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synopsis Robby is known to speak before he thinks sometimes, but when the cost of his words is losing you, he’d rather die (6.6k words)
warningheavy angst, language, hospital stuff, mention of drowning, near death experience, robby is constipated emotionally as always, jack to the rescue, kinda yearning Jack if you squint, inaccurate medical practices I am noooo doctor!
authornotethannk you so much for the request!!! and thank you for your kind words! I had so much fun writing, I think angst is probably my favourite to write over anything especially when Robby is the one yearning. I hope you liked! (Gif credits @emziess :)
Pitt masterlist Last robby fic!
As a resident in the Emergency Department there was a lot you knew.
You knew that preeclampsia effected about eight percent of all pregnant women worldwide. You knew how to intubate and had in fact done so many in your time at PTMC that you were sure you could do it with your eyes closed. You knew that in the bottom draw of Dana's select spot at the nurses station was a pack of nicotine gum hardly used because Dana thought they were a bunch of bull; in spite of the literal doctors orders.
You knew there was a leaky faucet in the women's bathrooms that drove everyone insane when they went in there to steal a moment's peace. You knew the computer in central fourteen was the faultiest one which was why you avoided charting in there all together.
So you knew there must have been a reason why Noelle from insurance was biding her time with your new boyfriend. There must have been a reason why he was grinning big at her like he hadn't with you for days.
“Hey!” said Samira falling at your side at the counter.
You were still too distracted by the two to even tear your gaze away and look at her. “Hey.”
Samira followed your eyeline. “You're staring, you know that?”
You nodded.
Robby rubbed at the side of his face as his cheeks flushed, Noelle shifted her weight onto her other heeled foot- apparently getting herself comfortable.
“Who is that, again?” asked Doctor Mohan.
“Noelle. She's from insurance.”
Samira nodded. “Noelle from insurance. Annnd do we like Noelle, from insurance?”
At that you realised just how transparent your glares might have been.
“Oh, you know,” you mumbled, finally looking back down to your tablet that had grown dark in the absence of movement. “It's our job to like everyone.”
Santos passed by you then, dropping herself down into your favourite chair in exhaustion. “Not everyone.”
“So we're all having a great day, I see,” you commented, sarcastically. However the sardonic tone of your voice was over-saturated with a loud laugh.
Your head practically snapped up to see Noelle laughing at something Robby had said. Even his face was scrunched up at his joke. You watched as Noelle's hand darted to his bicep, playfully hitting him in a way that could only be recognised as flirting.
You watched as Robby looked down to her hand on him and then he looked up, finding you and finding your watchful gaze. Only then did the pink in his cheeks subside and the wrinkles of amusement die.
“Didn't they have a thing before you and him got together?” asked Santos.
You sighed. “Yes, they did, thank you, Trinity.”
“Hey, just trying to be helpful.”
“Save it for the patients,” you said.
Robby took one step in your direction but you'd already dismissed yourself from Santos and Mohan, walking the ward like it was a battle field.
But you could hear your boyfriends heavy boots close behind you.
“Don't do that,” he said, calling after you.
“Do what? See a patient?”
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“Of course it's not,” you said, trying your best to be indifferent.
You knew about Noelle and Robby's history, just as you knew about his and Heathers, and his and the pathologist from upstairs, and the one from ortho. You knew and you understood, heck you'd even been around to joke about with Landon. Robby's famous seven-week itch.
Rumour had it before he finally got to hold your hand and kiss you whenever he liked he'd been trying to nail you down for years, but you weren't sure how much you believed.
It had been nine months, maybe closer to ten since you and Robby had officially started seeing each other. It was the real boyfriend-girlfriend deal where you could call each other at any moments of the day, could get take out together and discuss the boring things together.
Yet, you did none of that.
Robby and you didn't talk.
You fucked- but only each other. You worked on cases together- strictly professional. On the days where you were desperate there was an on-call room Robby could book out and steal time away with you.
But you didn't remember the last time you'd laughed like that with him.
“It's not,” said Robby again.
“Of course it's not.”
Robby sighed, falling closer behind you. “Well, it doesn't really sound like you believe me.”
“I believe you,” you said. “Do I believe Noelle...”
“Oh, c'mon,” Robby chuckled, like the very idea of them was ridiculous. Like the two of you didn't begin where they ended. “You seriously gonna be hung up on that?”
“Don't,” you warn, shaking your head.
You reached for an exam room door, where a sixteen year old boy was complaining of migraines but Robby grabbed your wrist and stirred you away.
“You wanna argue, not here,” he said.
“I don't want to argue.”
Robby led you out to the ambulance bay. Any nurses stealing a couple minutes of peace quickly diverted back in and even ambulances seemed to divert away. He let go of you, standing away and folding his arms over his chest, defensive. “So come on, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You're mad because I was talking to Noelle- about a case, might I add,” he said. There was nothing soft in his tone, nothing that calmed your nerves on edge. He said it all like it was a joke that he already knew the punchline to.
You rubbed at your temple. “You can talk to Noelle about cases, of course you can-”
“- Oh, thank you, glad I have your permission,” he chuckled.
“Can you just not be a dick about this, for once!” you snapped.
Robby's brows rose to his head, almost shocked at your snap at him. He held out his hands. “Okay, I'm not being a dick.”
“You are, and it's like sometimes you don't even realise.”
His hands were worn with the mornings patients and you could see the stress he tried to hide away as he wiped up and down his face.
You took a deep breath. “Robby, if you don't want this to work out all you have to do is say.” You said it, un-sure if you even meant it. Un-sure that you could ever go back to who you were before meeting Robby, let alone sharing in his life. In the small moments grabbing take out together and eating it on his sofa. In the mornings where you both naturally woke up early enough to just admire each other before you had to get to work.
Robby chuckled dryly, hands on his hips. “Oh my god, all of this because I spoke to another woman?”
“Because you laughed with her like you haven't with me for weeks!” you argued.
For once, Robby was silent.
You told yourself after the seven week mark that it would be any day now, that he'd tell you you were better off friends; colleagues. Every day and week it didn't come, every month he got more comfortable in your bed you figured you'd easily get rid of him in your life as easily as you welcomed him.
Now you stood across from him in the early morning light of the ambulance bay knowing if he left you now you'd never get back on your feet again.
“I see the way Noelle looks at you, how the others from upstairs do to,” you begin.
Robby shook his head, something earnest in his gaze. “They're not- they don't-”
“- I know, I know,” you said, cutting him off with a grimace of a smile. “ ”I know you don't love them, Robby. I'm just not sure you love me either.”
As un-cultured as you were with your own relationships you weren't sure when the right time to say I love you was. You knew Santos had said it to Garcia drunk one night and woke up with regret pinning her to the bed. You knew Dana and Benji had said it to each other a week in. You knew you loved Robby before you even kissed him.
Robby looked down to his boots, shaking his head. “That's not fair.”
Your heart pinched. “I know I love you, Robby. But I can't watch all these woman over you and-and wonder.”
“Your insecurities are not my fault!” Robby snapped.
You knew he didn't mean it, or hoped he didn't. You knew in the very small arguments you'd had that he spoke without thinking and came grovelling back.
Maybe it was worse this time because you knew it was the truth. You knew these women- his ex something's- didn't get to see Robby in the early mornings and be the last thing he spoke to at night. You knew Robby wasn't inviting them into his self, but he wasn't pushing them away either.
They'd all been quick, snaps of bands on wrists. You were supposed to be something more.
Maybe you weren't.
Biting on the inside of your cheek, you felt the familiar burning in your chest, rising up to your neck.
“Okay.” You held yourself tight, heading past him and to the doors that were already welcoming you back.
Robby was hot on your heels, quicker even as he pushed himself ahead of you. “No, no, no- hey- wait, no I-I didn't mean that.” His eyes were wide, hands held out in front of you, not quite clasped together, pointing to the sky but pleading none the less.
“We shouldn't talk about this now, Robby-”
“- I- we... honey, please.”
He stood in between you and the doors. Beyond him you saw the chaos of the room, the charts being passed, the labs being reported. The world still turned.
Robby's hands fell to your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “Let me- jus' let me-let me-”
“Hey! You two!”
Robby didn't jump apart from you, he squeezed your arms tighter as the two of you looked back to Dana who rushed out, wisps of grey hair falling around her. “What is it?”
“There's been a crash down the docks, all hands on deck!”
You thought you knew chaos, having seen all sorts of terror and oddities in the Pitt but the scenes at the dock were nothing like it. A complication with a boat, an explosion- small enough- rattled ferries and had them crashing into one another like terrible scene of dominoes.
Heck, you weren't even sure if the docks were safe to be standing on.
There were fire trucks and ambulances that didn't just respond to PTMC but Presby too. Police were corning off the area, talking to any witnesses but everyone blurred in one as you weaved in and out of them.
You'd been sent as an emergency respondent thanks to how level-headed and sturdy you were in the Pittfest. You still remembered how Robby nominated you as well as Whitaker to go with some from surgery, his eyes dark on you, a trusting nod passed before you were handed a jacket and pushed into an ambulance.
You'd already pulled a sheet over three bodies, one of them too small for your liking.
“Any for me?” asked a first emergency responder, you think his name was Spencer, catching it in the rig you caught a ride in. “We can take two.”
“Yeah!” you yelled and led him away. “This guy, approximately in his thirties, head lack to the right, needs to go to surgery immediately. This woman, late twenties, lost consciousness, possible pelvic bleed but she's stabilised, need's a ultrasound.”
“Got it!”
You'd gone through almost all the gloves you had in your pockets. There was blood seeping into your scrub uniform at your knees. You'd forgone your coat to a little girl who took an ambulance back with her mother, trembling from the cold.
A steady, firm hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“How you holding on, Slugger?”
Your heart soared in relief when you recognised Jack's voice, felt his steady hand and saw his easy smile in the middle of all the pain.
“Jack, thank god. Are you here with your team?” you asked, eying the uniform he was in.
“Yeah, we came to secure the area, doing everything I can to help,” he said, the two of you nudging your way through the people, stepping over the rubble and pools of water or blood. “How you holding up?”
“Lost three,” you told him.
Jack looked down at you, the weight of his gaze always heavy. “And how many you saved, huh? Focus on that number.”
The wind picked up, sending a chill over your bones.
“Hey, where's your jacket?” asked Jack, a frown taking over his features.
You chuckled. “Probably half way to Presby by now, think we've handed off all the traumas PTMC can take.”
Jack tutted and shook his head aside. “I reckon they've got one more in them.”
You didn't know how you and Jack had got so close, somewhere along the lines of hand-offs and covering night shifts you just always gravitated toward each other, working well and saving lives. Every daring procedure you'd taken was with him over your shoulder only for him to go and boast about you to Robby later.
Jack led you to Robby, for that you always had to be thankful.
“Hey! I've got a guy seizing over here!”
With your case in hand the two of you rushed off.
The man seemed middle-aged with no obvious wound to him as you and Jack took either side. The man was at the edge of the docks, the crashing of the waves fighting against you as you worked to stablilse him.
Jack steadied him. “Check if there's any medication on him! It might be a disorder!”
You checked, coming up empty pocketed. You fumbled in your bag and tried your pockets before finding the vial and clean needle. “Pushing diazepam!”
With five cc's in his seizing slowed to dull twitches.
“We need a back board and neck brace,” said Jack, looking around to try and flag down anyone.
Nobody was catching your eyes. This close to the water you were out of the way of most of the chaos.
“Go!” you told Jack. “I'll stay with him, make sure he doesn't sieze again.”
Jack's brows pinched together for a second. “You sure?”
You nodded. Your hands remained on your patient, feeling his tremors and already timing his pulse with your watch. “I've got it, go!”
In hind sight you should have thought about the implications. You'd been grabbed and yelled at and spat at in the ED by less sever patients but once you'd been attacked by a man who just woke up from a seizure, dazed and confused and naming you his enemy.
Robby had never been so close to murder.
It took weeks for the bruises to go down, for your hand to heal properly from the fall and you were on bed rest for a week.
You knew what it meant to be alone with a patient, but sometimes you supposed it couldn't be helped.
The diazepam should have helped- you've seen it help- but soon enough the man started twitching, slow at first, before it started to fit and his whole body moved.
He was a strong man. You weren't.
“It's okay, sir- sir!” you threw your weight against him to hold him still, wonder what you can do to stop him biting down on his tongue with the little equipment you had.
The man was mumbling to himself, thrashing violently.
“C'mon Jack, c'mon-”
It only took a wide sweep of the mans arm to send you hurtling back and crashing into the icy water.
The sky was darkening by the time Robby counted off his thirtieth patient of the day. Twenty-five of them had been from the incident at the docks. Only one he couldn't save, two sent up to the OR.
He counted the patients, counted the hours that ticked by, counted every ambulance that came by not carrying you. He'd expected you back by now, expected to have a little piece of mind with seeing you back in his eyeline.
Robby's heart was being squeezed progressively as the day went on, ever since he'd snapped and said words he never even meant.
Every second, passing from patient to patient and tearing off gloves to replace them with clean ones he checked his phone for any update from you.
Nothing.
You must have been busy down there.
But just three ambulances ago Whitaker returned saying he lost sight of you practically immediately.
So where the hell were you?
“Hey, Dana-” he called, rounding on the nurses station.
She looked as dishevelled as he felt, wisps of hair, dark circles under her eyes.
“Can you get a hold of transport, ask where the hell is my resident.”
“I just got off the phone with them, Robby-” she reached over and placed a hand on his, the one that had been tapping relentlessly. “She's on her way in now.”
Before Robby could even wonder why Dana had to hold his hand to tell him, why her eyes were glassed over and her voice trembled to tell him the doors bust open.
“Robby!” Jack yelled out.
He turned, catching sight of his old friend, the greying hair damp and sticking to his skin. He was half dressed in SWAT gear, his jacket discarded and bits of tinfoil falling from his shoulders. Jack was set over a gurney, hammering down on a chest and going in for CPR the old fashioned way.
“What happened? You fall in-”
Robby got to the other side of the gurney and breath caught in his chest.
“She's been down thirty- thirty-five minutes, I dunno, man,” said Jack as he continued hammering down on your chest.
It was you. Blue in the face and eyes closed, droplets of water at your lashes. Your hair was turning to ice fanned out underneath you. He'd been running his hand through your hair just that morning, had he not. There was a blanket, maybe two, thrown over you but your body only reacted to the thumping Jack delivered on your chest, pinching your nose to breath down your open mouth.
This morning you'd been warm, so warm, with a leg thrown over his hips in attempts to keep him in your bed. And he'd been close, so close to burying himself in your warmth.
He didn't even have to touch you to know you were cold.
“I found her- in the water- pulled her out-” gasped Jack as he continued compressions.
“What do you mean in the water?” asked Robby, surprising himself by how calm he sounded.
“She- she fell, or-or something, I dunno man-”
“You don't know?” he snapped. “Why isn't she bagged?”
“We ran out,” said the paramedic pushing you in.
“You ran out?!”
“Robby- Robby!” Dana's hands were on his chest, keeping him at bay before Robby even knew what he was going to do.
Robby shook her off. “What's open?”
“Trauma two just got cleaned up-”
He grabbed the gurney and pushed you into the room. The weight of Jack on top of you trying to save your life squeaking the wheels against the floor not long wiped from blood. Robby was aware of other voices, of people wondering if that was Jack and was it... no... it couldn't have been.
The doors closed behind a team of people all teaming in, stuttering when they saw you.
“Hook her up!” ordered Robby, ignoring any protocol of gowns and gloves. If he was going to get you back he was going to feel the beat of your heart under his palms. “Jack, move!”
Jack slowly climbed down and Robby jumped up next, quickly taking over compressions.
He remembered kissing down your chest, hiding himself there on mornings he wanted to steal away five minutes, pulling the covers up past the two of you. How he was breaking ribs to keep you alive. “Somebody get a bag on her, now!”
“She's- she's been down a long time,” said Jack, catching his breath.
Robby thumped down on your chest, kidding himself with the dull flutter of your eyelashes, knowing it was only through the force of his hammering down on you. “She's alive.”
“Jesus, Jack, you're as cold as ice,” said Dana from somewhere behind Robby.
“I'm fine,” he dismissed. “Robby, you shouldn't be working on her, brother.”
Others in the room stopped, hearing that.
It was protocol family waited outside, that if family or friends ever came in demanding help the same DNA did not attend. They were too emotionally clouded. To invested to think straight. The last time Robby found himself in this situation: blood pumping in his ears, chest tight was trying to save Jake's girlfriends life.
He'd failed.
The only person to pull him back from that was you.
There'd be nobody if you didn't pull through. He'd be left in that pedes room, never to leave.
“Robby!” Jack tried again.
“Shut up and get me some warm saline!”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, walking around till he was on the other side of your gurney. “No, I'm not going anywhere.”
Robby was still pressing his hands down on your chest when Jack reached over, past the bag they'd finally clamped over on you, and stroked back your hair.
“We're gonna get you through this,” he uttered in an oddly tender moment.
“We need to get a central line in her,” said Matteo.
Jack looked at Robby. “Brother.”
“No.”
“You have to move, we need to get a line in her.”
Robby knew that. He knew so much as a doctor, as chief attending. But he couldn't stop, he physically couldn't bring himself to.
“Robby, man, you gotta let go.”
“I can't... I can't... I can't...” he said. The only thing keeping him sane was the one, two, three, four count in his head, was the cold feeling of your flesh under his hands. “Push three milligrams of epi.”
Jack huffed in frustration, probably the only thing keeping him warm. He marched around your bed to his side. “Robby, so help me god I will drag you out of here if you don't let her go!”
“I can't!” he yelled.
It was selfish but Robby had some how convinced himself he could be selfish with you. He could hold on tighter in the mornings and let you go for the rest of the day. He could watch patients get close to you because he knew it was him who got to kiss you. He could hold back the worst parts of himself to keep you, no matter how much it tore him apart to push you away on the days he wanted to be closest.
No, Robby could never let you go.
If you ever tried to leave him, he'd hold on tighter.
Robby dropped his voice low. “I can't.”
Jack took in a slow breath, a gentle hand on Robby's bicep. “Okay. Okay. You don't have to let her go... but to save her you have to move aside.”
A monitor somewhere in the room beeped.
Slowly, Robby moved from your chest.
The people swarmed you. Someone cut into you, getting a central line in on your other side.
Robby stayed where he was, a hand holding yours tightly as if he could squeeze his own life into yours. He cried- maybe loudly- at the feel of how cold you were.
“What's her temp?” asked Jack.
“Eighty.”
Robby looked up to the monitor reading your vitals. “That's- that's too low.”
“We're getting her warmed up.”
“Get the warm saline.”
“We are.”
Robby leaned over you once the line was placed, brushing back your hair and trying desperately to ignore how cold you were. “You're not dead, you're not,” he said, low for you. Your vitals may have been saying different. “You're not dead.”
“Doctor Robby-”
“Please,” he begged with trembling lips. “Please, don't do this to me.”
A monitor sung low and dry. The classic song of a flatline.
His head jerked up.
Jack caught his stupor and pushed him from you, sending him into Dana's ready hold. “She's going into V-fib!”
Dana held Robby. Physically she wasn't strong enough to hold him back but Robby wasn't strong enough to fight against her. “Robby... Robby, c'mon, let's wait outside.”
He was shaking his head.
“Panels, charge to three hundred!” called out Jack.
Dana had just managed to push him out the doors as he shouted clear!
Through the glass Robby watched your body jerk but not respond.
“Please, please, please,” he uttered. His back hit the nurses station, his knees giving out as he slowly slid and sank to the floor.
“Okay, okay,” muttered Dana, falling with him and holding him there.
The Pitt seemed to stand still at the sight of their boss, white faced and hands trembling, brushing back his hair. Noise travelled quick, that it was you in the bed, ribs breaking from compressions, chest hurting from the shock.
Robby's hands clasped in front of him, his star of David chain clenched in his hands. “Please.... she can't do this to me, please.”
Dana tugged on his body, bringing him in closer. With her sharp gaze she pushed everyone else that dared try and get closer away. “C'mon, Robby, she's strong, you know that. And stubborn like hell, huh?”
Robby nodded along with her words, un-sure if he could believe it.
“Charge again, three hundred, let's go!” called Jack, rubbing the panels before everyone backed up. “Clear!”
There was a small beep, a pick up in the line.
“There! Resume compressions!”
“Doctor Robby!” Santos ran up, her gown like a cape around her. She slowed to a stop in front of the two slumped. “Dana. Dana, is it- is it true, is it?”
Robby looked up, tear stained cheeks red.
“Yeah, kid,” said Dana, sadly.
Santo's jaw trembled before she shook her head in resolute, saying one simple word. No. Then she stormed into the room.
Robby knew you favoured Santos and somewhere along the way Robby had come to look for her when an interesting case came in. He came to favour the way you smiled at Santos when she did things right and Robby searched for any smile he could get from you.
So, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and followed her in- back into the chaos that was your room. The blankets had slipped from your body in the shocks and he desperately tried to hold himself back from fixing them.
“Doctor Abbot-” said a nurse or a intern or someone in the room. “It's been thirty minutes.”
