall behind her. She raises her chin.

“You didn’t pick up your phone.”

“Because I am on a date, as I told you I was going to be! Are you intentionally this dense or do you just want to sabotage every relationship that I might have with others??” You don’t often get fed up like this and Elle would be lying if she said she didn’t like the view it gave her; your face flushed and chest heaving as you look at her with a fire in your eyes.

“Do you want to know the statistics of the attempted assaults on the first dates? It’s important that you always keep yourself available to the ones close to you.” Whatever close means with the two of you.

You run a hand down your face.

“Did you bring your gun with you?” Elle doesn’t answer and your eyes go wide.

“Are you mad? What were you thinking? You do not have any right to march in here and act like I’m on a date with a serial killer! What makes you even consider that I want to-”

Your mouth tastes like white wine when she kisses you, the sweetness of it smearing across her lips as your teeth knock against hers, your jaw slack with surprise on her sudden action. Elle has her eyes shut so she can’t see the face you make but - maybe moving on instinct - your hands find her waist and you pull her closer, tilting your head slightly to give her better access. Your lips part and Elle can feel her tongue sliding against yours in a familiarly nauseating hunger.

You only push her away when she takes your lower lip between her teeth and bites, the sharp pain making you yank your head away. Her eyes slid to your mouth, to the small wound that pulsates on your lower lip where her teeth broke your skin. She wants to swipe it over with her thumb but you swat her raised hand away and stumble backwards on your unsteady leg. 

“Why - why are you still doing this? Is the idea that you still control my every move this appealing to you?” You close your eyes and shake your head. “I just - I just can’t keep this up, I just can’t!”

“You don’t have to.” She says, stepping closer. You swallow, eyes still shut.

“I have to. You don’t know where our boundaries are.”

“I can learn. For you. And you know you want to come back with me.” Elle breathes into the air between. “You always have.” You look back, the safety of the restaurant; a yellow, warm glove behind you and in its safety waits Josh, Daniel or Robert so she continues. “I promise I will stay this time.”

It isn’t fair, using words like that in a situation like this; but all is fair and love and war and even if Elle certainly knows she could never love a woman and especially you, something inside her which she cannot explain or rationalise is unspeakably desperate to get you home with her. 

You look at Elle again and in the orange glow of the street lamp, she can see it in your eyes that she won.

The cab you wave towards parks beside you immediately and in its crowded inside with Elle pressed against your side do you only call that fucker who still waits for you in the restaurant - she silently laughs at the way your voice breaks when her lips ghost against you neck. Though her joy is not long-lived as your hand snakes behind her to rest on her lower back; fingertips tracing the outline of the gun tucked into her skirt then pulling up the hem of her shirt a little; nails scratching her sensitive skin.

Excuses fall from your mouth easily and though she can hear his muffled protest on the other hand, you quickly end the call. You lean back with a sigh, the movement making your dress slide a little lower, exposing more of your chest. The fingers stay at her back throughout the whole ride.

——————

Your apartment feels almost alien in the low light when you back her into the bedroom door, your mouth already on hers and you kiss her like she is worth more than the oxygen in your lungs. There is a low moan that comes deep within your chest when she licks into your mouth and Elle finds her fingers trembling as she fumbles to unzip your dress. It’s you who reaches back and yanks it down in the end but not before sliding one of your thighs between her legs and she grinds down, her hips moving entirely on their own.

The doorknob digs into her side, the metal hard and cold against her skin, but her attention lays elsewhere. You nuzzle your face against her neck and Elle breathes out shakily, swallowing a moan that threatens to escape her mouth as you press your leg harder against her. She feels like she is on fire; like her veins are flowing with molten lava as you tuck your head into her neck, your breath ticking her skin. Her heart is beating so fast that she fears that you can hear it, and judging by the grin your lips form when they brush against her pulse, you are aware of it.

You shift even closer, your hands gripping her hips and you drag her forwards on your thigh with a sudden movement. Elle grits her teeth and tries not to move, but her body doesn’t act as collected as she would like it to. It’s more than shameful to be seen in such a position, especially at your hand, but it feels so good and her pants rub against her center in the best way as she slides back and forth on the silk of your dress. Your perfume engulfes her until it’s the only scent she can feel, her chest heaving as she tries to breathe evenly with your curious mouth against her neck. She can feel her composure slipping, faster than it has ever had, the desperation emerging from deep inside her taking over her completely.

She breaks completely when you kiss her neck, your lips moving slow and soft, sharp contrast in the way she grinds against you. When you shift a little more closer, your mouth parting and your tongue touches her skin, Elle snaps. She grabs you by your hair and pulls you off, not bothering by the hiss of protest that leaves your mouth. she forces you to look her in the eyes.

“You always play so nice.” Elle hisses in your ear, her teeth grazing your lobe. “Stop holding me like I’m something fragile and fuck me like you mean it.”