“Hold compressions.”
Robby knew it was to check your pulse but he winced when they paused, when your body didn't respond.
“Still asystole, resume compressions.” Jack caught Robby's gaze.
He'd seen that look on Jack's face. Had seen the hopelessness and the devastation at losing a patient not only in his face but in his own reflection. “Don't-”
Jack lowered his head. “Robby.”
“No, Jack, her temp is not up! She's cold,” he said, walking back around the room. He rolled his shoulders back, pulling on gloves. If nobody else was going to save you he would. “She is not dead! She's not- She's not dead till she's warm and dead! Push another round of epi!”
Matteo jumped at the chance.
Jack stood by Robby's side. “Just... prepare yourself, okay? She's been down a long time. She might not come back from this.”
Robby glanced back at him. “She will.”
“And even if she did-”
Robby cut him off. “She will.”
They couldn't send you up to the OR- there was nothing surgical to do. They couldn't send you to the ICU- you weren't stable. They could work on you for hours, in the pitts of hell.
Robby didn't stop Jesse from compressions but he leant over you, leaning his lips into your forehead. “You'll come back, you have to come back.”
“What's her temp?”
“We're up to eighty-eight.”
“When was our last epi?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Push again.”
At some point Santos pushed her through the crowd, taking compressions from Jesse who she deemed weak-armed.
“Doctor Santos-” said Jack, the only one seeing this for what it was. A disaster. One more emotional person in the room wasn't going to help. If you woke you might just choke on tears from them all.
“I can do it,” she argued, nodding to the night attending. “I can do it.”
Santos was as stubborn as you. If anyone might have been able to beat her heart into beating, it would be her.
Robby leant over you. Robby could feel your skin cold against his lips and he pet back any bit of you he could reach, trying to warm you. He caught Jack's tired gaze, his lifeless stare like he was already grieving you. “I never told her I love her, Jack.”
“Get an APG,” said Santos.
Jack clasped his shoulder. “Tell her now.”
Robby looked back down to you, past the bag pushing your breath, through Santos keeping your heart beat. He kissed your forehead. “I-” he chocked on the words. He couldn't remember a time where he'd said it and meant it like he does now.
He knew Jack was giving him a way out. He knew Jack was giving him the chance to live with no regrets.
But Robby would regret not dying with you if you didn't make it.
There was a silence throughout the room, not even the beating of a monitor keeping him sane.
Robby's hot tears hit your cheeks.
“Temp?”
“Up to neinty.”
“Halt compressions.”
Santos paused.
Nothing.
Then a shrill beeping.
If Robby thought it was life he was going to be souly mistaken.
“She's in V-fib again!”
Robby backed away, tucking his head down to his chest as he watched Jack get the panels, rub the gel on.
“Charge to three hundred- clear!”
Your body jolted again, blankets slipping down your bare body and Robby suddenly wanted to cover you, wanted to pull every tube keeping you alive out and just hold you. Warm or cold. He just wanted to hold you.
“Again, charge. Clear!”
There was a silence. Maybe you were so angry at him you were proving a point by dying. You were a good swimmer. Why didn't you swim?
Everyone in the room paused, seeming to wait for someone to call it.
Jack looked at Robby.
“No,” he said, pushing past everyone.
“Robby-” interjected Jack.
He snatched the panels from Jack. “Charge again, three hundred-”
“-Robby-”
“I said charge again!”
The room was heavy as Jesse moved to do so, charging them up.
“Clear!”
Your body jerked again, violent. Your face remained peaceful, Santos remained off to the side, waiting for orders, waiting to know. Everyone else was looking to each other, silently deciding who would be the one to drag Robby away from your body.
“Wait- there!”
In the middle of them all there sat a pick up in your heart.
The room jumped into discussion about how to carry on, about how to keep the momentum going while Robby pressed his stethoscope into his ears and the other down on you. He listened, catching the beat of your heart.
“She's warm, she's warm and she's alive,” said Jack with a smile.
You were dreaming. It was a sweet sort of thing.
It was a warm body blanketing you and hands holding you. It was lips you knew pressing along you and drawing out pleasure. There were three tiny words spoken into flesh.
It was Robby, his head laid upon your chest in your bed and mumbling the words, tracing every letter over your ribs. When you reached for his hair, when you tried to say the words again you coughed up water instead. You clawed at your throat. You chocked in panic-
Then there was a beeping bringing you out of sweet dreams.
“Hey, hey. Honey? Honey, can you look at me?” a warm hand was running over your head, pushing back your hair. “Open your eyes.”
You tried to. They felt heavy. Sleep heavy.
But someone was coaxing you through it, holding your hand and brushing back your hair.
“Yeah, there we go... there we go, hey.”
The lights were bright, almost painfully so as they blared in your eyes. It took you a couple blinks to get them right but when you did there was a dark shadow looming over you, blocking out the lights.
There was the ragged pull of a beard and the slope of a well known nose.
You breathed in and smelt burnt coffee and hand sanitiser. “Robby?”
He smiled, crows feet at his eyes. “Hey, honey.”
You pushed up your arm, finding it oddly weak like it had been weighted down. You found an IV down in your arm. The white lights... the white walls and the IV all made slow sense.
“Wh-what?”
“Easy, easy.” Robby grabbed at your arms, holding you. He helped you sit up, reaching over and plumping your pillow and holding you there.
Only when you heard the monitor calming down and felt the pain lessen did Robby let you go, perching close on the bed next to you and grabbing your hand again.
“What happened?” you asked, finding your throat parched.
Robby sighed, pulling your hand into your lap. “There was an accident at the docks. You went with the responders to help. Your patient had a seizure and...”
You remembered the dock, the wind cold and the yells. You remembered Jack was there and the patient, he was seizing. “What happened to him?” you asked.
Robby stared at you, a small shake in his head as his brows pinched together.
“The seizing, the patient.”
There was a small look of disbelief, a soft smile creasing his chapped lips.
“What?”
His smile turned sharp with affection as he looked down. Your hand, engulfed in his, was pressed to his lips. He stayed like that as the scenes played in his head and the smile slowly started to fall. “You were brought in, your body temp was eighty. Jack was- was doing compressions. We- we had to shock you, so much, you don't- ” Robby sighed out a shaky breath. “You don't know what it was like.”
The dock, the bodies, Jack. The bite of cold water like a thousand daggers piercing into your skin. You had gasped for breath, limbs flailing.
It had felt like dying.
“Oh.”
You rubbed at your chest, pain blooming.
“You might be a bit burnt, from the shocks. And we were- we did compressions for a while so you broke a rib,” he said, chocking down a cry.
You squeezed his hand. “We?”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest. His lips were pursed.
You'd seen Robby cry before, in shades of red face and clenched palms and always trying to hide it away. But you'd never seen him try to hide away as much as he was now. Your hand escaped his hold, caressing down his cheek.
“Robby.... hey....”
His lips puckered to your palm, pressing a kiss there. His palm was large as he held your hand up to his cheek.
“Hey,” you cooed.
Robby glanced up at you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“No, no it's not, it's not okay,” Robby took a shaky breath and scooted closer. His arm came over you, bracing himself on the bed. “You almost died.”
You searched his eyes but only found pain and defeat. He looked tired. Really tired. “But I didn't.”
“That's not the point,” he said. He brushed back strands of your hair, kept petting it down in a way you guessed comforted him more. “Jack was doing compressions for almost an hour. Your temp was down the whole time. We shocked you four times. Four.”
Robby's voice broke.
“You almost died and the last thing we did was argue.”
You didn't know what to say to that. The words I'm sorry were already rising and like he sensed it, Robby gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah... probably wasn't the best timing.”
“We're never arguing again, you understand?”
You smirked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You could feel the race of his pulse. “Give us a week.”
“No,” said Robby. “Never.”
Something sour tasted it your mouth.
“Because we- are we, broken up?”
“No. No. We are not,” he said sternly.
You let out a breath. “Good. Good. I'd have hated to wake up from near death to that.”
“I should have listened to you,” he uttered. “Noelle is nothing, everyone else is nothing, nobody means anything to me, only you. Only ever you. And I am never letting you go again, ever.” He kissed your hand again.
You smiled at him. “What if I need to pee?”
“You can hold my hand.”
“And on mornings where I have really bad morning breath?” you teased.
“That doesn't happen, you know that,” Robby smiled.
Without any arguments left you gave up, sinking into your sheets with a shiver.
Robby frowned. “Are you cold?” he was up at once, pulling at the covers over you and the blankets. He was all but tucking you in as you laid there, taking it.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” he hummed.
You tugged at his arm, pulling him down.
“What are you- what are you doing?” he chuckled, lightly.
“I'm cold, you're a human furnace, hold me.”
Robby was on the verge of complaining even as you pulled him down on the bed. He grunted at the squeak of the bed, was careful of the monitors assessing you. He squeezed in, pulling the rail back up as you curled up to the side to give him space. “These beds are not made for two.”
“You'll have to get onto the attending about that,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Yeah, first thing tomorrow.”
“Meh, I can persuade him, if you like.”
Robby smirked. “He'll do whatever you say.”
His arm slung over your shoulder and rested there, holding your body into him till your head was on his chest and you could feel the beat of his heart. It was just like you dream. Of comfort and warmth.
Robby said your name in a whisper.
You looked up at him to see his eyes screwed shut before releasing them.
“I...”
You watched the move of his lips. “Robby, you don't have to-”
“No, I want to,” he said. Robby's hand was careful as he cupped your face.
“You don't have to say it just because of what happened.”
“I'm not, believe me, I'm not,” he said. “I love you.”
It was the words you wanted to hear, the words you needed to know, the very thing to finish off your dream.
“Robby-” you interjected.
“I love you,” he smiled, grinning wide at you. “I've said it now, I don't think you'll get me to shut up.” There was fake remorse in his voice, a feigned sort of sorry.
“I can think of a few ways.”
Robby's lips were warm and giving as you puckered your up to his, kissing him slow. If you lost your breath kissing him it'd be a hell of a way to go.
Robby smiled against your lips. “That might work.”
His body half rolled onto yours, the bed creaking in protest. Only when your monitor warned of you losing breath did he pull away and check the machine.
“Get some rest, Robby, you look like you need it,” you said, kissing his cheek slow.
There was fight of protest in him that quickly gave up.
Robby looked up at you, wide eyed. “Can I stay?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words he'd given you, the words he'd never forget to say. The words he'd spoken and would never take back.
all the nights (and the days too) ⭒ dean winchester
pairing: dean winchester x f!reader
summary: You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?)
warnings: 18+ mdni! smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, dumbification, hella dirty talk from dean), miscommunication final boss, kinda fwb but they are very in love, jealousy on both sides, hurt / comfort, cursing, sad dean, no use of y/n, light mentions of alcohol, gonna be honest with u guys this is angsty as hell but i kiss it better i promise <3
word count: 11.8k words
a/n: i love the spn fandom. you guys were so nice about my first dean fic. here's another. i hope you like this one just as much :)
You didn’t think you would ever see this again. Maybe that was naive of you - you know about Dean’s reputation and his history. But things had been so steady for the last few months. He seemed ready.
Obviously not, though, because Dean is flirting.
And not with you.
He’s got one arm leaned up against the bar, that cheeky lopsided grin plastered across his face. When he first approached the busty blonde in the leopard print, you had thought - hoped - that maybe he was just asking around to see if anyone knew anything about the killings that had been taking place for the last week in this stupid town. The town you are hating more every second you have to watch your not-boyfriend flirt and laugh with someone else.
But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.
She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.
You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.
You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.
You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.
Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.
“Get you a drink?”
You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.
“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.
“One you actually like.”
You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.
He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.
When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals.
“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.
“Just passing through.”
“Where you headed?”
“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”
He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”
“Yeah.”
He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.
“Where’s the other one?”
Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”
He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.
“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”
“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”
You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.
“Do they know who did it?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.
“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”
He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”
You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean.
And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.
“Buy you another?”
You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.
“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.
Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”
You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.
You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.
“We’re going,” he says, voice flat.
You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.
A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.
“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”
You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.
You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time.
There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him.
You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.
“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence.
“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”
Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse.
“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead.
He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”
“Oh.”
The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.
You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed.
The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.
The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.
Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams.
You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.
The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.
You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking.
Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.
No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.
You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.
You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.
Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.
When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.
When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight.
You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.
You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.
You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up.
Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.
Whatever. Not your problem anymore.
The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face.
“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”
His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head.
Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.
“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.
“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”
Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow. You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower.
“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.
“I can see that.”
“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”
You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night?
Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things.
What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.
The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.
You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.
“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”
Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”
“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”
You step past him before he has time to react.
The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower.
He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.
Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.
“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.
“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”
You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.
“What now?”
“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”
“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”
He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”
Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”
“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.
“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”
“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”
You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”
He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”
“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”
He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”
You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.
You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin.
He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.
The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.
“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”
His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”
“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”
“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”
You frown. “You stayed up all night?”
“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”
You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.
“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.
“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.
Dean didn't sleep again last night.
He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off.
You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.
Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.
“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.
“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”
Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.
You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.
“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”
Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.
You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.
“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.
“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”
“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”
Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.”
Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.
“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.
No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.
Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”
“I know,” you say.
“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”
“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”
He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat.
Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him.
But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you.
You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.
You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention.
“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.
But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.
It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality.
You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping.
He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know.
He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like.
He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’.
He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this.
In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.
He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.
But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.
There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.
This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses.
Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.
He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.
Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.
But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.
He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable.
Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like.
So it’s best not to know.
You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.
He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.
But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.
So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.
Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.
Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.
But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.
The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.
“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.
“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”
“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.
“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.
Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.
“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”
You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.
“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.
Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.
You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”
Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.
“What does that mean?” you ask softly.
“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.
“You still there?” Dean probes gently.
“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”
You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”
There is another stretch of silence.
“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”
Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.
“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”
You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.
“The woman, Dean.”
“What woman?”
“There’s been more than one?”
You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.
“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”
Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.
“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”
Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.
“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”
You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.
“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”
“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.
“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”
You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.
“What the hell are you-” you start.
“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”
You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.
“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”
“What smile?”
You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”
Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.
“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.
“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”
“Oh.”
There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.
“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”
You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.
“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”
“Slow down, angel-”
“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”
“Sweetheart.”
You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.
“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”
You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”
He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.
He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.
Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.
SAM: Gross.
SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.
You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.
You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.
For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest.
Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.
“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”
The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.
He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.
“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.
“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.
“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.
It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.
He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.
“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.
You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.
“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.
“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”
He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.
But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.
“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”
Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump.
“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”
You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile.
“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.
You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.
But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.
“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”
He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.
“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”
That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”
If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.
The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”
You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.
“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”
When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.
You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.
He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?”
“Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.
“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”
“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.
Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you.
You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.
Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.
You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.
“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.
“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.
“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”
Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.
“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.
“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.
He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.
“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”
Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.
“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.
“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”
“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.
He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin.
He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.
It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day.
“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”
His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.
“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”
You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.
“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”
He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.
He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.
“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”
You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.
You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.
When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.
“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.
a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
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kid? - You walk in on Logan and Jean in a compromising position and feel your heart break. You really thought he loved you, you were so wrong. (Or were you?)
nasty dog - You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same 18+ HATE FUCKING (MDNI)
we’re dating? - You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader
broken promises - He's learned from past mistakes that no matter how tempting the girl is, it's better not to get involved. He just needs some cash, he doesn't give a fuck how pretty you are. He doesn't care about you. He makes it clear he wants nothing to do with you besides seeing you sign his check. But, is that really all he wants? You're not blind to the way he looks at you. 18+ MDNI Shameless smut at the end, I'm not sorry about it at all.
forgotten promises - Life on the road isn't exactly glamorous. Cramped spaces and too many cheap motels have you and Logan at each other's throats. You feel eyes tracking you everywhere you go but you're afraid to tell him, afraid it will be the end of the road for the both of you. One cheap bar and an explosion later and your whole life is flipped upside down. 18+ MDNI
SFW & NSFW alphabets - 18+ MDNI
i don’t know why i bite - You've tried for so long to get Logan to accept you the way he does the others. You want so desperately to be someone who means something to him. But he doesn't want you, maybe he never has. And you both seem to be stuck in this loop of hurting each other.
not your priority - Logan saves Jean on a mission and it's the wake-up call you desperately needed to understand that you will never be her. You can't stand to look at him anymore and he doesn't understand why you've stopped talking to him.
big bad wolf - SMUT 18+ (my slight monsterfucker tendencies might shine through in this one) Logan's told you a million times not to take the path through the woods. You never listen, of course. Now there's a monster on your tail and you're all alone.
chameleon - Hey I’m just begging for a fic of Logan with a shy reader that she has a crush on him but thinks he’s never going to fix on her since Jean exists (maybe the reader can make her hair color change depending on the emotion or something)
the newlyweds - You know Logan can't stand you, but it doesn't stop the way you feel about him. Your mind recognizes the hate in his eyes whenever you're in the same room, but your heart can't. Finally, you come to terms with the truth: it's never gonna happen. However, your newfound resolve is flipped on its head when you're forced to go undercover with him as newlyweds. Your new wedding ring is a noose and you don't know how you'll survive it or him.
my man on willpower - You and your bodyguard have a closer bond than your father will ever be aware of. While he's sending you off to rich boy suitors, you've got a real man waiting for you just outside the restaurant. But a bad date with a worse daddy's boy leads to Logan suddenly going distant. No more fraternizing on the job, no more secreteive room inspections safe from your father's eye. He used to be obsessed with you, and now you might as well be talking to a brick wall. What went wrong?
The Worst Logan
you’re not her - You hate him, you really fucking hate him at first. He’s cruel and constantly reminds you that you’ll never be the hero he knew. You’re not her and he’s made that abundantly clear. But what are you supposed to do when he’s suddenly your new roommate and you have no choice but to wake up to his face every day? I feel sad because I don’t think I did the angst justice with this one. But if I keep staring at it trying to fix it, then I’m never going to post it. (This is a long one guys) Angst with a happy ending (because I’m a little bitch) Makeout scenes and smut towards the very end 18+ MDNI
mistake - You know him. Or, you knew him. And you never blamed him for what happened in your world. It wasn't his fault that everyone you loved died and you barely escaped with your life. But you never actually thought you'd have to see him again. You don't know what to do when all these feelings resurface with his appearance.
ׂ╰┈➤ KATE & LEOPOLD
Leopold
timeless - Your neighbor went back in time and dragged someone back with him. He's irritatingly polite and far too interested in your way of life. What are you meant to do when you fall for a man who was never even supposed to meet you?
Hey! Your writing is amazing! I’ve been checking daily for new fics lmao
I was wondering if your requests were open would you be able to write some angst with a happy ending w/ Peanut?
Perhaps a Shy!Reader who has flirty banter with Logan. They’re on a mission and Logan has to make a quick decision on who to save — Reader or Jean and he saves Jean without thinking. Reader ends up surviving with a few injuries but her and Logan’s relationship starts to deteriorate. Logan’s not good with verbal apologies so he does acts of service — bringing reader food/drinks etc. reader is stubborn and Logan starts to get frustrated. He eventually proves himself to reader.
I’m sorry if this is confusing!! I’m not creative enough to write it myself and you’re really really skilled. Love your work x
a/n: I read this request and then read them together and my brain imploded because I loved it so much, no smut in this one
Summary: Logan saves Jean on a mission and it's the wake-up call you desperately needed to understand that you will never be her. You can't stand to look at him anymore and he doesn't understand why you've stopped talking to him.
“What’re you thinking of doing after this?”
You shrug, leaning back on the uncomfortable bench seats and looking over at Logan. “Not sure, got any plans?”
Logan smirks and you immediately know whatever he’s about to say is going to send you spiraling. “Yeah, whatever you’re doing, sweetheart.”
Oh. My. God!
You know you’ve got it bad when something as simple as that has you swooning. It’s so easy to fall into this routine with him, to pretend you’re more suave than you actually are. Despite your usual tendency to fade into the background, you find it nearly impossible to do with him.
Where someone else might let you stay quiet and go ignored, he seeks you out. He makes you feel seen and heard. Some days you don’t know if you appreciate it or despise it. You laugh a little, trying to hide just how affected by him you are. “Sounds good, Lo.”
He smiles and leans back on the seat, his arm coming around the back to rest lightly over your shoulders. You can tell from the look on Storm’s face that she’s trying not to laugh at you. You can’t blame her, you’re sure your eyes have tripled in size and you look absolutely stunned.
Flirting isn’t out of the usual for you and him. Lately, though, he’s upped the game. Touching you more than usual, spending more one-on-one time together. You can feel it all building up to something. You’re shy, not stupid, you know when a guy’s going to ask you out.
But it feels like he’s dragging it out longer than necessary like he’s enjoying teasing you a little too much. “Alright,” Scott stands up and moves towards the back of the jet. “We’re almost there, get ready.”
You, very reluctantly, pull away from Logan and get to your feet. He walks past you, briefly squeezing your hand before joining Scott by the ramp. You grin, flexing your hand by your side and trying to memorize the feeling.
The ramp lowers to the ground and Scott and Logan lead the way out. You’re expecting this to be simple. Stake out the area, find some information about the people running the warehouse, and figure out what exactly it is that they’ve been doing.
The air is bursting with moisture. It’s suffocating, how humid it is, how it makes the material of your suit cling to your skin. You know the rest of the team can feel it. That it’s irritating them just as much.
None of you want to be out here in the peak of summer, trying to be stealthy in these ridiculous costumes. Your thighs squeak every time they rub together. It’s beyond embarrassing. You know that that’s what has you all distracted.
You’re struggling through ankle-deep mud and sweating buckets. So none of you are paying any particular attention to the area around you. Technically, you shouldn’t have to, you’re still about a mile out from where you need to be.
You duck, hands coming up to cover your ears as Charles’ voice screams through your mind. It’s a trap!
Even with the warning, there’s no time to prepare. The ground around you explodes, grass and dirt flying through the air. Logan grabs your arm, he shoves himself in front of you and takes the brunt of the bullets. Splatters of blood hits your cheeks and he runs you both behind a tree for cover.
The other three have all found their own cover and they’re struggling to figure out where the shots are coming from. You spot something in the underbrush and scream, “Behind you!”
It’s more of a warning to duck than it is to move. You throw your hands up, shoving the man away from them and sending him flying into the trunk of a tree. You swear you can hear the snap of his spine as it hits the bark.
You look to Jean and nod towards the small clearing of trees. “Don’t,” Logan warns. But you’re already slipping out of his grip and solidifying the air in front of you. It provides enough of a cover, absorbing the bullets, and giving you all time to figure out a plan of attack.
Jean moves beside you, eyes narrowing on the perimeter of your cover. “There are too many of them, more than I can count.”
“How did they know we were coming?” Scott snaps, keeping an eye on the area behind you.
Your arms struggle under the weight of your power. The more bullets they shoot into your cover, the harder it is to keep up. You’re forced to absorb their energy, push it out tenfold to try and keep the blockage solidified.
“Guys,” you snap, “we need a plan. I can’t hold it much longer.” You grit your teeth, taking a step forward to try and push against the strain. It does nothing but make your bones ache. Logan shoots you a concerned glance, coming up behind you like he wants to take the weight off your shoulders. But there’s nothing he can do.
There’s movement behind you, a boot snapping a twig in two. You can’t risk looking back but you can hear the worry in Jean’s voice. “Ten of them-”
You can tell by the sounds of their movement that the others don’t give her much of a chance to finish. Ororo, Scott, and Logan all shoot forward to deal with the threat. Ten isn’t much to worry about. But that doesn’t change the fact that the men in front of you haven’t let up and you’re about to weep from the weight of keeping the wall up.
Jean stays beside you, brows furrowed in concern. She places her hand on your shoulder and closes her eyes. A second later you feel something like a cool blanket laid over you. The tension in your arms and core eases just enough for you to stop clenching your jaw so hard. Some of the strain eases away and you know she’s sharing it with you.
But just as quickly as the relief was given, it’s yanked away. Jean jumps back with a gasp, “Flux, we need to move!”
“I can’t,” you shout, fighting to be heard over the sound of bloodshed and gunshots going off in front of and behind you. The others are steadily moving through the people surrounding you, but their numbers are still overwhelming. “It’ll all come crashing down,” you tell her.
She glances towards the bullets, finally spotting the way they’re slowly, but steadily, moving through the thickened air. The second you let go you’ll be riddled with holes. “Shit,” she hisses. “Look, we can’t stay here much longer-”
She’s cut off by a loud bang. You’re so disoriented by the noise your hands drop to your sides. At the same moment, you hear wood splintering and cracking beside you. What has to be the largest tree in the forest creaks before it begins its descent down towards you both.
You don’t what happened, or what they used, but it doesn’t matter. The wall in front of you is fading. You have seconds to get out of the way of the bullets and the tree, you’re not sure either of you is going to make it.
“Jean!” There’s a flash of brown hair and Jean’s being tackled to the ground, safely out of the way of the tree and bullets. You feel something stinging against your shoulder and know the first bullet’s made its way through.
You also see the tree is almost over top of you. You’ve always been a fight response in flight or fight scenarios. But when there’s nothing to fight, when you have nothing to go up against, you freeze. It’s horrible, you know it, but there’s nothing you can do about it.
Even as you’re desperately screaming at yourself to just fucking move, all you can do is watch as the tree topples down on top of you. “Flux, duck!” The words trigger something in your brain just soon enough to drop to the ground.
Scott releases a red beam, blasting through the tree and knocking it off course. You don’t even register the smell of burning flesh as you lay in the mud. Your blood is rushing so fast in your veins, there’s so much adrenaline pumping through you, you can’t focus on anything except the sound of your heartbeat.
You let out a breath of relief, slowly lifting yourself up to your knees. You don’t hear any more fighting and you figure whoever they hadn’t taken down before, the beam took care of the rest.
You look down, checking yourself for any bullet holes or serious damage but you can’t find anything. Something warm trickles down your shoulder, it drips across your arm and down your hand.
You look at the blood curiously, it seems to steady a flow from the simple bullet graze you’d had earlier. “Oh my god,” Jean whispers your name and you turn around with a concerned look.
You want to ask her what’s wrong but your eyes are trained on the way Logan’s arms are bracketing her. He’s practically on top of her, only now getting up to check on you. You get it, it was a stressful situation, he acted fast.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the lump in your throat. It doesn’t ease the burn of betrayal. He saved her, not you. He chose her even though she doesn’t want him. The anger you’re feeling only makes it harder to be aware of your surroundings.
It’s not until Scott kneels behind you a presses a gentle hand against your back that you lurch forward with a loud cry. The pain slams down on you all at once. The wind blowing gently against your back feels like someone’s dug razor blades in your skin and ripped.
Feet rush towards you, someone kneeling beside you and grabbing your shoulders. Logan forces you up and makes you look at him before his gaze turns to your back. “What the fuck did you do?” He practically growls, lunging towards Scott.
He grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the dirt. Ororo and Jean leap forward, trying unsuccessfully to rip him off. You try and keep your eyes open, try and stay focused. The pain is too much, you don’t want to be awake for this anymore. Every nerve on your back feels like it’s being forcefully exposed and plucked at.
Your brain forces a shutdown and you slump into the mud, the world going black.
When you wake up, you’re on your stomach. You’re a little dazed, not fully remembering how you got here. You try and sit up but there’s a steady grip around your wrists stopping you. “Don’t move,” Jean warns from somewhere behind you.
You try and look for her but you can’t move much. Your head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, stuck to the pillow beneath you. “What happened? Why can’t I move?”
Her shoes appear in front of you and then she’s kneeling down, a slightly worried look on her face. “We needed to make sure you didn’t roll over in your sleep.” Her brows crinkle and she frowns, “You don’t remember?” You shake your head minutely. She sighs, lifting her hand to your face and pressing her chilled fingers to your temple.
The images rush towards you. You see it all from her eyes. The way Logan had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, checking over her and not once looking at you. How Scott had tried to stop the tree from breaking your spine. His beam had just barely grazed your back as you had ducked. But it was enough for there to be serious damage.
Through her view, you can see the way your skin had bubbled up and blistered. How horribly damaged it was. You have limited healing abilities, but it was enough to stop the nerves from being permanently damaged.
She lets you go and you groan, the pain slowly registering in your brain. It’s dulled and you don’t know if they’ve given you drugs or if your abilities are still working to help you. “How’s Scott?”
She chuckles and shakes her head while she undoes the restraints around your wrist. “He feels awful. He keeps coming by to check on you.”
The thought of him sitting beside you while you were strapped down to the bed makes you feel a little bad. It wasn’t his fault, he’d helped you. It was more than Logan had done for you.
You frown, hating yourself for being bitter. If he hadn’t helped, Jean might not be here next to you. He had saved your friend. The thought didn’t bring much comfort, though. “I’m not mad at him.”
Jean eases you onto your knees and slowly helps you sit up. It causes minimal pain, but it’s still uncomfortable enough to grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms. “I know, but he’ll probably be coming down here a lot to check on you.”
You almost ask her if anyone else has visited. If Logan had, but you don’t think her answer would make you feel any better. “He did,” she tells you and you click your tongue in irritation.
“Out of my head,” you warn. She releases you with a small grin. “I don’t care,” you tell her, trying to appear nonchalant.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on you. “Yes, you do. And I don’t need telepathy to know.” She walks towards your IV bag, fiddling around with something on the line. “He was here whenever he could be, practically lived beside you.”
“Don’t care,” you tell her again, but there’s less conviction this time.
Jean frowns and you hate how guilty she looks. It’s not her fault he’s desperately in love with her and not you. You can’t force someone to love you or choose you. And you don’t want to. You want someone to love you for who you are, not because they couldn’t have their first choice.
“Don’t,” you say lowly. “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.”
She doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the door bursts open, both Logan and Scott sliding into your room. Scott lets out a relieved breath when he sees you. He breathes out your name and approaches with a guilty smile, “You’re awake.”
“Charles told us,” Logan informs. You offer him a brief glance before diverting your attention to Scott.
Petty, you’re aware. But you don’t want to see Logan right now. You’d put so much effort and time into your friendship with him. It doesn’t even matter if he doesn’t feel the same way about you. You two are best friends, and he didn’t even try to help you when you needed him the most.
So, you smile at Scott. You forgive him and you tell him you're fine. You chat with him and Jean while Logan just stares at you from the other side of your bed. You can’t make yourself face him. You don’t want to look at him, it makes you sick to your stomach.
Eventually, Scott’s guilt is slightly assuaged and he and Jean leave for the night. Logan is a heavy presence beside you, one you no longer can ignore. You shift around, pretending to fluff your pillows until he grabs your hand.
“What’re you doing?”
You look at his hand and then at him. Whatever look is on your face is enough for him to release you and back off. “Getting comfortable,” you spit out, more venom in your voice than necessary. Something clicks for him, you can see it as it happens.
He backs up and narrows his eyes down at you. “Right.” He frowns and sucks on his teeth, nodding his head silently. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little better.” You don’t miss the hidden dig underneath it all, the way he’s calling out you’re unusual behavior.
“I think that’d be best.”
He scoffs and shakes his head, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. You jump at the noise and it makes you hiss as a twinge of pain shoots down your spine. You feel slightly guilty about the whole interaction. Then, you remember the way he’d been cradling Jean and you feel slightly vindicated.
You’re sure he doesn’t even give a shit. He’s probably pouting in his room, wishing Jean was in bed beside him.
What the fuck?
It’s all that’s been playing through Logan’s head since he returned from your room in the medbay. He’s waited days for you to wake up, so he can finally take a breath and let go of the anxiety that’s been plaguing him.
He’d thought that he’d lost you in that forest. When he’d gone for Jean, he’d assumed you’d just be able to use your powers to knock the tree out of your path. Or make it melt around you.
Honestly, he can’t put a finger on what exactly he was thinking. But he knew that you could protect yourself and that would be your priority. So he’d moved without really thinking and grabbed the person who would be collateral damage if your powers went haywire.
And then you hadn’t saved yourself and all he could smell was your burning flesh. The smell has been stuck in his nose since you were brought back to the mansion. He can’t escape it. Everywhere he goes, he sees you burning and hears your screams.
He’d thought that you were dead and there was a moment where he genuinely was so lost he could do nothing but watch as the others swarmed you. He couldn’t move, couldn’t help you. He could only stare at your still body and pray to anybody who could hear him that you weren’t dead.
He didn’t know what he would do if he lost you before he ever got a chance to love you.
He’d, irritatingly, imagined all the different ways he would finally tell you how he felt when you woke up. He’d prepared himself for every possible reaction, except this one. He hadn’t expected you to reject him before he ever got the chance to confess.
Anger stews within him as he paces through his room. He knows that it’s unfair to be upset with you. You’d gone through something horrific and there had been doubts about your recovery. Of course, you’d act off.
Except, you only seemed to be directing that at him. Had you been just as dismissive to Scott, the person who actually hurt you, he would have looked past it. He’s tempted to go back down and see you again, maybe try and make you see some sense.
Instead, he decides to give you both some time to calm down. He doesn’t want to do anything he might regret while he’s pissed off. He’ll see you tomorrow and, hopefully, you’ll be back to normal.
You’d thought Logan might have gotten the hint with how you behaved earlier. That was not the case. He’s back today and you can smell the breakfast food he’s brought you. The smell is wafting deliciously from an inconspicuous brown bag.
But you know it’s from the restaurant that’s twenty minutes out of his way. You’re not petty enough that you can’t appreciate the forty-minute round trip he’d taken for you, but you still aren’t excited to see him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles at you despite your clearly hostile energy. He tugs the chair towards your bed, ripping open the bag and pulling out enough food for the both of you.
You think it should be considered a form of manipulation to call you that while you’re pissed at him. He has such a clear effect on you. You know he’s aware of it. He knows that when he calls you something sweet like that it makes your heart race and stomach flip.
You turn your gaze towards your blanket. You pretend the thread pattern is the most interesting thing in the world so you don’t have to look at him. You’re sick of giving your all to men who couldn’t care less about you.
You’re tired of being the second, third, fourth choice. You want someone to choose you first for once. And you genuinely thought Logan would be the man to do that. But he’d chosen Jean. You should have known.
“Alright,” he huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at you. You’re pissed off that he’s acting like he’s the one who was hurt. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve never been this mad at me before.”
It’s his tone of voice that really grates on you. He genuinely does not understand what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t even comprehend the possibility that you might be mad he left you to die. Have you really become such a doormat?
Yes, you’re shy and generally reserved with the people you meet. But he is so different. You two met and it was an instant connection that you thought was reciprocated. You hadn't realized that you'd become so complacent in the relationship he thought he could get away with something like this with no repercussions.
“You left me to die,” you snap at him, voice taking a pitch it never has before. You’ve never truly gotten angry at him. Pissed off sometimes when he teased you a little too much. But you’d never plainly shown anger at him. “You fucking left me behind and expect me to, what,” you scoff and shove the food back towards him.
“You think some shitty breakfast is going to fix this?” His face contorts. It screws up into something like hurt and you worry you might have been too harsh. He doesn’t know how you feel about him. He doesn’t know that this would hurt you so bad.
But, it doesn’t matter. You’re still his friend. You should have at least warranted a little concern.
Just as quickly as it appeared, the hurt is washed away by his own anger. “I thought you could take care of yourself. Isn’t that what you’re always bitching at us about?”
If you weren’t so upset you might find it funny how quickly the two of you turned on each other. Clearly, there was something repressed between the two of you. Some brewing resentment that neither of you had ever acknowledged. The words are coming quickly now, without thought.
“Fuck you, Logan,” you snap back at him. “You didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. You only cared about your precious Jean.” You spit out her name with so much venom it stings as it leaves your tongue.
He laughs, getting out of his chair. He shakes his head and glares at you. His anger is always a physical thing. You know he’s pacing so he doesn’t do something worse, like destroy the entirety of the room.
“That’s what this is, you’re jealous? Don’t blame your fucking incompetence on me.” You hate the way he’s speaking to you. Like you’re a little girl who's incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. He has such a patronizing look on his face, you want nothing more than to wipe it off.
The tables beside you tremble, the vases of flowers rattling against the wood. “I’m your friend, Logan. You could at least pretend like you cared about me.”
He leans against the end of the bed, tilting himself forward until he’s aggressively imposing your space. You shrink back against the pillows, narrowing your eyes in disdain. “Don’t fucking pull that shit with me. I knew that your priority would be to save yourself and I acted accordingly. This wasn’t some goddamn ploy to get into Jean’s pants. Grow the fuck up, Flux!”
You flinch back at the volume of his voice. Unwillingly, tears pool in the corners of your eyes. It’s an involuntary response. Sometimes you just get so enraged that you have no other way to get rid of it than to cry. It’s infuriating to see the moment someone stops taking you seriously and starts to think you’re nothing more than a crybaby.
Logan’s face pales and he winces, backing away from you. “I didn’t-”
“Enough,” you stop him, voice thick with unshed tears. He never calls you by your X-men name, it’s an unspoken agreement between the two of you. That’s a formality reserved for the other members. To each other, you’re nothing more than two people who care deeply for one another.
Or, you had been. Before this one moment had blown your life and your back up.
“I appreciate how much faith you have in my abilities, but the fact that your first instinct wasn’t even to protect me says a lot.” You take in a deep breath and shake your head. “Thanks for the breakfast, but can you please just leave?”
He looks like he doesn’t want to. You know he doesn’t want to leave. You two never fight like this. Even if there wasn’t a lot said, it’s still not normal for you. Maybe that should have been your first hint that things weren’t what you thought.
It’s healthy to fight, to a certain extent. Sometimes it's needed. You two never have before and you know it’s just been brewing for a while, waiting to blow up. “I-”
“Get out,” you shout, and the tables beside you finally crumble under the weight of your emotions. They drip to the ground in an inorganic form of liquid wood. “Shit,” you hiss, glancing over at them. You wave your hand and they return to their normal state, but it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have lost control at all.
The door slams and you look up to find the room empty. You sink back against your bed and run your hands over your face. You ignore the way the skin of your back screams in protest.
You embrace the pain, the fiery shocks running up your nerves as the bandages chafe against the wounds. You focus on that instead of how things have ended with Logan. You always had such high hopes that he might be the one you finally man up and confess to.
You should have known you were wrong. You should have known that it would never have ended with him picking you over her.
You’re permitted to leave the medbay the next day. You don’t see or hear from Logan for the following week. You can’t confirm if he’s purposefully avoiding you or not but you have to believe he is. You both live in the same hall. You don’t know how it’s possible to have gone this long without even catching a slight glimpse of him.
You force yourself to suffocate the part of you that misses him. You picture the side of yourself that longs for his presence and imagine shoving a pillow over her face. You don’t want to ache and cry over someone who doesn’t give two shits about you.
You keep reminding yourself over and over again that when things got rough he showed you his true colors. But it’s more difficult than you imagined to just completely disregard so much history with him.
Besides, you hadn’t realized just how little you interacted with the others until Logan was out of your daily life. It’s so difficult for you to bond with people that when you’d connected with Logan you’d latched onto him.
It’s a little pathetic, honestly. Being grown and eating lunch alone because you only had one friend. You wonder if your feelings for him were genuine or born from a desperation not to be alone. You don’t let yourself linger on the question for long.
It’s as your training with the students that you finally see him again.
“Has he made much progress yet?”
Jean shakes her head and purses her lips. She watches as Billy, one of the newer students, struggles with the logs in front of him. He was a firestarter, a very inexperienced one who had only ever set his curtains on fire.
His powers were more focused on the mental aspect of things rather than the physical. Which is why you and Jean were in charge of helping him. He couldn’t start anything on his own, he only really seemed to be able to activate the ability when he was emotionally stimulated.
That meant whenever he was mad or sad, or anything in between, everyone in a fifty-foot radius was in danger. He was a risk to the other students and you were both trying to be gentle with him. But you’d been working with him for so long and there was so little progress. It felt like he wasn’t trying sometimes.
He’d asked Rogue out a week ago and when she’d said no, her hair had caught on fire. You know he could have been hurt and lashed out without thought or malice behind it. But you’d seen the look in his eye.
You’re fifty percent sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. This little act he puts on is just to get himself out of trouble. You hadn’t brought the issue to Charles yet because you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Billy,” you call out. His head whips up and he sends you a vicious glare. You can’t help the sneer on your lips. “Just take a deep breath and try again. There’s nothing wrong with struggling, we all did.”
You put on your normal teacher voice, calm and collected. Assuring. But the little shit in front of you isn’t buying it for a second. He gives you a sarcastic little grin, “Right. Sorry, I forgot you’re a fuck-up just like me.”
“Billy!” Jean snaps, taking a step forward to reprimand him. She doesn’t get far before there’s a fireball shooting out of his palms and hurtling towards the both of you.
There’s no chance to react before something slams into your side and is tossing you to the ground. Your head nearly snaps against the grass but there’s a hand underneath your skull softening the blow.
You smell something smoking and look up to see a large scorch mark right where you’d just been. Jean’s standing over it, palm outstretched as she keeps the fire subdued. She gives you a worried look, “Are you okay?”
Surprisingly, yes. You glance up to see Logan hovering over you. He backs off when he notices you’re okay, getting to his knees and offering you a hand. Wordlessly, you slip your palm into his and let him help you into a sitting position.
“You alright,” his hand hovers over your shoulder like he wants to pull you closer. But he resists, backing off and waiting for your answer. You nod your head, still a little dazed from the failed assassination attempt.
He narrows his eyes, searching your face for any sign of head trauma. When he’s properly assured you’re okay he jumps to his feet. “Billy!” His voice booms across the courtyard and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen that little asshole scared.
He’s barely on his feet before Logan is stalking towards him, jerking him forward by the scruff of his neck and dragging him towards the mansion. “We need to have a little talk,” the tone of his voice has you a little scared and you’re not even the one he’s mad at.
Jean walks towards you and helps you to your feet. “Is your back okay?”
“Yeah,” you nod and brush your clothes off. You have to physically shake the shock of what happened off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t believe he did that.”