You go still for a second. She wonders if she had permanently fucked everything up.

Next thing she knows, she is facing against the door, your hands on each side of her, caging her in. Your chest is pressed into her back and your thigh slides back between her legs with ease. Elle leans forward and you follow her movement with your whole body, drawing out a choked moan as she grinds against you again.

Christ, you really do like to take your time.

A hand slides up her back and neck, resting on her head and she can feel your fingers tangling in her hair.

“Are you sure?” You ask as you tilt her head back slightly, and there is still so much care in your voice. Elle knows this doesn’t make any sense at all and that slowing down and talking it out would be the best for both of you, but she would rather get shot by that bastard again than to confront you with her mind still coherent enough to think. "We always can stop whenever you say to."

“Yes,” she gasps, her fingers curling against the door. “Just shut up and move.”

You bite into the side of her neck and Elle moans, her head thrown back. One of your hand slides underneath her shirt and grabs her breast, your fingers finding her nipple and pinching it with the precision of someone that did this more than it can be counted and Elle can feel something dangerously close to jealousy stir inside her but then you buck your hips into hers from behind, your breath hot against her skin and it doesn’t matter anymore.

The hand palming her chest slides down and you press against her abdomen, your fingers moving past the hem of her jeans. She can feel the way you tug on the material as you rip the zipper down, your movements direct and controlled. Elle can feel your body moving closer behind her as your presence slowly overwhelms all of her senses and then your fingers dip slightly beneath her underwear. You drag them upwards and put pressure on her clit and then she is gone.

You don’t hurry and it’s even more infatuating than she could ever imagine. Your fingers move slowly, drawing circles on her that don’t feel nearly enough throughout her panties and it only makes her grow more wet to the point Elle is pretty sure you can easily feel it yourself.

She thinks it’s pathetic, terrible even to be put in a position such as this but she still can’t help herself as she casts her hips up, trying to chase the feeling that your fingertips refuse to give her. You chuckle against her neck at that and Elle opens her mouth to give you a witty remark but then you take your hand out of her pants and she can’t help but let a quiet sound escape her.

Elle Greenaway is a woman who never begs, but if you don’t immediately take off her pants, she might start to become violent.

Thankfully, you are not as much of a shitty person as she is, your hands are quick to help her unbuckle her belt and drag her jeans completely down her legs along with her underwear, letting it pool at her feet. You put your hands back on her immediately, breathing out slowly as Elle lets her head fall forward, resting it against the cold wood.

There is a moment when both of you stop moving. Elle shivers, the cool air harsh on her bare skin, your hands warm as they rest on her stomach. You stand behind her, unmoving and unspeaking, your body leaning onto her with a solid realness that she had missed from her life ever since the incident. She opens her mouth to say something but then she feels your hand move down as you pull yourself even closer to her with the other.

She doesn’t have enough time to think when you slide two fingers inside of her, nor does she have the strength to stop the sound escaping her, something dangerously close to a whine. You kiss her shoulder one more time as you let her get used to the stretch for a moment and Elle thinks she might just walk out if you don’t do something- 

The fingers inside of her start to move and her thighs close around your hand immediately.

It’s a cruel delight, the way you cater to her body; groping her breasts and biting into her skin until the only sensation she can know for sure is real is the ache between her legs and the way you move inside her, harsh and rough trusts of your fingers and the way you drag them in and out of her is enough for her to go crazy. You are terrible, she wants to say but then your thumb finds her clit and it’s over for her. Elle bumps her head against the door as she moans, her best efforts to keep her voice down are thrown out the window when you start to suck on her neck, a clear payback for her previous doings but she can’t bring herself to hate you for it; not now, not when you are inside her like this, not when you hold her so gently even as your fingers destroy her when she is at her most vulnerable.

Her hand plants itself into your hair and pulls you even closer - if that’s even possible. You are flushed against her as you say something so inaudible that she can’t understand it. But she doesn’t want to; what Elle wants from you is the hot, white pleasure emerging in the wake of your fingers, to make her forget about all the filth that had stuck to her like a second skin and not to be judged for wishing so.

Not like you ever questioned her anger, she thinks, her mind hazy as she whimpers, your thumb pressing down on her clit harder, you only ever just took it. She tugs her hand, your hair twisted around her fingers and you laugh, your hot breath washing over the sensitive skin on her neck. You always take what she gives to you, whether it was cruel words or harsh touches and now it all comes back to her as you make her fall into pieces against the door of your apartment.

Strangely, she wishes that she could kiss you now.

Elle doesn’t know what to do with that fact, or the fear that rises in her whenever you leave her behind for a night and she doesn’t want to deal with it either, not now or ever but then you curl your fingers just the right way and your teeth sinks into her shoulder and she comes violently, shaking between the door and you, her body convulsing in pleasure as you hold her close, your grip never loosening on her. You mutter something into her neck but she can’t understand, her mind still hazed with pleasure, and before Elle could get back the ability to somewhat breathe normally again, you lean to her ear.