Jean scoffs and glares towards Billy’s back. Your eyes widen in shock when you see the large scorch mark across his arm. “Jean! He got you, are you okay?”
She glances down at her shirt and frowns. “Yeah, practically a sunburn.” She gives you a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine.”
As shitty as this sounds, you’re not concerned for her. You can only focus on the fact that she was in just as much danger as you and Logan had tackled you to the ground. You glance back towards the mansion, more fucking confused than ever.
You’re not sure what compels you to follow Logan, but you’re running after him before Jean can stop you. He’s barely got a minute headstart on you, you’re not sure why you can’t find him. You’d gone through every inch of the first floor.
You don’t know where he would have dragged Billy, but it’s nowhere you can find. After about ten minutes of looking for him, you give up on the hope that you’re ever going to figure out what’s happening inside his brain.
You let out a defeated sigh, running a hand over your face and trying to shake off the funk of the day. You can’t believe that little shit tried to roast you. You’re not comfortable with the fact that he’s just roaming around inside the mansion somewhere.
You turn out of the living room and nearly slam into someone. His hands shoot out, grabbing your shoulders and gently stopping you. “Logan,” you give him a strained smile. “I was looking for you.” You glance over his shoulder and frown. “Where’s Billy?”
Logan sighs, his hands linger on your arms for a moment before he takes a step back. “Wheels got to him before I could do anything.”
You laugh a little, the noise involuntary. “What were you planning on doing with the sixteen-year-old?”
He doesn’t find the question amusing if his expression is anything to go by. “He was really trying to hurt you.”
His words sober you up slightly and you drop the flippant attitude. “Yeah, I wanted to,” god, it feels like you could choke on the words. Just last week you were screaming at him for not helping you. Now, you could barely thank him because he had.
“You’re always my priority.” He tells you before you can struggle any longer. Your head shoots up and you stare at him with confusion. He groans, the noise tired and resigned. “Saving Jean was a mistake. I mean it, kid, I just thought you could handle yourself.”
You open your mouth but he stops you before you can argue. “I know, that’s not the point. I should have saved you, no matter what I thought you could or couldn't handle.”
“No,” you stop him and shake your head. “No, Logan, I shouldn’t. I,” your mouth opens and he stares at you expectantly. What you were going to say gets stuck in your throat. This is a horrible idea.
“I liked you in a way you didn’t like me and it was unfair of me to push my expectations onto you.” You wanted it to sound better, and more intelligent. Instead, it came out in one rushed breath and you’re not sure he even understood half of what you said.
His brows furrow in confusion for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face. You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that he’s smiling. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or about to profess his undying love.
You don’t have to wonder for long. He moves closer towards you, leaning forward until you’re practically sharing the same breaths. Unconsciously, you’re drawn into him, hands braced gently on his chest as you chase after him.
“What are you doing?” Your whispered words brush against his lips and he gives you a small smile. His hands travel up your waist. He tugs you closer, his other hand looping around your neck and craning you up.
“I’m gonna choose you every fucking time, kid.” His lips brush across your own and it’s like a switch is flipped in you both. Your arms twine around his neck, pulling him down until you’re practically melting into him.
It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so different at the same time. You always thought your first kiss would be after some cheesy first date. He would have taken you out to dinner. Something would have inevitably gone wrong, you spilled something on your dress or the waiter brought the wrong order.
You would both worry that it was a sign that nothing would work out between you. And then, at the end of the night, he’d tug you into his arms and kiss you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.
That would be nice, but this is better. He’s not holding you like you’re something fragile or something too precious for this world. He’s kissing you like you’re the very air he needs to survive. He’s greedy with his affections and demanding with his wants.
You’re being consumed and devoured. And you never want to stop. This is all you’ve ever wanted with him, from him.
Sadly, you do have to breathe. You’re the one that forces the stop, you’re sure he would have happily suffocated if it meant he could keep touching you like this. You pull back, the air coming in short pants between your parted lips.
You can already feel them swelling, the slight irritation on your cheeks from his stubble. You don’t mind, you quite like the feeling. He speaks before you can, a pleased smile on his face. “Forgive me yet?”
You chuckle, a little impressed by how cheeky he is, still slightly pissed off. “Why don’t you do that again and I’ll think about it?”
He rolls his eyes but you can see the smile fighting against his firm glare. “You’re really gonna make me work for it, huh?”
You smile and nod, leaning into him again. “You’re never gonna hear the end of it,” you whisper before dipping down and kissing him again. You can’t believe you ever doubted just how much he cares for you.
He didn’t choose Jean over you. He’s just a dumbass.
a/n: I had to resist putting in a “pick me, choose me, love me” line in there bc that would have just been too much lol
Summary: After years of friendship, you finally decide it’s now or never to confess your feelings to Bob—only to have him appear at the Hard Deck, hand-in-hand with someone else.
Roost•er (ˈrüs-tər) verb: to wait too long to act and miss one’s opportunity; to hesitate at a critical moment
a/n: I also hurt my own feelings writing this.
warnings: panic attack, AGNST, like… so much angst, feelings of low self worth, spiraling thoughts, self doubt, Bob x oc in bed (not graphic but implied), like… one or two uses of Y/N - IM SORRY, everything is FINE, Bob kinda sucks in this one but like not on purpose, also why do I like low key love Hangman in this? IDK probably more warnings so read at your own risk.
___________________
Time didn’t slow down, logically you knew this, but right now it sure as hell felt like it did. It took your brain a moment to process and when it did your body flashed hot and then ice cold, your legs turning numb the way they did when you experienced an adrenaline rush. Your heart pounded against your chest and you were sure that you could hear your blood rushing through your veins.
Bob seemed to be unaware of your internal breakdown and he continued smiling at you with that adoring grin. The one you had mistakenly thought was directed towards you.
“She’s coming here tonight and I wanted you and the crew to meet her,” he glanced at his phone again with a smile. “She should be here in like 5 minutes, you’re going to absolutely love her.”
You followed him as if in a trance as he walked back to the pool table, your drink abandoned on the bar as he continued telling you about her. He stopped abruptly almost causing you to run into him and his hand reached out to steady you.
“Whoa, you ok?”
It was as if someone else was controlling your body as you nodded your head, giving him a weak smile and looking past him so as to not meet his eyes.
“Sorry, you said you had something to tell me too…” he trailed off expectantly, looking for you to fill him in.
You gave your head a small shake, forcing the haze from your mind. All those feelings you’d foolishly let yourself nurture were shoved back into a box, locked tight, so you could at least pretend to be normal.
“Nothing,” you croaked and cleared your throat. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’m excited to meet her, Bob, what’s her name?”
The words were ash on your tongue but you pushed through. This was your own damn fault. Of course someone out there would also see what a catch your best friend was. Of course they would fall in love with his kind soul, sarcastic personality, and sharp wit.
You had waited too long, been too scared to mess everything up, and now it was too late.
“Who’s name?” Phoenix pipped up from her hightop table next to you.
“Bob’s new girl!” Your attempt at excitement was passable, but Phoenix’s keen eyes shot to you and yours glanced away, not able to meet them.
You had to do this, you had to be the good best friend, Bob could never know.
“Bob has a girlfriend?” Hangman blurted, his surprise loud enough to draw a few looks.
“Easy there big guy, don’t need to announce it to the whole bar,” you tried to joke.
“So he finally made his move huh,” your blood turned to ice as his gaze darted between you and Bob, the assumption clear. You shook your head ever so slightly, begging him not to push it.
“Yeah,” you forced out a laugh before Bob could respond, chest tightening. “She’s swinging by to meet us all soon, so be on your best behavior, Seresin.”
You wagged a finger at him in mock warning, even as the ache in your chest deepened. The moment Jake realized what you meant, pity flickered across his face, and heat rushed to your cheeks when his gaze caught yours.
Unable to bear the look, you quickly turned back to Bob.
“Can’t wait to meet her, dude. Brave of you to bring her to meet these idiots though.”
Bob laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah, well I wanted to make sure she gets along with the team before things got too serious.”
You knew realistically that hearts couldn’t actually break, but you could have sworn you felt yours cleaving in two at the genuinely happy smile on his face. The rest of the squad was pelting him with questions and although you didn’t want to know, you couldn’t help but listen, torturing yourself even further.
How long had they been dating? What was her name? Where did they meet? The questions didn’t stop coming and you listened in horrible fascination as he answered each one.
A month, but just made it official last week. Leah. At a coffee place right around the corner from your townhome.
The following half hour played out like a fever dream, a chorus of cheers going up from the squad when she strolled up to the table and placed a kiss on Bob’s cheek, causing him to flush red at the attention. You weren’t entirely sure what you said when she shook your hand with a genuine smile on her face, but it mustn’t have been anything out of the ordinary based on her genuinely nice reaction. You watched as she met the team, easily joining into the conversation like she was meant to be there.
You waited until everyone was distracted grilling them both, wanting to know every detail, before slipping quietly out the door.
The moment your feet hit the deck the pressure inside you threatened to burst. Your chest clenched, tears stung your eyes, and your breath came in short panicked gasps as you gripped the railing for support.
It felt like drowning, like an elephant pressing down on your ribs, every inhale a losing battle.
You spiraled, thoughts clawing at you, cruel and unrelenting.
Weak.
A coward.
If you had told him sooner it could have been different.
Worthless.
Even if you had told him, why would he want you?
Desperate.
Disappointing.
Pathetic.
Your vision started to go black around the edges as your body was deprived of oxygen when a pair of arms encircled you, pulling you into a muscled chest and grounding you in reality.
“Whoa, whoa, just breath Fury, deep breaths,” Jake fucking Seresin of all people held you as you fell apart.
You sucked in a ragged breath, barely any of it making its way to your lungs and wrenched yourself away from him, not wanting any of your team members to see you like this.
“I’m,” you rasped out, attempting another breath but getting nothing, your lungs burning, “fine.”
“Sure you are,” the sarcasm in his voice was overshadowed by the concern. “Hey look at me, okay?”
If you had been in a better mental state you would have balked at the soft concern in his voice.
“Just try breathing with me, alright? Inhale 4 seconds, hold 7, exhale 4, easy as breath-” he cut himself off, “easy as pie”. Come on, inhale,” you tried desperately to pull air into your lungs but it stuttered and you let it out with a harsh whoosh, your chest tightening even more.
“You got it,” his palm rested over your sternum, “inhale,” he started counting and you tried again, getting in a little more air this time.
You weren’t sure how long it took for your breathing to even out, but by the time it did you were emotionally and physically drained. You angrily scrubbed the tears that had fallen during your panic attack from your face and wiped your nose on the sleeve of your jacket.
Embarrassment set in quickly as Jake continued to soothe you, stroking up and down your arm to help you relax. You took a step away from him, hugging your arms to your chest.
“Sorry,” you croaked. “Thanks…thank you for helping with that.”
You could feel the heat from your cheeks as you evaded eye contact. You could practically hear the taunting now, the harsh remarks about why you weren’t cut out for a cockpit. Instead he just shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“I may have some,” he held his fingers up to gesture to a small amount, “ experience with panic attacks myself.”
At that your gaze snapped to his, waiting for the other shoe to drop but all you saw was raw honesty. You dropped your arms from around yourself, forcing your shoulders back and your head up as you grasped for some semblance of self control.
“Well like I said, thanks. I understand if you feel obligated to report this to command, but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone on the squad.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“You really do think the worst of me don’t you? Look, I may come off as an asshole pilot that’s the best in the game, because I am, but I’m not an asshole about stuff like this. Your secret is safe with me.”
You sighed and nodded in thanks.
“As is your undeniable love for sweet Baby on Board,” you swung around and landed a hard punch to his bicep.
“Fuck off! That’s not…that wasn’t why…” you trailed off as your cheeks flared again and he let out a warm laugh.
“Oh come on, man. He is literally the only one who doesn’t know!”
You forced your face into neutrality though your stomach dropped at the fact that apparently everyone else had seen it. That you had been so embarrassingly obvious.
You glanced back towards the bar.
“Not like it matters now.”
Jake sighed and leaned his forearms against the railing, looking out at the Pacific.
“You Roostered It, waited too long to take your shot,” you let out a snort at that and hip checked him as you also leaned against the railing, letting the cooler night breeze dry the sweat that was still clinging to the back of your neck.
“You’re just happy you can use Rooster as a verb, you loser.”
He grinned at you and nodded.
“Guilty. So, what are you going to do?”
You shook your head, watching the waves crash onto the shore as the moonlight reflected off the surface of the water.
“Nothing. He’s my - he’s my best friend, so I’m going to try and be happy for him.”
“Oh come on, you sure you don’t want to march in there and just plant one on him?”
Part of you was tempted.
“Did you see how happy he looked? He was so excited to introduce her to us. I can’t stand in the way of that.”
“You’re a better man than me then,” you punched him on the arm again.
“Also not a man, asshat,” Jake laughed and put his arm around you, pulling you close to him and giving you a noogie which you swatted away.
“For what it’s worth, and I’m saying this totally as a friend and NOT in a flirty way, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
You smiled and shook your head at him, a gentle understanding and camaraderie forming between the two most unlikely of teammates.
Neither of you noticed the spectator just inside the deck doors.
Bob’s gaze fell on Jake’s arm around you, the easy smiles you shared, and a sudden, unfamiliar weight pressed on his chest. His stomach knotted, his heart thudding in a way that made no sense, and a strange heat rose up the back of his neck.
He couldn’t name it, didn’t understand it, but it rooted him in place, eyes fixed on you two. He finally pushed away from the door and turned back to the crowd, and to the woman waiting for him at the bar, a drink in hand and a smile on her face.
_______
As you walked into the training room the following morning your heart skipped a beat as you made eye contact with Bob, zeroing in on your usual seat behind him and Phoenix. You had successfully avoided him since the bar, locking yourself in your room and leaving early this morning to go for a run and grab breakfast before heading straight to base, forgoing the ride he usually gave you.
He turned around with a narrowed gaze and you cocked your head in response.
“So where’d you disappear to last night?”
You plopped down in your seat with a groan, massaging your head which was pounding with a post-cry migraine. You prayed that he didn’t notice the puffiness around your eyes.
“Good morning to you too, Bobby.”
You could practically feel Phoenix’s eyes burning a hole through your head which you studiously ignored, pressing down on your temples and willing the ache behind your eyes to dissipate.
“You didn’t answer my question,” your eyes snapped open at the sharpness in his tone, narrowing your gaze right back at him.
“Well sorry I didn’t realize I had to run all my movements by you, Mr. Bossman. Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning? Jesus Christ.”
Bob opened his mouth to no doubt snark something back but Phoenix beat him to it, side eyeing her back seater like he’d grown a second head.
“I think what Bob is very rudely and weirdly trying to say is that we were worried about you. You just Irish exited without saying goodbye.”
“I wasn’t feeling great,” not a lie. “I went outside to get some fresh air and figured I’d call it a night so Jake drove me home.”
Phoenix’s eyebrows flew up at that bit of information and Bob sputtered.
“Hangman drove you home?” he said, incredulous, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the guy doing something selfless.
With the most impeccable timing the man himself walked through the door, a toothpick hanging carelessly out of one side of his mouth.
“You say that like I don’t drive pretty ladies home almost every night, Bob-o.”
Bob scoffed and you rolled your eyes at the insinuation.
“In your dreams, Seresin,” he winked at you and you gave him an unimpressed stare back.
“You sure are, sweetheart.”
“Pig,” You threw your pen at him, glaring when he caught it and shoved it behind his ear before taking a seat.
His ridiculous antics, which normally grated on your last nerve, made you chuckle and Bob’s eyes bugged out of his head at the sound. He looked between you and Hangman like he was trying to compute an impossible equation but before he could ask, Maverick stepped into the room and everyone turned their attention to him.
The briefing passed in a blur, and before long, the room had emptied out again.
“Dude, did you pay attention to anything that we just covered?”
Bob glanced up from where his gaze was trained on his empty notebook to find Phoenix staring at him. He glanced around and realized the classroom had cleared out while he was daydreaming.
“Hello?” she waved her hand in front of his face and he flushed, scrambling to shove his notebook into his bag and stand up.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Phoenix eyed him warily and shook her head.
“Are you ok? You were on a different planet during that briefing.”
Bob felt shame wash through him at the fact that he hadn’t, in fact, paid a lick of attention to Maverick for the entire 30 minutes they were there.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. What’d I miss?” he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck avoiding Phoenix’s gaze.
“Are you sick?” Her hand came up to his forehead to check for a temperature and he swatted it away. “I’ve never seen you miss even a sentence in that room let alone an entire briefing. What gives, man?”
“I’m not sick. I just… had a lot on my mind.”
“Dude, were you daydreaming about your new girlfriend during briefing? Not cool, Bob.”
He sputtered and blushed, shaking his head in denial as he followed her out of the room.
“What? No of course not! I just…” he trailed off and Phoenix gestured for him to continue. “Do you think Fury and Hangman hooked up?”
Phoenix bit back a smile and continued walking, shrugging her shoulders.
“I don’t know. Would it matter if they did?”
Bob unclenched his jaw and shook his head.
“I suppose not,” he continued walking towards the locker rooms. “I just don’t want her to get hurt.”
It took everything in her not to roll her eyes at her oblivious backseater.
“She’s a grown ass woman, I think she can handle herself.”
“I know that. Hangman is just an asshole and I’ve seen the way he treats the women he brings home.”
“I don’t know, those girls always come out of his place in the morning looking like they won the lottery.”
Bob sputtered and gaped at her.
“Phoenix!”
She laughed and nudged his shoulder with hers.
“What? All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be the worst thing for her to get laid! And he seems to know how to treat a lady well, if you know what I mean.”
Bob followed her into the parking lot, not liking the feeling in his stomach, exactly like the one the previous night. He didn’t bother to think too hard about why his chest felt tight at the thought of Hangman and his best friend together like that.
_______
You had given yourself 24 hours.
One full day to crash out and lose your absolute shit about the fact that Bob had a girlfriend and it wasn’t you. 24 hours to cry, yell, drink, and disassociate before you got your shit together and tried to make things go back to normal like the grown ass adult you were.
You were great at compartmentalization - you’d be fine after you shoved all your Bob-related feelings into a deep deep dark box inside you.
That night you had a date with yourself, a bottle of wine, and the newest superhero movie. You felt like a gremlin as you laid in your nest of blankets on the couch, attempting to take a sip out of a stemmed glass without spilling wine all down your front.
Bob was out with his new girlfriend and your thoughts flicked to him, regardless of your futile attempts not to. He was probably the type that would show up with flowers and hold open doors, a gentleman through and through.
You let out a groan and successfully took a sip of wine without spilling a drop, unable to focus on the television in front of you as your thoughts spiraled, running through your friendship like a twisted movie reel.
You hadn’t been waiting for him, not exactly, but somewhere deep down, you’d always assumed that Bob would be there in your life. When you pictured the future it was always you and him, side by side no matter what.
Looking back, you really couldn’t believe it had taken you so long to understand why.
His presence was a quiet certainty that had shaped your life in ways you’d never questioned, until now.
The wine left a slow warmth in your chest as you leaned back against the pillow at the arm of the couch. Beneath the haze, a sharper truth took hold: the future you’d always pictured wasn’t waiting for you anymore.
You couldn’t rely on him anymore. Not in the way you wanted to. Whatever came next had to be yours. You’d make sure of it.
And as Mr. Fantastic droned on about dimensions and spaceships, something steadier than hope flickered in your chest. Not a dream, not a wish, just… resolve. A path, still forming, that you would walk on your own.
______
The next few weeks were…hard. Hard in a way that you’d never imagined they would be with your best friend. You tried to keep things normal, truly you really did.
You still woke up at the crack of dawn to run along the beach together, carpooled to base with him, picked up his coffee order, joked with the rest of the crew in between learnings, training, and flight time. You still sassed each other over comms and teamed up to make fun of Hangman when he shrieked at the spider that crawled across his nav display.
You’d even gone to dinner with him and Leah, pretending it was easy, that it didn’t twist something in your chest to watch them side by side. You laughed when you were supposed to, matched her banter, and let the wine do the rest. You played the dutiful best friend flawlessly, while something in you splintered, slow and quiet.
The worst part? You liked Leah.
She was sweet and funny and clearly head over heels for your best friend.
She asked insightful questions, remembered small details, and made a real effort to know you. All because she knew you mattered to him.
The squad had taken to her as well, and she was able to hold her own with the best of them like she was meant to be there, carving out a space that you hadn’t realized you were holding for yourself.
It would’ve been easier if she were some sort of evil villain - self-centered, rude, dismissive. But she wasn’t. And somehow, that made it worse.
So the weeks turned into months and with each forced laugh or kiss goodbye you had to watch you could feel yourself slowly slipping away.
-----
Bob wasn’t stupid. He knew things had been weird between you since he told you about Leah.
It wasn’t obvious, probably only he noticed the changes, but they were there. He watched you laugh at Payback’s joke, your shoulders relaxing just enough to look like your normal self. You joined in the banter, tossed out the occasional playful jab, all perfectly timed, but there was a flicker in your eyes that he couldn’t place. Something nagging at him that he couldn’t put a name to.
He wracked his brain, trying to figure out why you seemed off. He could only think that you were insulted that he didn’t tell you about her sooner. After all you were his best friend and his roommate, you shouldn’t have found out about his newly non-single status at the same time as the rest of your friends.
You had been friends and roommates through plenty of relationships in the past. Back then, things had been easy, your routines together comfortable, predictable, steady. Now, even in ordinary moments, there was a tension to your movements, a carefulness in the way you interacted with him. He noticed the way you hesitated before touching him, the slight pullback when he reached for your shoulder. When you had movie nights, your feet no longer ended up in his lap. You no longer gently woke him up with a brush of his hair off his forehead if he fell asleep on the couch so his neck wouldn’t crick in the morning.
Something had shifted between you, subtle but undeniable. He could feel it in every silence, every almost. And no matter how he turned it over in his head, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong, only that he must have done something. Because the ache in his chest told him he was losing something, and he didn’t even know what it was.
______
It was Thursday and you had just closed the door to the townhouse, calling out as you struggled to balance the pizza boxes and kick off your sneakers.
“They ran out of pepperoni, Bob, pepperoni! What kind of fucking pizza place doesn’t have the most popular pizza topping to ever pizza top!”
You yelled with a smile as you strolled into the kitchen, expecting him to be blending up a batch of his infamous margaritas. It was the first Thursday of the month and neither one of you ever missed your ongoing Thirsty Thursdays tradition. It had survived a decade of cross country moves, Zoom calls, even deployments when possible -using MREs and burnt coffee as stand ins. Nothing stood in the way of tradition when you could help it.
You were met with silence, the house empty as you placed the boxes down on the counter.
“Bob?”
Silence answered you and you glanced at the clock. Maybe he got held up at work, or needed to run to the liquor store for the good tequila that you insisted on even though it was being mixed.
You grabbed your phone and sent him a quick text, taking a picture of the pizza boxes, and writing a quick text.
These pizzas are thirsty for some margs, Bob!
The message sent and you pulled open the cabinet, grabbing the blender and hunting for the rest of the margarita ingredients. You whipped up a batch, though they were never as good as his, and poured one for yourself, taking a sip and looking back at your phone.
The message sat unread.
You left the pitcher of margs and the pizza on the counter and meandered into the family room, flopping down on the couch and telling yourself that Bob would be here any minute as you turned on the TV.
He never missed Thirsty Thursdays.
You tried not to look at your watch as the minutes ticked by, barely paying attention to the Parks and Rec reruns you had put on. You put the melting pitcher in the freezer when he was 15 minutes late, and put the pizza boxes in the oven five minutes later to try and keep them warm.
Your heart sank at the 30 minute mark and you tried to call him, wanting to ensure that he was ok.
The phone rang twice and went to voicemail and your stomach dropped. He had ignored your call.
Hey dude, are you ok?
Your text went unanswered again.
After an hour crawled by, you heated up a slice of pizza and plopped the margarita pitcher in front of you on the coffee table, drowning your sorrows and anger in grease and alcohol.
You had just poured yourself your third drink when your phone lit up, the dumb picture of Bob making a dumb face in the back of your dumb jet from your first go at Top Gun glaring back at you.
You had half a mind to let it go to voicemail, but there was a small part of you that wanted to ensure that he actually was ok.
That part won out and you slid your finger across the screen to answer the call.
“Fuck,” his panicked voice came through the phone. “I am so sorry, Fury! Leah and I were at a movie when you called and my phone went off which is why I ignored the call and I totally forgot today was Thursday until I saw your text after we got out…”
He sounded breathless as he rambled and you could picture the horror on his face as he realized that he had missed your monthly tradition. He was probably pacing back and forth in the lobby of the movie theater, running his hand through his hair in frustration at himself.
You let him ramble, staying silent as he tried to explain. When he finally trailed off with another heartfelt apology you felt a tightening in your chest. You were so angry, so disappointed, not only at him, but at yourself for getting your hopes up.
You let out a sigh and sunk into the couch. You’d always had trouble staying mad at him, and now was no different.
“It’s fine, Bob,” you wondered if you sounded as tired as you felt.
“No it’s not. I’m so sorry. You bought pizza and everything…” he trailed off, regret threading through his words. “It’s not that late, I can come home and we can-”
“Bob,” you tried not to snap. You took a calming breath and unclenched your jaw. “It’s 9 o’clock, seriously don’t worry about it. And hey, there’s some leftovers for you for tomorrow so…silver linings.”
Your attempt at a joke fell short and you were met with silence.
“I promise,” he whispered, “I promise I’ll remember next month, Fury.”
“I know you will, dude, don’t stress about it. Go have fun, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
You didn’t let him respond before hanging up the call, blinking back the stinging behind your eyes and eyeing the pitcher once more.
From that day on, you started distancing yourself as a means of survival. Not all at once - just small things, the kind that could almost be explained away.
You stopped grabbing morning coffee together before work, he went with Leah now most days anyway, and you told yourself you didn’t mind. You started staying a little later at the gym on base, waiting until you knew he’d already gone home so you didn’t have to sit in the car with him.
He still texted, still struck up conversation, but it was different. You tried to keep things short and light, tried to distance yourself where possible to save yourself the hurt of disappointment. And when he invited you to join them for dinner or drinks, you made excuses. You told yourself it was easier this way, that maybe you could give yourself room to try and get over him.
Bob noticed too. The empty coffee cups in the mornings, the keys missing from the hook by the door. The quiet where there used to be easy chatter. He thought maybe you were still upset over Thirsty Thursday, maybe you were feeling left out. So he tried to include you more, bringing Leah along to movie night, suggesting the three of you grab breakfast after a late night out.
He thought he was helping.
But each time Leah sat between you on the couch, or laughed at a line you used to quote with him, something in you tightened a little more. You’d smile, because that’s what you did. Because you refused to be the reason he felt guilty for being happy.
And Bob, seeing you laugh, thought things might be getting better. He didn’t see the way your hands fidgeted under the table, or how you avoided his eyes when Leah leaned against his shoulder.
You were both trying, just in completely different directions.
______
Four months after the night at The Hard Deck that changed everything found you standing in Maverick’s office. He grinned as he took the packet from you, eyebrows raising at the recommendation section.
“You do realize if you’re selected you’ll no longer be a part of this squadron? It’s a total transfer.”
You nodded in acknowledgement.
“I do, Mav.”
“I thought you were happy here lieutenant?”
“I was,” you cut yourself off. “I am happy here, Sir. The chances I’ll even make it to the next round are slim to none but I figured I’d throw my hat in the ring. It’s something that I've always wanted to do, and they opened up applications for the first time in 6 years, so I figured why not.”
Maverick leaned back into his seat and steepled his fingers in front of his face, giving you a once over.
“I’d say you have more than a slim chance, Fury. When do you need this back?”
“March 30th, Sir. Does that mean you’ll provide the recommendation?”
“It would be my honor, Lieutenant. Although when you do end up getting shipped off to Houston I think you’ll break poor Bob’s heart,” he joked and it took everything in you not to wince.
“Something tells me he’ll be just fine.”
______
The months following were…somehow even more difficult. It was like Bob was determined to make up for his oversight, plying you with coffees and sweet treats, cooking for you whenever he could and taking over the responsibility of driving to work every day so you wouldn’t have to put miles on your already unreliable Jeep.
No matter how many times he apologized you reassured him you weren’t mad, and always tried to change the subject to something else.
He didn’t realize how much it hurt every time he apologized for forgetting about you, how each apology dug the knife in a bit deeper.
You did your best to act normal, to stay steady and supportive, but it was as if, when Bob missed your standing engagement, something shifted. It was the first crack in a dam that had been holding back more than you wanted to admit. And no matter how hard you tried to keep it together, every small thing he did without realizing only deepened the fracture.
It was a rare rainy day on base, the team was grounded and Mav had been pulled into a meeting with his hire ups, leaving the lot of you lounging around, entertaining yourselves while you waited for quitting time.
“So, my buddy is having people over on Saturday for a pool party. He’s new in town and wants to meet people, so he told me to bring whoever, so I guess I’ll extend the invite to you losers. Feel free to bring any and everyone.”
The group rolled their eyes at Hangman’s poor attempt at humor and the invite acceptances came rolling in. You were just about to tell him you’d be there when Bob spoke up from his seat to your left.
“I think we can be there.” You almost let out a teasing quip - wow, look at you RSVPing to plans for me - before he continued. “I don’t think Leah has anything going on but I’ll double check and let you know.”
We.
Him and Leah.
Not him and you.
Heat rose to your cheeks, your chest tightening as your stomach dropped. The words you’d almost said stuck in your throat, hollow and useless. The gang kept chatting, unaware, and everything that had finally started to feel normal now seemed impossibly off.
_____
A week later Rooster was, yet again, at the piano banging out a tune like he had a million times before. He finished up to a cheer from the crowd and the beginning notes of Piano Man floated across the bar. A wide smile split your face and you instinctively looked for Bob.
This was your song. Your ride or die. Your, no matter what I’m doing, drop everything and belt at the top of your lungs, ballad. There hadn’t been a single time, a single bar, that the song had played that you and Bob hadn’t thrown your arms around each other and belted the words off key at each other.
You looked over at him, expecting a matching excited grin on his face, but he was turned away from you. Laughing at something that Leah had whispered into his ear, as if he hadn’t registered the change of tunes. You gave it a few seconds more before the smile dropped from your face and you turned back to the piano, squeezing Rooster on the shoulder in thanks for playing your favorite, forcing a smile back to your lips as Phoenix leaned in and started singing along with you and Rooster.
_____
You’d thought you were holding it together, keeping your real feelings tucked neatly out of sight. But when Bob cornered you at home that night, the look in his eyes told you you hadn’t hidden them nearly as well as you’d hoped.
“Are we okay?”
His voice was small, tired and sad in a way that had you clenching your jaw. You nodded, staring past him to a point on the wall so you wouldn’t have to look into his eyes.
“Of course we are,” you lied through your teeth and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“Come on, Y/N, I know something’s wrong. Why won’t you talk to me?”
You could hear the frustration bleed through his words as he frantically tried to catch your gaze and your heart pounded against your ribcage.
“Nothing’s wrong, dude. We’re good. Everything is good. It’s fine.”
He narrowed his gaze at you and your throat tightened. You’d recognize that stubborn look anywhere. The one that meant he wasn’t going to stop before he got answers, no matter what.
“You’re my best friend. You mean…so incredibly much to me. And it’s killing me to know that I did something to upset you. We’re best friends, why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it!”
Your blood rushed through your veins at his words, at the desperation behind them. They were so, so close to what you desperately wanted to hear. But they’d never be enough, would always stop at ‘best friends’.
“You didn’t do anything-”
“Bullshit,” he cut you off with a bark. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to calm himself, reigning himself in.
“You’ll always be my best friend.”
You wished the ache those words caused would dull, just once. He parted his lips to say something else, but the door creaked open. Leah entered, weighed down with grocery bags and blissfully blind to the storm she’d just walked into.
You jumped at the chance to flee and quickly scuttled out of the hall, flashing her a smile and grabbing your keys.
“Oh, are you not joining us? I bought enough for three.”
You could cry at how fucking sweet this woman was, and your guilt weighed heavy as you shook your head.
“That’s so sweet, but I promised Phoenix I’d help her put together some new furniture tonight. You two have fun though!”
You didn’t look Bob’s way but you could feel his piercing gaze, knew that he clocked your lie from a mile away.
____
It was Friday night and the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. You’d been half-expecting Bob to poke his head in, suggest a movie or a late run to the store to cook dinner like he usually did, but the hours stretched and stretched.
Around nine, you finally gave in and scrolled Instagram.
Phoenix’s photo appeared in your stories and you clicked on it, the first photo blurry, flushed with neon lights and laughter. The whole squad at the bowling alley downtown. Rooster flipping the camera off, Hangman doing his best Blue Steele, Fanboy throwing up a peace sign.
And Bob. Right in the middle.
Leah was tucked into his side, his arm draped casually around her as he grinned at the camera, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
Your heart sank.
You clicked through the story. More photos. More laughter. Everyone was there.
Everyone but you.
You knew, logically, they hadn’t meant to exclude you. They’d probably assumed Bob would tell you. He always told you.
You were notoriously bad at checking text messages and that’s how it normally worked. Someone organized, someone else texted Bob, and you got the invite through him. It had always been seamless, automatic.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he hadn’t thought to mention it.
You turned your phone off and tossed it onto the couch like it burned, staring at the ceiling until your vision blurred.
It wasn’t that you wanted to bowl, or drink cheap beer, or laugh until your sides hurt. It was that they’d all gone on being them without you, and the one person you trusted to keep you looped in hadn’t even noticed you were missing.
An hour later, after you had skulked to your room, the front door creaked open. You held your breath, not making a noise as you listened to Bob ease inside before throwing the lock and kicking off his shoes. His soft footsteps trailed down the hallway and you sucked in a breath as they stopped outside of your closed door. He hesitated there for a moment, like he might wake you, then padded off to his room.
You waited until you heard his door click shut before you let the tears spill.
______
“Okay, Fury’s seriously late,” Phoenix said, squinting at her phone for the tenth time. She was perched on the edge of the booth, nursing her beer as the others laughed around her. “Did she text anyone? She saw my insta story so I know she’s not dead.”
“I called twice,” Hangman said, tossing his phone onto the table. “Straight to voicemail. Maybe she bailed?”
“She wouldn’t just bail,” Rooster said firmly. He thumbed at his phone again, firing off another text. Bob sat stiffly, a pit in his stomach growing with each passing second.
“What’d she say when you told her we moved the time?”
Rooster’s question was innocuous, but for Bob it dropped like a bomb.
The look on his face must’ve said it all, because Hangman groaned loudly.
“You fucking didn’t invite her? Oh my god, Floyd!”
“I thought,” he stammered. “I thought I mentioned it.”
His heart hammered as he scrambled for an explanation.
“She…she usually just-”
“Shows up because you tell her,” Payback snapped, sharper than usual. “Damn it, Bob.”
Phoenix sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Well, call her now.”
“Her phone’s off,” Bob ignored Coyote as he frantically clicked her contact and pressed the call button. Swearing at her voicemail and trying again and again.
Hangman shook his head in disappointment and Bob felt like the lowest scum of the Earth as the truth settled heavy over the table.
She wasn’t just missing. She wasn’t just late.
She knew.
And she wasn’t coming.
_____
Bob hadn’t slept. Not really.
Leah had dropped him off with a quick kiss to the cheek and a heartfelt reassurance that everything would work out with you in the morning. He’d given her a weak nod but the whole drive home he couldn’t stop replaying the night, the empty space at his side where you should have been. How quickly the night had come to an end after they realized his mistake.
He tossed and turned as Phoenix’s first words when they all arrived at the bowling alley still echoed in his head.
“Where’s Fury? She’s coming, right?”
Bob had blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. She should be.”
Except you hadn’t walked in ten minutes later, or thirty, or even an hour after that. He’d shrugged it off, thinking maybe you weren’t comfortable after he tried to ask you what was bothering you. But when Phoenix brought up that you were seriously late, and then Hangman and Rooster had tried calling you, the truth had sunk in with a cold, heavy weight.
He never told you.
He hadn’t passed along the invite like he always did. He’d just…forgotten.
And now, the following morning, sitting on the arm of the couch watching you sip the coffee he’d made you as a peace offering, he wanted to kick himself. You looked tired, drawn, like you hadn’t really slept either.
But worse than that, you looked guarded. Even more so than you had been the previous months.
“I thought I told you,” he started to say, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth. Because deep down, he knew he hadn’t. And the look on your face, the polite, closed-off little smile you gave him in return, felt like a door slamming shut.
What the hell is wrong with me? He thought, guilt gnawing at his gut. You’re my best friend. How could I forget you?
He winced. “I’m sorry. I should’ve… I mean, I just assumed you knew. Everyone else thought you were coming.”
You nodded once, lips pressed tight.
His knee bounced nervously from his perch on the arm of the couch.
“We missed you. Wasn’t the same.”
The words might’ve landed once. Once, you might have given him hell for forgetting to invite you, might’ve held it over his head and demand he do any number of ridiculous things to make it up to you. Once, you would have ribbed him and given him shit while laughing about the fact that you were so bad at checking your phone that Bob was basically your personal assistant. Once, those words would have been the catalyst for friendly apologies and forgiveness.
But now, they felt like salt in a wound. The pictures you’d seen had told a different story, they looked plenty fine without you.
So you gave him a thin smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes.
“It’s fine, Bob. Don’t worry about it.”
He frowned. “Fury -”
“I said it’s fine.”
You sipped the coffee, letting the heat scald down your throat, using it as an excuse not to look at him.
He fell quiet after that, but you could feel his eyes on you, searching, trying to piece together pieces that he broke.
And you hated yourself for how much it hurt, that he could forget you like that. That maybe you weren’t the person he thought to tell anymore.
But he didn’t press. Didn’t push. Just sat there, staring at his own hands, while the silence between you stretched wider than it had in years.
_____
The following Monday morning had a cheer going up when you walked into the hangar.
“Ayy there she is!” Rooster exclaimed, throwing an arm around your shoulders while you stared at him in bewilderment.
“Are you on drugs?”
He let out a laugh and led you over to the break room.
“She’s a comedian, everyone,” he quipped back sarcastically. “Nah we all just feel like a bunch of fucking assholes for Friday. Not that it was really anyone’s fault besides Floyd’s but still, we should have realized sooner.”
There was a box full of your favorite pastries waiting on the break room table, the ones from the fancy patisserie across town that you rarely splurged for. You bit back a smile and shook your head at the poorly made “We’re sorry” banner sloppy laid out across the front of the table.
“You’re all ridiculous,” you said fondly, grabbing a pasty from the box. “You didn’t need to do this. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Well technically, the pastries were Bob’s idea, but we all chipped in on the sign.”
You snorted and took a bite, relishing the taste of buttery sugar on your tongue.
“I told him it was fine too.”
“Oh bulllllshit,” Hangman piped up from where he was scrolling on his phone. “That idiot came in here looking like someone kicked his puppy and killed his grandma. He knows he fucked up. And we all have made sure to remind him of it since the moment it happened.”
Phoenix grabbed a pastry and gently hip checked you with a smile.
“Seriously dude, we all feel terrible. We thought you knew.”
You shrugged your shoulders and took another bite to avoid answering.
“Probably my fault anyway, shouldn’t have to rely on someone else for my social calendar.”
“Oh please, don’t make excuses for him. He knows he messed up. He’s doing all your paperwork for the foreseeable future by the way, as a way of saying sorry.”
She gestured to where Bob was squatting under your bird, glaring at the landing gear like it personally offended him and you rolled your eyes.
“Really, it’s fine… maybe just, text me directly with plans next time, yeah?”
Phoenix’s gaze saw too much but she nodded.
“Yeah, of course. Although something tells me this isn’t something your better half is ever going to do again.”
You sucked in a breath and shook your head.
“He’s not my -”
You glared at her smirk and flipped her off.
“You’re the worst.”
The rest of the guys cleared out of the room and headed towards their own rigs to do their flight pre-checks. Her smirk softened into something that you wanted no part of.
“Seriously though, are you ok?”
You clenched your jaw against the emotion welling up inside you.
“I’d…like to not talk about this right now. Please.”
You must have sounded pathetic since she immediately nodded with a solemn set to her jaw. Normally she was like a dog with a bone when she wanted information on something so the fact that she just dropped it screamed loads about your current state.
“Alright, but we need a girls night soon. I’m tired of all the dick measuring going on in this squad. Lord knows we all don’t own microscopes.”
You let out a real laugh at that, inhaling powdered sugar and coughing up a storm. She let out a cackle and slapped you on the back. You grinned back at her and let out a deep breath, your feelings about her back seater momentarily falling away as you got to work.
That night you stayed late to work out at the gym on base, pushing yourself hard in the weight room before showering and heading back to Bob’s townhouse, hoping beyond hope that he’d be in bed or sleeping at Leah’s.
When you silently pushed the door open and heard music coming from the Alexa you bit back a sigh at your bad luck. You toed your boots off and hung up your bag, thinking maybe you could sneak into your room without having to see him.
As if drawn by your thoughts Bob appeared in the front hall out of nowhere and you swore in surprise.
“Jesus Bob, you scared the shit out of me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry. I just wanted to make sure I caught you.”
You took a deep breath and met his gaze.
“What’s up?”
He blinked at you like he couldn’t believe you just asked that.
“Come on,” he gestured over his shoulder to the kitchen and you had no choice but to follow him.
The table was set for two and he gestured for you to sit at one of the chairs, scurrying into the kitchen and grabbing two pizza boxes from the oven, placing them on the table and then grabbing the blender pitcher from the freezer. He poured you each a glass and took a seat across from you, placing your margarita in front of you.
“Bob-”
“Please,” he cut you off, gaze imploring as he looked at you. “Please, just let me say this.”
You nodded at him to continue, pizza and marg sitting untouched in front of you.