“I hope you don’t think that this was the end.” You whisper, lips grazing her earlobe and Elle shivers, still sensitive. “We still have a long night ahead and I was intending to get properly laid tonight.”

You barely get to the bedroom before she kisses you again.

——————

She wakes up first later, the tremors of the nightmare still present as she jolts awake. You don’t wake up, but your legs are still entangled together and one of your arms is thrown across her abdomen, your warmth sweeping underneath her skin. Elle sits up, your arm falling onto her lap and she absentmindedly drags her fingers across the marks on her thigh.

Elle stares at you for a second, and waits for the usual swell of nausea in her mouth but nothing comes. Except the fear that had creeped inside of her for her whole life.

She needs to get out. Right now.

She looks at you one more time, her hand carefully smoothing the strays of hair out of your face and then she climbs out of bed, collects all her belongings and then leaves, her old apartment’s key burning hot in her pocket.

You don’t come along on the next case. Family emergency, you say and Elle catches the way your jaw tightens. She wants to ask about it but you don’t really talk to her that much anymore. It’s better when you aren’t next to her during cases like this, where she needs to keep a clean head and a steady hand.

The drinking starts again on the first night. Elle is still on duty and she knows that getting caught would give Hotch enough leverage to kick her out of the team but she doesn’t care. The room is too cold and the night is too long and the case is even worse than she was expecting it to be. She drinks again and wishes that the burn of the liquor would wash away the inferno that has settled into her chest.

The bed looks too big, she thinks, her head heavy. Too much for one person.

Reid comes in not much later and it’s obvious that he is worried. His eyes linger on the bottles and then the marks on her neck. She lets him. That part of her isn’t hers to keep anymore.

Elle knows that Spencer is scared. Of her and for her simultaneously. It makes the alcohol taste even more bitter, her tongue burning with shame and anger equally. She grins, the white of her teeth shining and drinks for victory and the words are no more false in her mouth than all the times she promised that she would stay.

Next day, she is the bait. Again. But at least it’s voluntary now.

Elle sits in the empty house, her hand on the gun. She imagines how the women must’ve felt, attacked in their own homes, desecrating it forever and the scar on her chest burns with pain like those cold fingers still in there, searching for something that is not theirs.

You laugh in her mind, your face distorting into a gruesome smile when she inevitably fucks it all up. Look, your grin widens until your face is threatening to tear apart, you are doing that thing again. Why aren’t you thinking more before you act, Elle?

——————

She shoots the man in the end and it’s the best thing she has ever done. There isn’t much to say after that.

——————

You still look at her like she is worth something inexplicably more when she comes back to say goodbye. Elle wants to crush that glimpse of affection, to make it disappear forever; both from you and her. It isn’t something either of you would miss, she is sure of that. Not in this world.

“I’ll call you later when I get my new phone.” She says, standing too close and yet too far away, her hands planted into her jacket.

Both of you know that she is lying. You still nod.

“Okay. Take care of yourself? Please?” You don’t step closer in the distance she made between the two of you and she hates you for it. “If not for me, then for your own sake.”

She nods.

“I will.” You don’t call out the way she flexes her shoulders at the question.

You don’t hug. That isn’t reserved for the likes of you. You just go back into the building and she doesn’t see you look back once. 

Elle gets into her car and drives away. She doesn’t look back either. The rearview mirror is all too foggy in the morning for such a thing anyway.

She stops at a gas station and throws out all the bottles that she has in her bags. The wind caresses her face gently, almost like a hand of a lover and for the first day in a long time, Elle almost feels completely free.

——————

It’s late night when you finally begin to go home, the car hums a lullaby in your ear as you slump against the passenger seat. Hotch insisted that he drives this time and you couldn’t make yourself argue this time around. He looks more tired than you have ever seen him but you think you understand why he doesn’t want you behind a steering wheel tonight.

The drive is quiet and peaceful, only broken by the cracking of the radio that plays an old country song, the melody distorting every ten seconds. Neither of you turn it off.

Hotch stops at a traffic light even though nobody is around. He is always like this, clinging stubbornly to his rules like they are the stitches keeping him from falling apart; and if that requires to stop and stare at the empty road in the middle of nowhere just because a lamp said that, then Hotch will do anything in his power for it to happen.

Rules were what tore her apart, you want to scream in his face, what became the writing on the wall in her own blood, why didn’t you do something about it?

The light still doesn’t turn red and something tightens in your chest. You know who wouldn’t give a damn about something like this in the middle of the night.

“I miss her.” You mutter, your head against the window. “I miss her so fucking much.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to. Your breath fogs up the glass, making everything obscure and uncertain behind it.

The traffic light shifts and the car starts to move. 

——————

There are people who are not dead, yet you will continue to grieve them throughout the rest of your life. Elle Greenaway is one of them.