“I fucked up. God,” he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I fucked up, so, so, badly. Not just on Friday, which, I really did, but I’ve been fucking up for months.”
His gaze bore into you and you took a drink of your marg to give your hands something to do.
“I am so sorry, Y/N. I know things have been… off with us. Ever since Leah and I started dating, and I haven’t been there for you the way I should be, the way I normally am.”
“Bob, that’s-”
“No, I haven’t. I haven’t been there and I’m so sorry. You mean, god, you mean everything to me. You’re my best friend and I hate, I absolutely fucking hate, that we’re not ok.”
You stared down at the condensation dripping down your glass, throat tight.
The thing was, you missed him too. Missed the late-night takeout runs, the easy laughter, the quiet comfort of knowing someone always had your back. Things hadn’t felt right in a long time, but hearing him say it out loud made you realize just how bad things had gotten.
“I don’t want us to be like this either,” you finally said, your voice low. “I hate it. I hate feeling like I lost my best friend.”
He looked up sharply at that, blue eyes searching yours.
“You didn’t. You haven’t. I’m right here.”
You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Are you though? Because lately it feels like you’re halfway here, halfway somewhere else.”
Bob winced, the truth of that statement hitting him square in the chest.
“I know. And you’re right. I’ve been trying to balance things and…I just keep messing it up. Leah’s amazing, she is, but-” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck again, “I should’ve made more of an effort with you. I never wanted you to feel like I chose her over you.”
The words made your stomach twist, your breath leaving you like you’d been punched in the gut.
You wanted to say it wasn’t about choosing, that you understood, but that would be a lie. Some selfish terrible part of you had wanted him to choose you, even if you knew he couldn’t.
You swallowed hard.
“I haven’t exactly made it easy either. I’ve been… distant. I’ve been weird and I’m sorry for that.”
Bob’s expression softened.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“Yes, I do,” you said, shaking your head. “You didn’t deserve the cold shoulder. You’ve always been there for me,” you took a sip of your drink and raised an eyebrow at him. “Friday night and Thirsty Thursday notwithstanding,” you tried for a joke and he winced causing you to smirk.
“And I’ve been acting like you haven’t been there for me for the better part of a decade.” You hesitated, fighting to keep your voice from shaking. “I just… I want things to be okay again. I want us to be okay again.”
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the faint music playing from the Alexa. Then Bob reached across the table, his hand hesitating for a brief moment before brushing against yours.
“Then let’s fix it,” he said simply. “Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.”
You felt your throat close up again. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe you could do it too, that you could be around him without that ache in your chest. That you could go back to how easy things used to be. That you could go back to a time where you didn’t wish for something you couldn’t have.
You managed a small, but genuine, smile.
“Yeah. Let’s fix it.”
Bob’s shoulders dropped in relief, a smile brightening his face in a way that you hadn’t seen in months, as he grabbed your plate and slapped a slice of pizza onto it.
“Good. Then we start with pizza and margaritas. I know it’s Monday, but we can pretend it’s Thursday. And you better drink all of your margs cuz I splurged for El Tesoro and the guy at the liquor store about fainted when I told him I was putting it into a margarita.”
You snorted a laugh, causing him to smile wider, the tension finally easing just a little.
He raised his glass, eyes warm again.
“To fixing it.”
You clinked your glass against his.
“To fixing it.”
You took a sip, the tequila steading you.
As he started talking, about work, about a movie he’d seen, about how much shit the squad had given him for his stupidity in the hangar that morning, you listened. You laughed when he did, smiled when he smiled, and somewhere between the warmth of the margarita and the easy rhythm of his voice, you made a quiet promise to yourself.
You were going to move on.
You were going to stop wishing for something that could never happen.
You were going to be his best friend again.
Even if it broke your heart to do it.
______
The next few weeks slipped into something that felt almost easy again. Back like your days in LeMoore, before your pesky feelings made themselves known and threw your entire existence into a tailspin.
You and Bob found your rhythm again, morning coffee runs, fighting over the aux on the drive to base, sarcastic banter echoing through the hangar like nothing had ever gone wrong. The squad noticed too, the awkward silences and sidelong looks faded, replaced with the same teasing camaraderie that had always defined you both. You no longer avoided Phoenix’s questioning gaze or Hangman’s knowing glare.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
You started to remember what it felt like to just be with him, without the tension, without the ache. He’d text you memes in the middle of the day, nudged your shoulder when you zoned out during Cyclone's lectures, dragged you to that super sketchy sushi place for lunch that he loved like nothing had changed. And you began to realize maybe that was the point, that nothing had to change.
Little by little, you let yourself believe it. You stopped overanalyzing every word, every look. You let the soft, familiar rhythm of your friendship fill in the empty spaces where longing used to live.
Some nights you’d still catch yourself watching him when he laughed too hard, or when he pushed his glasses up with that absentminded frown, but you forced yourself to look away. To remind yourself that this was enough.
Because it was enough.
It had to be enough.
He was happy, and you were okay. Better than okay, even.
You could breathe again around him. You could tease him without feeling like you were breaking your own heart.
You told yourself you were over it… over him.
And most days, you gaslit yourself into believing that.
That particular night you were proud of yourself for it. Bob was out with Leah, and for once, the thought didn’t sting. You’d made dinner, showered, folded laundry with music playing low in the background. Just quiet normal ordinary things that didn’t revolve around him.
When you finally climbed into bed the house was quiet around you, and you let yourself revel in the calm. You were getting there. You really were.
You were just drifting towards sleep when the lock clicked.
The familiar squeak of the front door, the shuffle of shoes on the mat, Bob’s routine, as ingrained in you as your own. But tonight there was another sound layered over it. Light, breathless laughter. Leah’s.
You froze, eyes snapping open in the dark.
The hall light cut a thin strip under your door and you heard the low rumble of Bob’s voice, muffled, followed by a sudden recognizable thump against the wall and a high pitched giggle. You didn’t need to see it to know what it meant.
You throat went dry and you pressed your face into your pillow, clutching it tighter and willing yourself not to listen. But then you heard the unmistakable sound of his bedroom door closing, and a silence that lasted only a few seconds before it filled with soft gasps and broken laughter, escalating into something so much worse.
You shove the pillow over your head. Not enough.
You jammed your AirPods into your ears, swearing when the beep of a low battery met you. You turned on the noise canceling function anyway.
Still not enough.
The walls in this townhome had never felt so thin.
Your chest felt like it was being crushed again, breath struggling into your lungs as you desperately tried to not picture what was happening on the other side of your bedroom wall. Your mind betrayed you, images flying behind your eyes like the worst kind of movie.
You thought you had this under control. Thought you had it on lock down. But this… this was too much.
Tears stung behind your eyes, but you blinked them away, furious at yourself. You had been doing so well. Taken such strides to draw that line between best friends and what you craved. And in one intimate sound it felt like all your progress had vanished.
When the rhythm of the sounds next door sharpened, you couldn't take it anymore. You slipped out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, and grabbed your keys as quietly as you could, AirPods still jammed into your ears like they could actually block out what your brain had fine tuned into.
The front door clicked shut behind you, the cool night air biting into your skin.
For a moment, you stood there on the front stoop, staring up at the sky, and the faint stars you could see beyond the light pollution of the California coast. The few that cut through the haze blinked back at you, mockingly.
You whispered to yourself, to them, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
And then you walked. Anywhere but there.
_____
Bob found you in the hangar, bent over a maintenance checklist with a grease pencil in hand. You looked collected, hair pulled tight, every line of your body screaming ‘focused professional’. Still, his stomach churned with the knowledge that you had definitely overheard something you shouldn’t have last night, especially when you weren’t in your room this morning, and he couldn’t shake his unease.
“Hey,” he said quietly, almost tentative. “Got a second?”
You glanced up, brows raised, that familiar grin flicking across your mouth a split second too late.
“For you, Lieutenant? Always. What’s up?”
Bob swallowed. That smile didn’t look quite right, it was there, but didn’t reach like it normally did. He shifted, rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I, uh… about last night. I didn’t mean to…” he cleared his throat and his face flushed in embarrassment. “It got… louder than I thought.”
“Louder?” you repeated with a laugh, light and breezy. You shoved the pencil into your chest pocket. “Relax, Bob. It’s not like I haven’t heard worse. Two pilots sharing a house - you think that’s the worst thing our walls have ever heard?”
Your tone was teasing, easy. You made it sound ridiculous that he’d even bring it up.
Still the guilt twisted tighter.
“Shouldn’t have happened,” he said softly.
“Forget about it,” you replied, turning back to your checklist. “It’s already forgotten.”
You made it sound final, like a door closing. Bob hesitated, then nodded, retreating without pressing further. But the unease stuck with him as he walked away, because even if you said it was forgotten it sure as hell didn’t feel that way.
Neither one of you noticed your teammate, eyes wide, disbelief written across his face as he watched your conversation unfold from behind your aircraft.
The apartment was quiet when you got home, the kind of quiet that vibrated against your skin. Bob’s door was shut, light glowing faint under the crack. You didn’t knock, didn’t pause.
Your own room welcomed you with silence. You tossed your bag on the floor and sat on the bed’s edge, elbows on your knees, palms pressing against your eyes.
All day you’d worn the mask at work. You’d smiled with Phoenix, tossed jokes back at Rooster, acted like Bob’s apology was more than enough.
It’s already forgotten, you’d told him - crisp and convicting.
But it wasn’t.
Not when the memory still rang in your ears. The giggle, the thump against the wall, the moans that cut through your pillow, through your dead headphones, through everything you tried. Not when the man that you loved had held another woman only a few feet away, completely unaware that he was tearing you apart.
And this morning. This morning. His apology. Awkward. Half-formed. Like all he thought you cared about was the god damn noise.
If only it had been that simple.
You curled onto your side, staring at the ceiling. Your chest ached with the effort of holding yourself together, and this time you didn’t fight it. A hot sting welled in your eyes. You pressed your fist to your mouth until the urge passed, until your breath steadied again.
Tomorrow, you’d be Fury again. Smiling, unshaken, sharp-tongued, indestructible.
But tonight, in the dark, you let yourself break.
_____
The drive to base the following morning was quiet, the radio softly playing in the background as you stared out of the window of Bob’s truck, hoping that your face didn’t look as puffy as it felt.
You felt your phone vibrate with a notification and you pulled it out, absentmindedly looking at the email notification that appeared on your home screen. Your breath caught at the sender and your thumb hesitated before opening the lockscreen to read it. Your eyes flew over the message, and it took everything in you not to react outwardly at the words on the screen.
Despite your efforts, you must have made a noise because Bob glanced your way.
“Everything okay?”
You cleared your throat and nodded, pressing the side button to lock your phone with forced nonchalance.
“Totally, just one of those videos from that guy in Thailand that rescues street dogs. You know they always get me.”
Bob chuckled, the sound easy and unsuspecting, and turned his attention back to the road.
You kept your gaze out the window, heart still racing, the words on your screen looping through your mind. No matter how hard you tried to play it cool, a smile tugged at your lips, small, hopeful, impossible to hide. For the first time in a long time, the road ahead didn’t feel so uncertain.
____
You were in the comms room with Hangman, both of you winding down from your flight and listening to the rest of the team that was up in the air over the radio. He was flipping a pen in between his fingers and looking between you and the comm system.
“Soooo,” he drawled. “Interesting convo between you and Bob yesterday morning.”
You clenched your jaw and rolled your eyes.
“Was there a question in there that I missed?”
He scoffed and leaned forward, forearms braced on his bent legs, pretty green eyes all too knowing.
“You okay?”
You pasted on a smile and pretended to look at the generic memo in front of you.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
His stare let you know unimpressed he was with your answer.
“I don’t know… If I had to listen to the girl I was in love with get busy with her boyfriend, in my own damn home, I think I’d be a little upset.”
You shot him a glare and looked around the room.
“Would you shut the fuck up please?” you hissed. “We are at work.”
He ignored you and flipped the pen in his hand, his gaze entirely too wise for someone that pretended only to care about himself.
“You know, you can always crash at my place if-”
You cut him off with a glare.
“I don’t need… I’m fine, okay? It’s not a big deal. It’s fine. I’m fine everything is-”
“Fine?”
You flipped him off and turned to look out the window onto the tarmac.
“Look, I get that you’re ‘fine’,” the words were accompanied by air quotes. “But seriously if you need to talk, or you need somewhere to crash to get away from all that,” he gestured to the sky where Bob and Phoenix were flying. “You know where to find me.”
“Careful, Hangman,” you tried to jest through your tight throat, “or people here might actually think you have a heart.”
He stared at you for a beat, blinking in a way that made you feel entirely too exposed.
“Don’t flatter yourself sweetheart, I’m just trying to get brownie points so you’ll share some of those pastries with me the next time Baby on Board ultimately fucks up.”
You let out a bitter laugh, ready to drop it, but his hand landed on yours and your entire body tensed.
“Seriously,” the weight behind his voice made you pause. “You don’t have to live like this. I… I've been where you are before. And you might think that you need to be strong and push through, but you’re allowed to take care of yourself and do what’s best for you. Even if it means stepping away from him.”
You tried to speak, but the words caught behind the knot in your throat. Swallowing hard, you managed a small nod, eyes fixed on the horizon. On the fading light ahead, and the man who would never be yours.
______
You’d left in a rush the next morning, late for an internal meeting, mail scattered across the kitchen counter. Bob came back from his run, tugging off his hoodie and paused when he saw the NASA letterhead staring up at him from the counter.
He froze.
The envelope was torn open, the single sheet half-tucked back inside. His name wasn’t on it, but it was impossible not to see the words bold at the top:
“We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a final interview in Houston…”
His chest tightened. He skimmed the first few lines, heart thudding harder with every word, until guilt made him shove the letter back exactly where it had been. He sank onto a stool, running a hand through his damp hair, trying to breathe around the weight settling in his chest.
When you came home later, still in uniform, you barely noticed him sitting in the kitchen. You dropped your bag with a sigh, reaching for the stack of mail.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bob’s voice was soft, but it cut through the quiet like a blade.
You froze, fingers brushing the envelope. Slowly, you looked up, reading the expression on his face.
“Oh,” you said. Your throat was dry. “You saw it.”
“I wasn’t trying to-” he gestured helplessly. “It was just there.”
Silence stretched.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
Bob’s brow furrowed.
“Fury, this is… this is huge. Why didn’t you want to tell me? You’ve wanted this forever.”
Your laugh was brittle. “It’s not a big deal, there’s gonna be nothing to tell when I don’t get selected. I wanted… better to keep it quiet you know? Fewer people to disappoint.”
Bob shook his head immediately, earnestness flooding his voice.
“You wouldn’t disappoint anyone. You’ve got this. I know you do.”
The way he said it, the conviction behind his voice. Certain, steady, like he believed in you more than you believed in yourself, made your throat ache. You had to look away, staring at the envelope instead of his gaze.
“Please don’t tell the others,” you whispered, a rare moment of vulnerability peaking through.
Bob hesitated, then nodded once in agreement.
“Okay. Just me.”
The quiet stretched again, heavier this time, filled with all the things neither of you could say.
_____
It was one of those rare nights when the entire squad had a break, a collective exhale, and somehow everyone ended up crowding into a bar that wasn’t the Hard Deck for once. The noise, the laughter, the haze of neon lights wrapped around you like something familiar and safe as you sipped your drink.
Things with Bob had been… better. Easier. He’d been warm again, attentive in that quiet way that was so him. It almost felt like old times, if you ignored the echo of that one night, buried deep where you refused to touch it.
You were at the bar with Leah, of all people, waiting for another round of drinks while the others fought over the TouchTunes. She flashed you a bright smile, casual and easy.
“So,” Leah said, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music. “Bob told me about your NASA interview. That’s incredible! I can’t imagine how excited you must be.”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut, any warmth from your buzz evaporating as your chest hollowed out.
You'd forced a smile to your lips, but your fingers had tightened hard around your glass.
“Oh. He told you about that?”
Leah nodded, blissfully oblivious to the way your voice cracked.
“Yeah, he’s so, so proud of you. He said you’d kill it up there. Honestly, it makes sense. You’ve always seemed… bigger than this,” she gestured around you. “You know? Like you’re meant for more.”
She’s sincere, earnest, the kind of woman that means every kind word.
You'd managed a weak laugh, nodding along, because what else can you do?
But inside, something fractured.
Because Bob had promised. He’d promised it was just between the two of you. And now, she knows. Leah, of all people, sitting there smiling like it’s nothing, but it feels like everything.
And she wasn't being cruel, not even close. She was being wonderful, the way she always is, and somehow that makes it just so much worse.
Because how can you be angry at her? She’s being so gracious and supportive and everything you wish you could be. The only person left to blame for the sick feeling in your gut is yourself, for caring too much, for letting it sting, for being the fool who thought something so private could stay between you and your best friend.
The bartender slammed a tray of drinks down in front of you and Leah squeezed your arm warmly before grabbing it and carrying the tray back to your table. You stayed rooted where you were, staring at the condensation sliding down your glass, trying to swallow the ache rising in your throat.
From across the bar Bob caught your eye and smiled, soft and steady, the way he always did. Unaware of the bomb that had just been dropped.
And you… you couldn't even look at him.
Later, outside the bar, you allowed the night air to cool the heat in your chest. Bob followed you out, concern etched all over his face at the fact that you'd been avoiding him since he saw you at the bar with Leah.
“Hey,” Bob said softly. “Everything okay? You kind of disappeared back there.”
You let out a shaky breath, exhausted from the boomerang of your emotions when it came to your best friend.
“Yeah, just needed some air.”
He didn't buy it, of course he didn't, but he waited patiently like he knows there’s more. And that’s what hurts the most, that he still knows you, still gets you better than anyone, even when you wish he didn’t.
You finally let some of the emotions you've been bottling up slip out when you turned to him.
“Thought it was just supposed to be between us,” you said finally, voice low and bitter. “The NASA thing.”
Bob froze, eyes widening as realization hits.
“Oh…shit. Leah…she said something? Fury, I didn’t-”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” you cut in, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I know. It’s just…” you forced a breath, shaking your head. “It’s my fault for thinking things could just be like they were. You have her, and that’s fine. Really, it is. I just… need some time to get my head around this new normal.”
He stepped forward, and you matched it with a step back.
“Please, Bob,” you try your hardest to keep your voice steady. “Just… give me a little space, okay?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” you held up a hand to stop him and nodded.
“I know. I just… need some time.”
He nodded, stricken, and for a heartbeat you almost take it back. The look on his face made you want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine. But you’re not. So you turn and walk away before he can say anything else.
You don’t tell him you’re going to Houston the following week. You don’t tell anyone except Mav when you drop your leave request on his desk.
It’s easier that way. Easier to pack your bag in silence, board a flight, and keep your phone on Do Not Disturb. Two weeks of training, evaluation, interviews and maybe, if you’re lucky, enough distance to finally breathe again.
Bob gives you 24 hours before he texts, concern evident since he hasn’t seen or heard from you. The text he receives back from you makes his heart drop.
In Houston for eval and training. Will let you know when I book my flight back.
Bob tells himself not to worry, that you’re chasing your dream and are too busy to answer any of the dozens of follow up texts he sends your way. But the empty chair behind him in the ready room feels wrong. The silence in the car on the way home from base feels worse.
The squad is hounding him about your whereabouts, Mav only letting them know that you requested leave for two weeks, but not budging on additional details.
Bob is also silent about where you disappeared to, not stupid enough to make that critical mistake twice.
He hadn’t been malicious when he told Leah. He’d just been so proud, bursting even. He’d been talking about you, about the two of you sitting on the roof years ago watching a launch on your outdated iPad, you declaring one day you’d be up there.
And he’d told Leah how that same fire was still in you, how the NASA interview was proof of your drive and unlimited gumption. He hadn’t even thought to say don’t mention it.
Now, as he thinks he might have broken your friendship beyond repair, he wishes he hadn’t said anything.
You’ve gone dark in Houston, and he feels it in every part of his day. He’s quieter than normal in briefings, slower to joke. When your name comes up in squad chatter, he looks away.
Leah starts to notice the distance too, the late replies, the distracted looks, the almost obsessive checking of his phone. When she lightly teases him about missing you, his face falls just enough to tell her everything she needs to know.
He doesn’t say it but he feels it deep within his soul, the echo of something critical missing.
At first, it was just the little things.
He’d come home and catch himself calling out your name before remembering you weren’t there. He’d still make two mugs of coffee in the morning without thinking, setting one on the counter before realizing it would stay untouched.
He tried to fill the silence, dates with Leah, music, TV, late nights at work, but none of it helped. The townhouse felt too big, too empty, like it echoed with ghosts of conversations and laughter that used to fill it.
At work, he found himself glancing at your locker every time he walked past. The small sticker you’d put on it, a faded NASA logo, had started to peel at the corner. He almost fixed it once, hand halfway raised before he stopped himself.
Phoenix noticed the way he’d gone quiet. “You good, Bob?” she’d asked one afternoon after a post flight debrief.
He’d nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie exactly. He was tired, but not from flying. From thinking. From missing you in a way that gnawed at the edges of his focus.
He started replaying the last few weeks before you left, before he had fucked up everything more than he knew.
He thought about the sound of your laugh in the car, fighting him for the aux and playing Chumbawumba on repeat much to his dismay. He thought of you sitting on the couch, bathed in the setting sunlight, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
He couldn't stop seeing the moment from that night, when your eyes dropped from his at the bar while Leah walked back with a tray of drinks. The moment that something in you seemed to give up.
And the thing that had hurt the most:
You hadn’t just needed space. You’d needed distance — from him.
And the worst part was, he couldn’t even blame you.
So he threw himself into work. Stayed later. Ran drills he didn’t need to. Anything to keep his hands busy, his mind too full to wander.
But at night, when the world finally went quiet, he’d catch himself scrolling through old photos, your shoulder pressed against his, your smile easy and unguarded, and he’d feel it again.
That sharp, hollow ache of missing something he hadn’t realized he’d already lost.
------
It all came to a head a week and a half after you left.
Bob had gone through the motions, flying, briefing, pretending everything was fine, but the silence in the townhouse grew louder with every passing day. Your coffee mug stayed in the sink. Your jacket hung by the door. He’d stopped even trying to text after the umpteenth unanswered message, but he still found himself unlocking his phone, staring at your name.
Leah noticed. Of course she did.
They had been taking a walk by the beach after dinner, the setting sun bleeding out over the water, when she finally said it.
“You don’t have to keep pretending, Bob.”
He blinked, caught mid-step. “Pretending what?”
She smiled, soft and sad. “That everything’s okay. That you’re okay.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head.
“I think we both know your heart isn’t in this anymore.”
Bob froze. The words hit like a hundred G's, sudden and crushing, inescapable.
“Leah, what’re you-”
“It’s alright,” she said gently, cutting him off before he could stumble through the question. “You’re a good man, you know that? Too honorable to follow your own heart.”
Her eyes met his, clear and steady. “I’ve seen the way you look when her name comes up. The way you go quiet. I think… maybe you’ve already found the person you’re supposed to be with. And that person isn’t me.”
He swallowed hard, gaze darting away toward the horizon. He knew he should say something, deny her observation and tell her that she didn’t know what she was talking about. He should have fought, insisted that Leah was the one for him.
But he couldn’t.
Her observation froze him, rewiring his brain in a way that made it seem so obvious.
Leah smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”
Bob squeezed his eyes shut in shame, gutted by her kind words. She wasn’t angry, wasn’t cruel, wasn’t even surprised. Just quietly heartbroken and willing to step away gracefully like the best kind of person.
He had walked her to her car, feeling like the world’s biggest ass when she kissed him on the cheek one last time and wished him luck. He had apologized softly, insisting that he did have feelings for Leah during their relationship, wanting her to understand that he never meant to make her feel like he wasn't fully committed. This made her quietly chuckle as she shook her head.
“I know, Bob. I could practically see your head explode with the realization when I brought it up just now.”
He apologized again, feeling like the scum of the earth and watched as she drove away.
He realized he should be feeling a lot more upset for a guy who’s girlfriend of 6 months just dumped him. He should be gutted, wrecked. But when he got home and shut the door behind him, the silence didn’t seem to crush him as much as it had before.
He kept waiting for the ache to hit, for regret to roll in like a wave.
It never did.
Instead, something quieter settled over him. A sense of clarity that left him equal parts relieved and terrified all at once.
In the days leading up to your arrival home, he found himself replaying every conversation you’d had before you left. Your lack of physical contact, pulling away, careful tone, the way you’d said you needed time, how you wouldn’t meet his eyes when you said it, but he could still see the hurt and disappointment radiating off you.
At the time he thought you had just been upset at the change in the dynamic, had been hurt because he told a secret that wasn’t his to tell.
Now, he knew that was partially the case, but he also knew there was something more.
Because the more he thought about it, the clearer it became.
You weren’t just his best friend. You were the measure, the baseline he unconsciously held everything else against. Every laugh, every quiet morning, every woman he’d tried to love since meeting you.
And now that you were gone, he couldn’t unsee it.
He couldn’t unfeel it.
_____
Bob scowled at his phone, the group chat lighting up with a text from Natasha letting everyone know that you were on your flight back and she’d be grabbing you from the airport. That was followed by a threat to be at The Hard Deck at 6pm sharp for a welcome home party.
Bob knew he had brought it on himself, that he had royally fucked up before you took off to Houston, but it still hurt that you hadn’t deigned to text him your plans or ask him for a ride from the airport.
The bar was buzzing with energy when you and Natasha walked in. Rooster spotted you first, shooting off his barstool and crushing you into a hug that knocked the wind from your lungs. Hangman followed with a clap to the back and a drawled “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”
The rest of the team crowded in at once, laughing, easily believing your lie that you were visiting family, but your eyes found Bob almost instantly.
He stood off to the side, beer in hand, posture just shy of stiff. He hadn’t rushed forward like the others, unsure of his place. He just… looked at you, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like you had hung the sun and the moon in the sky.
And that one look undid all two weeks of mental barriers you had erected around your feelings for Bob Floyd.
When the noise finally settled and Phoenix dragged the rest of the squad toward the bar, you found yourself walking over before you could second-guess it.
“Hey,” you said softly.
Bob blinked at you like you were an apparition before nodding back.
“Hey.”
The silence stretched, thick and awkward. This was Bob, the one person you’d never had awkward silences with and now neither one of you knew how to fill it.
He offered you his bottle of beer and you nodded in thanks, taking it from him and swigging a drink to give yourself something to do.
“How was it?” he asked finally. His voice was careful, like he was afraid of the answer.
You shrugged, trying for lightness.
“Grueling. Long days, lots of testing. I’m pretty sure I won’t want to see another centrifuge for the rest of my life.”
That earned you a small laugh, his gaze open and honest, boring into yours and pinning you where you stood.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. Quiet, earnest. “I…hated the way that we left things. Hated that I fucked up so bad. That I hurt you-”
“Bob-” you cut him off. “Let’s not do this here okay? I’m happy to be back, we can talk more at home alright?”
He let out a deep sigh but nodded, bringing his arms up and pulling you into a hug before you could second guess it.
His arms were a solid weight around you, pulling you tight to his chest, encompassing you in a way that screamed ‘home’, and had the backs of your eyes burning. You returned the hug, holding him close while you could before pulling back, avoiding his gaze as you took a step away, your body singing from the close contact with him.
You were so fucked.
The rest of the night passed in a drunken blur as your body settled back into this known routine. You laughed and drank and played pool with your friends, always hyper aware of Bob on the periphery.
You hadn’t conversed with him outside of your conversation leading up to the hug, and when it was the wrong side of midnight he gently helped you into the Uber he called, making sure to grab your bag out of Natasha’s car before sliding into the other side.
The trip home was quiet, the air thick with something that you couldn’t name.
You’d followed him into the kitchen, sliding onto your barstool as he poured two glasses of water, sliding one across the counter to you. His face was a little flushed with alcohol, his normally perfect hair mussed in a way that made you want to run your fingers through it.
He took a large drink and met your gaze. There was a pause, the kind that used to be comfortable between you. Now it felt like a minefield.
He took a breath, “Listen, about before you left… about Leah-”
You shook your head before he could finish. “It’s fine, Bob.”
“It’s not,” he said quietly, resolute. “I keep saying sorry to you lately, and I know that’s not fixing anything, but I just-” He stopped, exhaling hard. “I’ve been a shitty friend. I hate that. I hate that I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me.”
You looked down at the drink in your hands, throat tight. “You didn’t mean to.”
“No, but I still did it,” he said. “And I keep doing it. And I don’t know how to make it right except-” He stopped himself before he said too much. Except by earning you back.
When you finally met his eyes, he looked raw, open in a way that made it impossible to stay angry. You sighed, the smallest bit of your guard slipping.
“It did hurt,” his jaw clenched and he nodded. “But I get it. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me."
You took another sip of your water. "Look, I had two weeks to…think about things. And we can just call it water under the bridge, okay? I missed you and want things to go back to how they were…before. Can we just try to do that?”
His shoulders eased a little, that quiet hopeful light returning to his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll try.”
You gave him a small smile, the first real one since you’d come home.
He’d take it.
For now, that was enough.
Even if every part of him wanted to tell you everything. That Leah was gone, that he’d meant it when he said you were the person who mattered most, that he finally understood what it felt like to lose you.
That he had definitely been in love with you for the better part of a decade, but was just too damn stupid to see what was right in front of him.
Instead, he just asked if you wanted some more water, and when you said yes, he smiled like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t ruined everything after all.
_____
After that night, Bob started trying. Really trying.
You could see his regret for his actions, his desperation for normalcy, in a hundred small ways.
Your favorite coffee waiting on the counter before you woke up. The playlist he coordinated for your morning runs. The way he’d start cooking dinner before you got home every night, pretending it was “way easier to cook for two.”
He’d linger longer in conversation, laugh a little louder at your jokes, meet your eyes a little too long when you talked. It was the kind of attention that used to come so easily between you, but now it felt… deliberate. Careful. Like he was trying to prove something to you.
And it was killing you... again.
Because every thoughtful gesture, every quiet kindness, every soft look across the table chipped away at the fragile resolve you’d built in Houston. You’d gone there to remind yourself that your life could be bigger than this, that you could stand on your own without orbiting around Bob Floyd.
But now, he was right there again. Making it so damn hard to breathe.
You told yourself he was just being a good friend. Making amends. Feeling guilty about letting your secret slip to his girlfriend.
Because that’s what it had to be. It wasn’t fair to think otherwise, not when he was still in a relationship.
So you smiled. You thanked him. You laughed when he teased you, and tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped when he brushed past you in the kitchen, large hand on your waist as he gently moved you out of the way so he could get to the fridge. You told yourself to stop reading into it, stop hoping.
But then there were moments that broke your resolve.
Like when you came home late one night and found him asleep on the couch, a movie paused on the screen and your NASA sweatshirt balled up under his head like a pillow. A handwritten note left for you on the counter that dinner was in the fridge and instructions on how long to put it in the microwave. The small smiley face and heart finishing the letter off.
Or when he looked at you across the bar one Friday and smiled, soft, open, like he’d finally found his way home.
You kept telling yourself he was just being Bob. Kind, thoughtful, good to his core.
You kept telling yourself not to read into it.
You kept failing.
Because every laugh, every shared look across the ready room, every casual touch of his hand against your back when he leaned close to point something out, it all felt like more.
You’d lie awake some nights, staring at the ceiling, furious at yourself for hoping. For letting yourself imagine he might look at you the same way you looked at him. Because Leah was still in the picture, at least, as far as you knew. And the guilt over loving another woman's boyfriend only added to your anger.
So every time he showed up with your favorite takeout, or left a Post-it note on your desk that said something stupid like Don’t forget how amazing you are, the ache sharpened.
Because kindness from Bob Floyd always came from love, and as always, the love that he was giving wasn’t the kind you so desperately craved.
And he didn’t know that every time he tried to show you how much he cared, he was breaking your heart all over again.
______
The first thing Bob heard when he opened the door with an armful of groceries was the chime of a FaceTime call, coming from your open laptop on the kitchen counter. The name of the caller lit up the screen and Bob’s heart leapt to his throat at the name: Johnson Space Center - Houston, TX.
The call cut off and he heard your muffled voice from your room where you had answered it from your phone.
He tried his best not to eavesdrop on your conversation, focusing instead on putting away the produce he had bought for tonight’s dinner.
You emerged from your room a few minutes later, shoulders tight, eyes rimmed red. You stopped dead when you saw him in the kitchen, fully expecting him to be at Leah’s. His heart broke at the rejection written on your face and he watched as you attempted to pull yourself together, to not allow him to see you break.
“You okay?” he spoke softly even if he already knew the answer. He left the question open ended, leaving it up to you to choose whether or not to fill him in.
You forced a nonchalant shrug, and stared at a spot on the countertop, not meeting his gaze.
“Guess I should’ve known I’m not what they’re looking for.”
His chest ached. You looked so small standing there, fighting to hold yourself together. He wanted to fix it, to make it right, to call up god damn NASA and tell them what a bunch of fucking idiots they had to be to not see your potential.
But all he could offer was the truth.
“They’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You’d have been perfect.”
You shook your head, but before you could argue his palms cupped your shoulders and he forced you to meet his gaze.
“They’re wrong, Fury. And just because you weren’t selected this time doesn’t mean it’s a ‘no forever’. It’s just not right now.”
You froze, the words and the conviction behind them hitting deeper than you wanted them to.
Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.
“And when the time is right? You’ll be ready. And you’ll show them just how fucking wrong they were for not seeing how incredible you were the first time.”
Something in your chest cracked at that, because you almost believed him.
______
Things with Bob got worse before they got better, though “better” wasn’t the right word anymore.
Bob kept finding new ways to show up for you. The car battery mysteriously replaced before you could even complain about it dying. The oil in your jeep changed. The boots that you’d been meaning to take to get fixed somehow magically appearing in the front hall, looking like new. Fresh flowers waiting for you on the counter at home because 'they reminded him of you'.
He’d act like it was nothing, brushing it off with that shy, easy grin of his.
“Just figured I’d take care of it while I was there.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because every time he did something kind, every time his voice went soft when he said your name, you felt that quiet, impossible hope claw its way back up your throat.
And then you’d see a text light up on his phone, and you knew who it was from, and the air would go out of your lungs.
So once again you attempted to build walls for your own sanity. Little ones at first. You stopped lingering in the kitchen after dinner, started volunteering for more late exercises, more simulator time. You told yourself it was good. You needed distance, discipline, control.
But Bob noticed.
He noticed the way you smiled without really looking at him again. The way you laughed with everyone else just a little louder, a little brighter, like you were trying to prove something. The way you always had somewhere to be.
One night he finally said it, quiet but steady.
“Did I… do something wrong again?”
You looked up from the report you were pretending to read, your pulse jumping at the uncertainty in his voice.
“No, Bob. You didn’t.”
He nodded, but the crease between his brows didn’t ease.
“You just feel… far away lately.”
You forced a small smile, soft but tired. “Sometimes things like that happen in friendships.”
He looked like you’d just punched him.
You couldn’t stand it, the guilt, the ache, so you stood and brushed past him toward the hallway, pretending not to see the hurt in his eyes.
Behind you, you heard him exhale, quiet and shaky.
And later that night, when you passed by the living room, you caught sight of him sitting on the couch. The lights off, a half-drunk beer in front of him, staring at nothing.
It was the first time you’d ever seen Bob Floyd look lost.
And it broke something in you that you’d worked so hard to keep whole.
After that night it was like Bob doubled down on his efforts. Like he was determined to rip down the walls you were frantically trying to build.
Bob was everywhere.
He’d wait for you after debriefs, walk you to your car, drop off your favorite snacks “just because.” He started remembering the little things again, the brand of protein bars you liked, the playlist you used to play before a mission, the fact that you hated when people talked during takeoff.
It was familiar. It was safe.
And it continued to hurt like hell.
So you laughed when he made jokes. You thanked him when he did something kind. You smiled and deflected, keeping your voice light even when your chest felt too tight.
You built the walls back up one polite sentence at a time.
And Bob...
Bob could feel every brick, and worked valiantly to rip each one back down.
He didn’t know what else to do. He thought he was showing you, really showing you, how much you meant to him. But every time he reached for you, you seemed to pull just a little further away.
He’d catch you watching him sometimes, quick glances that vanished the second he turned his head. The kind of look that made his heart race, even as doubt started to creep in around the edges.
Maybe he’d waited too long.
Maybe whatever you’d felt for him was gone.
He replayed every conversation, every time he’d seen your smile falter, every time you’d chosen distance over closeness. The thought that he might have missed his chance tore at him. Not because you didn't care, but because he'd unintentionally hurt you too deeply for you to ever let him back in.
His mind tortured him with all the ways he hadn't realized he'd hurt you during his relationship. But the one thing it kept coming back to was the night that you overheard him and Leah having sex, the forced nonchalance in your tone the following morning. The way you looked like you were just holding it together.
And he had thought you'd been upset about the noise.
He started second-guessing everything. Should he say something? Should he tell you that Leah was gone, that it had been over for more than a month, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since?
But then he’d see you laughing with Hangman or teasing Rooster, that same easy grin on your face, and the words would die in his throat.
You looked happy.
And Bob Floyd had never been good at taking something that wasn’t freely offered.
So he stayed quiet.
And he waited.
______
The ready room was nearly empty, just the hum of the air conditioner and the shuffle of papers. You were perched in one of the jump seats, half out of your flight suit, running through your checklist like it held the answers to life’s mysteries.
Bob hovered nearby, like he always did. He’d been watching you for days now. Watching as you smiled when you should’ve been upset, cracking jokes too quick, and acting fine when something about you screamed otherwise. He could tell you were getting to your breaking point with something… him most likely, he thought. And he wanted to be there to catch you in the fallout.
“Hey,” he said gently at first.
"Hey," you continued to scan the list in your lap.
"You alright?"
"Just peachy, Bob."
He ignored the sarcasm behind your words.
“It seems like you’ve been off lately.”
You didn’t look up from your checklist, even though he knew damn well it had been completed minutes ago.
“Just tired.”
“You’ve said that a lot.”
“Because it’s true,” you snapped a little too fast, eyes still glued to the page.
Bob shifted closer, frowning.
“It’s not just that. You’re different with me again.” His voice dropped, almost pleading, sick of this same old song and dance. “Did I do something?”
You sharply exhaled, flipping the clipboard shut.
“Bob, drop it.”
“No,” your gaze snapped to his at the finality in his tone. “You’re my best friend. You think I don’t notice when you’re pulling away from me… again? When you won’t even look at me when I’m trying so hard to make things normal? Tell me what’s going on.”
Your grip tightened on the clipboard.
“It’s nothing.”
His gaze burned into you as he took a step closer. The air seemed to tighten, shrinking the space between you until you could feel the heat of him.
“It’s not nothing,” he said, his voice low but sharp now, that rare edge cutting through the calm he usually clung to. “These past months have been killing me. So just…fucking tell me. Please,” he begged. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”
You froze. His words hit something buried, something you’d worked so hard to keep locked away. For a heartbeat, all you could hear was the rush of your own pulse. The silence between you was heavy, trembling with everything unsaid.
You’d spent months pretending, mastering the smile, the glance away, the practiced silence every time his name was mentioned. It was easier to lie, to carry the ache quietly, than to risk everything by speaking it aloud.
But now, with him standing there, eyes fierce, chest rising and falling like he’d been running, it was all too much. The weight of it cracked something open inside you.
“You want the truth?” Your voice came out sharp, brittle, almost a laugh but not quite.
“Yes!” His frustration boiled over, raw and desperate. “Please, Fury.”
And the dam finally broke.
You shoved to your feet, chest heaving as you threw the clipboard onto your chair and spun towards him.
“The truth is I can’t do this anymore, okay? I can’t sit here pretending everything is fine, holding myself together while I watch you with someone else. While you forget me and then treat me like I mean more to you than just a friend. I can’t fucking stand another night when you bring her home and then act like the only problem is the noise.”
The color drained from Bob’s face.
“I was never mad about the noise, Bob!” your laugh broke, jagged. “I’m mad because it’s you. Because I’ve been in love with you this whole fucking time, and every day I have to watch you give yourself to someone else, when all I want is to be that person! I have to watch you touch her and kiss her and laugh with her like it’s not fucking killing me. And I have to sit there and just be the best friend because I was a coward and didn’t tell you how I felt after the Uranium mission.”
Just as quickly as the fire had lit within you it sputtered out. The room went silent but for your ragged breathing. Bob just stared, stricken, like the floor had dropped out from under him.
You were shaking, staring at a spot on the floor as your voice dropped to a whisper.
“You wanted the truth? There it is.”
And before he could speak, you shoved past him and stormed out, the slam of the ready room door echoing in your wake.
______________________
Me, leaving y'all on that cliffhanger:
JK PLEASE DON'T KILL ME I PROMISE IT WILL GET BETTER!!
☞ STANDALONES
-thantophobia 🩸
-too big- 🌸🌶️ (pt1)
-one more inch 🌸🌶️🩸(pt2)
-softness under scarred skin 🌸
- goddamn puppy dog eyes 🌸
-whatchu lookin' at ? 🌶️
-teach me your ways 🌶️
-come and take a seat 🌶️
-everything but lovers🩸
-i'm still here🩸🌸
-bloodstream 🌶️ 🩸
-new beginnings🩸
-bruises 🩸
-don't make me wait🌶️
-where does it hurt ? 🩸🌸🌶️
-property of frank 🌸🌶️
- just sit still, frankie 🌶️
-welcome home, soldier boy 🌸
-hold it steady 🌸🌶️
-i don't share 🌶️
-love bites 🩸🌸
-eyes on me 🌸🌶️
-water works 🌸🌶️
-stab wounds 🩸
-sponge 🩸
-big emotions 🌶️
-a few bruises here and there 🩸
-say my name 🌶️
-no real contact needed 🌶️
- a welcome distraction 🌶️
- suffer in silence 🩸
-is it really you ? 🩸
☞ MINI SERIES
----- the fiance series-------
-> till she does us part (p1)🩸
-> to have and to hold (p2)🩸
-> for better of worse (p3) 🩸🌸🌶️
--------the voicemail series---------
->leave a message after the beep 🩸
->redialing 🩸🌸
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I'm gonna share these again, since I deleted every social media apart from instagram... I had a very bad time but now I'm feeling better!
Anyway I saw the Mandalorian & Grogu movie 2 times and ugh I LOVED IT.
blurb that spiraled but it’s still a blurb argue with ur mother. 5.6k………. Right right….. mdni. PART 2
okay okay look listen to me. virgin!reader who’s getting tired of being her grown age and not getting any action!!!!! and ofc, that makes her naive and it’s easy for pope to swoop on in there for his families latest heist
you didn’t get much attention from boys growing up. your friends were the pretty ones. with the latest fashion pieces and current trends. you were the odd one out. reading fanfiction for hours on end, even dabbling in writing your own. you spent more time on your phone, talking to online friends from halfway across the world, than doing things with your class.
you told yourself you didn’t need it. and you still don’t! or that’s what you tell yourself. in middle school, it was excusable, you were young! you didn’t need to focus on dating! and high school was the same. You were focused on your studies and ramping up your transcripts with sports and clubs and all sorts of extracurriculars that would make you stand out to the colleges you were applying to.
but now, you’re in your 20s. and you haven’t so much as held hands with a guy. your sisters tease. your friends tease. and they’re not bullying you but it makes you insecure. it’s not like you’re not interested!!! you have sex toys who keep you company but only vibrators, tiny ones that you can hide anywhere. it’s not the same.
your family owns a chain of grocery stores. well, your step-father does. you’re not close to him. he married your mother pretty late in your life so he didn’t feel the need to parent you, your mother had already done all the grunt work. you don’t have to work because of him though, he’s paying for all your schooling. the only thing he asks of you is to cover his shifts if he’s ever in a dire situation.
you’re shy. you don’t stand up for yourself often. an old white man is berating you at the register, a long line of customers behind him. tears are welling up in your eyes at his accusations, the others watching as if it were entertainment.
it wasn’t pope you were supposed to fall for. the plan was for craig to seduce you. he’s tall and buff and what most people would deem more conventionally attractive. he had to piss, leaving pope behind in line. he’s too far back to notice what’s going on quick enough. he listens for a beat, listens to the old man yelling about his coupons and that you’re stealing from him.
one second, you’re letting tears fall from the sheer embarrassment of this situation, a hand suddenly grips to your arm, yanking you harshly, and the next, the white guy is on the floor, punch after punch falling to his face. it takes three other men to pull them off of each other. your assistant manager deals with the cops. all your coworkers attest that the white guy assaulted you first. the knight was only helping you.
so you help him. he insists he doesn’t need a hospital. so you offer your services. you’re both in the employee bathroom now. Your hands are shaking as you wipe his bloody fists clean. he’s staring at you. he won’t look away. and god, you’re nervous.
“you’re scared.” he comments.
you eyes widen, head snapping up to look at him. “what?”
“you’re scared of what i did back there.”
“n-no! not at all! i really appreciate it! i-it-it, im just… you… you make me nervous. not scared…”
“nervous?” his stare is still so damn intense.
you’re not sure what comes over you. you’re not bold. not in any single way. not with your hair. your clothes. your way of speaking. none of it. and yet— “you’re just… you’re really… hand…” you clear your throat. “you’re handsome…”
the intense look switches to what you can only conclude is confusion. “handsome?” he repeats, needing confirmation.
you nod. “y-yeah.”
you’re embarrassed by what you’ve said when a heavy silence falls between you two. you’re about to apologize profusely but he cuts you off.
“can i have your number?”
And god, you’re so nervous for your first date. too nervous. you almost ghost him, block him and vow to never show up for another shift at the store. you’ll just have to pay for your tuition all on your own!!!!!! but your friends give you a loving pep talk. and your tuition is far too much to manage on your own.
it’s how you end up in his truck, nervously fidgeting with your fingers, hands placed on your lap. he’s not much of a talker. and you’re too nervous to talk. it’s awkward. you’ve been texting a lot. youre not complete strangers anymore but still… you wish you could jump out of the damn truck and never see him again. but it turns out… nice. understatement.
you loved it. he took you to the beach. you two ate at a cute little cabana restaurant. the awkwardness dissipated as soon as you two were sat. and you walked side by side down beach with ice cream cones at hand.
“so, college?” it almost makes you laugh how stiff the guy is. but it doesn’t seem to deter him. he lets you talk and talk. he gives his two cents but he seems to be content just watching you and listening to you.
you nod, “yeah. college.” you confirm, “did you go?”
he shakes his head, “no. i, uhm, i dropped out of high school.”
you hum, “ah, that’s okay. it’s never too late to go back though. get a ged. there are a lot of amazing programs that can help you get a better career than… what do you do?”
his hands are in his pockets, having finished his ice cream first. “work for my mother. help manage her properties. my brother baz… he’s the actual manager of her properties. i do the… physical things. mow lawns, fix broken sinks, squeaky doors, break noses when tenants don’t want to pay rent.”
you laugh at this, not believing him. sure, he beat a man up for you but you figured it was just a one time thing. how wrong you are. “right, right… either way… you got a good gig. i can respect that. but if you ever want something else, you have options.”
“that’s long past me.”
you stop in your step, glaring softly at him, nothing serious. “education is never past anyone.” there’s a ghost of a smile on his face, you can see it. “im serious, pope. you can be anything you want to be.”
“this a ted talk?”
you laugh softly, “sure is.” but you don’t let him keep walking. you lightly take his hand in yours. “i mean it. anything.”
—
he’s awkward. he doesn’t mean to be awkward. he’s just quiet. and that makes people awkward. you’ve seen the way he interacts with people. and by interact you mean the way he stares and doesn’t talk. most people think he’s awkward. he thinks he’s being normal. you like it. it always makes you giggle.
you watch him as he orders your coffee for you. and it’s a simple order, it really is but he makes even that seem stiff. it takes everything in you not to giggle as the barista fumbles around.
but the ping of your class chat pulls you away and you’re back to typing away at your laptop. he plops down across from you, your order at hand, placing it by your side, and staring at you. you’re used to it at this point, his eyes always on you in some way. it’s not inherently sexual but sometimes, it makes your stomach flutter. but you have to reign it in at the coffee shop.
“yes, king?” you ask teasingly without looking up.
he hesitates and this makes you stop typing, finally looking up at him. he begins soon enough, “are we dating?”
your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “what?”
“are we… dating?”
the snort you let out is completely unattractive. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?”
he shrugs, “i read up on feminism like you told me to. i can do that, right? ask?”
your grin is bright, “you read up on feminism?”
“stop smiling.”
“can’t. you know i live in world of sunshine and rainbows.”
“are we dating?” he asks again with a sigh.
“don’t sound too excited.” you scoff, going back to typing. “you haven’t asked me.”
“im asking.”
“no, you’re asking if we’re dating. im saying you haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
he leans on the table, eyeing you. “i read women can ask now too.”
you laugh, “i guess i hold some conservative values. a guy must ask me. i will never do the asking.”
“be my girlfriend.”
you hum, looking up at him with your easy smile, “hmm… no.”
“you can’t say no.”
“i just did.”
“but you like me.”
“do i?” he kicks you softly under the table. you close your laptop, “it has to be romantic.”
“i wont ask.” he scoffs, leaning back on his seat. “you have to ask me.”
“then i guess we’re never going to be official.” you sigh wistfully, opening your laptop back up again.
it’s quiet for a few more moments, not awkward, despite his stare. “you’ve never told me about your dad.”
you pause, unsure of what to say. “what do you want to know?”
he shrugs, “what does he do?”
it’s your turn to shrug. “don’t know.”
his eyebrows furrow, “you don’t… know?”
you nod. “last i heard, he was a janitor at some school.”
“wait… i thought he was a manager of some sort.”
your eyebrows furrow and then it hits you. “oh, my step-dad? he owns like a bunch of grocery stores. told you, the one we met at is his.” you hum. “he favors that one most. it was the first one he ever opened up. says it was his most precious piece of work.”
he hums, interested. “how much is a bunch?”
you shrug, still typing, multi-tasking your homework and your conversation. “uhm i know he has about a dozen in Oceanside. about… 30 in San Diego, maybe more? Another dozen in Carlsbad. I don’t know how many more but he has businesses in Escondido, Encinitas, Del Mar, Chula Vista— god, there’s a lot. he’s opened a few up in the Los Angeles area too, i think?”
you see him nodding from the corner of his eyes. “if you ask me out first, we can date, get married, and you can knock me up and you can be rich like me.” it’s a complete joke.
“ha.” you don’t notice how dry his laugh is. “yeah.”
—-
you find yourself hanging out with him everyday. he picks you up, you two head to a quiet place, sometimes his home. mostly his home.
the first time he takes you there, you’re nervous. your friends told you that you’ve been on too many dates to not give it to him. it being your “cookie”, as they like to call it. so you shaved. every single part of you. there wasn’t a single hair on your body.
he ordered a heavy meal. that should have been your first sign. when you sit on the couch to watch a movie, he sits a little too far from you. and your damn panties are uncomfortable and riding up your butt. you’re not having a good time. you’re fully pouting by the time you get a few minutes into the second movie.
“you okay?”
his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. you open your mouth, ready to deny anything and everything. but you’ve decided you have to get past it. you really, really like him. and communication is key… right…?
“do you not want to have sex with me?” and for the first time since you’ve met him, he looks stunned.
“… do you want to have sex with me?” He asks carefully.
“uhm… yeah… do you?”
“you’re… you told me you’ve never kissed anyone. figured you’ve never… had it…”
you nod, skin feeling hot. “yeah… I haven’t.”
“and you want to give yourself to me?”
another nod from you. “yes. I like you, pope.”
he looks to be deep in thought, those dark and intense eyes scouring your face, looking for even a flicker of doubt. you’re sure he doesn’t find any because he releases a shaky breath and speaks, “let’s take it slow.” he scoots closer to you. “still haven’t had your first kiss?”
you snort out a laugh, “you mean since I met you? no. im only seeing you.” you pause, eyebrows furrowed. “wait… are you seeing other people?”
“im not.”
“good. im not either.”
the kiss is gentle. sweet. a little awkward only because you get into your head a lot. he pulls his lips from yours, a small snicker leaving him. “relax, baby,” a shaky breath against yours, “don’t stress it.” his hands are holding your face, caressing it.
you pout softly, “can’t not stress it.”
“jus’ me.” he’s ghosting his lips over yours, desperate to press his lips against yours again, breath labored.
softly, “that’s why i can’t… wanna be good for you.”
he chuckles softly, “don’t gotta.” he’s pressing wet kisses down your jaw now, “I’ll be good for you.”
you get the hang of it after a few tries. and you only get more desperate. you’re heavily making out now, his hands all over your body, groping every part he loves on you.
and that’s what you do most of the time. you go out, talk, go on walks, go to his place and make out. just make out. you make moves to tell him you want more. but it always ends up in just dry humping.
you’re straddling his lap, his big hands on your hips, guiding you. He’s unbelievably hard beneath his sweats. he’s relaxed around you, you learned that a few days ago when you realized he doesn’t wear only stiff button ups around you. and you love it. god, you love him. the first guy who’s ever paid any attention to you. the first guy who’s listened to you. the first guy who has made you feel wanted. a month and a half of this and you love him so much. too much.
your breathing is hard as the friction against your covered clit rubs against him. “pope… I want—“
he cuts you off with a sharp kiss, “know what you want,” he mumbles against your lips. “can’t give that to you.”
you groan, hips stopping. well, you stop putting effort. he’s still desperately dragging you against him. “pope… are you a virgin?”
he huffs out a laugh, “no, god, no. just… don’t think you want me to be the one.”
you glare softly at him, “why would you think that? i think you don’t want me.”
it’s his turn to glare at you, “that’s stupid.”
you put your hands over his, halting him. “it’s not stupid. you reject my advances. are you… asexual?” his eyebrows furrow, looking at you as if he has no idea what the hell you’re saying. you continue, “are you uninterested in sex?”
he looks at you like you’re stupid. “do you not feel how hard i am?”
“there are spectrums to it… maybe you’re not into vaginal sex. or vagina at all. you like vaginas… right?”
he laughs. actually laughs. a fully body laugh. it makes your heart race and grin in triumph. you’ve never heard him laugh like that, “im serious, pope. i don’t need you to eat me out or anything. i know men don’t like that and—“
“i like that.” he clears his throat. “i like doing that.”
you freezes for a moment, nodding. “okay…”
“okay…” sudden shyness on both ends. it’s silent for a moment, “do you want that…? right now?”
you clear your throat now, “do you… want that… right now?”
he nods, “yes.”
and that falls into the rotation of the very limited things you two do. he doesn’t let you touch his cock. at all. he lets you dry hump him, sure. but if your hand ever tries to slip into his jeans, he moves your hand to any other place on his body.
you try not to judge him for it but… you do think sexual intimacy is important in a relationship. but you don’t push. You try but once he shuts it down, that’s that. but surprisingly, you don’t need his mouth on you as much as you thought you would. it’s good, of course it is, but sometimes a lazy day at his place is better.
“what’s a seven word letter for a man’s bag?” he makes fun of you for liking crossword puzzles. because you’re not good at them, always pulling out your phone to google it. he always answers. he’s not this time. “pope…” you hum. “answer me, fucker.” more silence. You look over at him. he’s already watching you. your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “you good?”
the sigh he releases is shaky, “y’know i’d never hurt you, right?”
with absolutely no hesitation, “I know.” he reaches over and presses a soft kiss to your temple, inhaling deeply, you grin, “you sniffing me?”
he chuckles, nodding. “yeah,” another kiss. “smell good.”
—
“babe, do I really have to do this?” you’re groaning. groaning because you’re sweating and your body feels heated from the strain of working out. you were done for the day, having done an hour of a high incline on the treadmill and a too fast pace on the stairmaster for another hour.
pope nods, holding the punching bag. “just punch as hard as you’re able to. with the correct form. im serious, baby, you’re gonna break a finger if you don’t.”
you groan again, “im tired, pope.” you just wanted to take a long shower, wash off all the muck from the gym, and snuggle up into bed with him.
“just a few times.” a pause. “you know i love taking care of you.”
you raise a single eyebrow, “but?”
“you’re a wimp, baby.”
you snort out a laugh, “that so?”
“very much.” the smile is soft but it’s there and it makes your body tingle. or maybe it’s the strain from the stairmaster. “you’ve got to know how to throw a punch, at least.”
you groan. again. it’s your default at the gym. “pope. im always with you.”
“no you’re not.”
“babe, you take me to and pick me up from school. im always at your place.” you hum. “i have a drawer. that’s how much time i spend with you. even when you’re at work, im at your place. you’ll always be there to punch someone for me.”
“that’s a weak mindset.”
“im not learning how to punch someone.”
“baby—“
“no.”
“just—“
“i said no.”
it’s his turn to groan, “fine.”
he pouts. you hate it when he pouts. you mentioned it to him once and he got upset. claims he doesn’t pout. so you never brought it up again. but it works on you. with a huff, you roll your eyes, “fine. come on.”
he seems content that he’s won, behind the punching bag and holding onto it tight, taking his own stance. “alright, you remember the stance?”
“yes.” you answer, “if you keep teaching me how to fight i’ll end up beating you up one day.”
“what a dream.” he scoffs. “show me the correct way.”
you do as he taught you once. “that good enough for you?”
“more than good enough. come on, hit me, baby.”
you snicker, “hit you or the bag? i can totally hit you.”
“haha. what a funny girl i have. swing.” so you do. and he makes you repeat it. and repeat it.
you’re getting bored after a while, “pope, im bored. let’s do something else. outside of the gym.”
“just a little more.” he tries to convince you.
you huff, annoyed now. “pope. what is up with you?”
he glances at you once before sighing and removing his thin gloves. “nothing.”
“why are you being persistent about this?” you continue.
“i just think it’s important for you to protect yourself, baby. look at how we met. a man put his hands on you.”
you sigh, recognizing the fear in his voice. “nothings going to happen to me.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do. because you’re… youre strong enough for the both us.” A pause. “i don’t know about you but… you're it for me, Pope. that means… i’ll always be around you. and you’ll always protect me.” you motion to the punching bag again. “a few more times. and we’re done, okay?”
he seems lighter now. not as persistent with it. he ends up showing off some kicking move while you sit the side and drink some water. you thought it was kinda dorky but he looks happy so you cheer him on. before you know it, you’re up on your feet and with a laugh, you try to mimic him.
it doesn’t work.
you cackle as you fall to the floor, unable to contain yourself. he had rushed to you, concerned. “im fine, pope.” he takes your hands in his, helping you up. immediately, he’s wiping at your mucked up knees, knowing they’re your favorite leggings. you grin, pressing a quick kiss to his lips when he’s back up, “see? always got you.”
he grins, pressing more kisses to your lips, “you do got me, don’t you?”
—
you don’t work at the grocery store often, which there are a lot. you don’t get business, that’s not your major and you tune out your step-father often. but you’re in a good mood today. and it’s victors birthday, you have to bring him the brownies he loves so much!!! you spent so much time on them, writing a lovely birthday note with his favorite flavor of frosting.
“my favorite underling.” you joke, putting the platter of brownies down. he gasps and coos, takes thousands of pictures too. but of course, there are no utensils in the break room. so, you’re off to grab some from the kitchen, which is closed down this late at night.
you’re humming the tune of the birthday song you and the others just sang to victor. you open a few drawers in the kitchen, huffing in frustration when nothing is found. you grab your phone, shooting your step-dad a text. ‘forks in ur office??’. You get a reply quick, ‘yes. lock b4 leave.’
you can’t believe how lucky you are as you walk to his office. he’s started to trust you, he never lets anyone in there. despite not wanting his businesses at all, you know he’s speaking to your mother about his inheritance and who could take over. you’d say no, but being thought of still feels good. you have amazing friends who are helping you with every awkward question you have when it comes to the relationship you have with a hot, older man.
and pope. you love him. you really, really do. he’s yet to say it and so have you but you know it’s there on his end. there’s no way he can be faking all of those late night talks, that intimacy you two have without having sex. and he had told you he has something big planned. you have a feeling your words got to him and he will be asking you to be his girlfriend in a romantic way.
you try to remember this week's code to his office lock as you round the corner. he had told you the start of the week but he doesn’t let you write it down. crap, you really wish you had written it down right now. with a sigh, you press the first button but a small noise leaves you when the door pushes open instead by the barely there touch. eyebrows furrowed, you softly push the door open some more, “uhm… I thought you were at ho—“ your breath catches to see two masked men.
immediately, you take a step back, but it’s too late. they saw you. there’s a big hand grasping your arm and dragging you into the office. a pained gasp leaving your lips as you’re shoved to the ground. you can’t take a full breath. the men are arguing back and forth.
“he said she wouldn’t be here!”
“she’s going to fucking kill us.”
“she?? he’s going to fucking kill us.”
one of them scoffs, the tallest one, “he told us he didn’t even like her.”
“i call bull.”
you’re not even really sure what’s happening. you’re trying to think. think. think. think. but you can’t. not with the sight of their weapons strapped to them. weapons. guns. you’ve only seen a gun once. in pope’s truck. you were opening the center console and refused to even look at him afterwards. he promised since then that he took it out of his truck. you chose to believe him.
there’s a safe in the office. one your step-dad refuses to talk about. your siblings and you would make jokes about it. there’s either gold, a porn stash, a body, or a fuckload of money in it. now, your best bet is money— these men clearly want it. but your step-dad can’t be that stupid, right? why wouldn’t you have your money at a bank? he’s smart. right…?
another body comes in. you’re too scared to look up, eyes on the floor and shaking. you thought you had gained confidence the past few months. you didn’t, apparently. there are tears streaming down your face, you can’t stop.
your mind gets hazy as they keep arguing, placing the safe on to the roller. the third person isn’t talking, you notice. and it makes you miss pope. anytime you see or meet the quiet one from a group, it makes you miss pope. and then, before you know it, the two huge bodies are out, pushing the safe out with them.
you think you’re safe. no more guns. no more arguing men.
a pair of hands meet yours. you flinch, immediately yanking your hands from the third persons. they pause for a moment, as if deliberating. but they reach out again. you don’t pull away this time, you let their hands grabs yours, helping you up off the floor. your eyes are shut tight, trembling in fear. but your body completely stills when they bend over slightly, lightly wiping the dirt off of the jeans at your knees. you just let it happen.
what’s worse is you let the man take a single step closer, his body almost pressed up directly to yours. he doesn’t do anything. he doesn’t say anything. he just stands there. as if he’s taking you in. a shaky inhale and your body shudders. he’s smelling you. inhaling the scent of you. and then, he’s pulled away. and leaving. leaving you behind in the turned over office, the giant safe missing.
—
it took you a few minutes to get yourself together. when you’re brought back to the real world, it’s victor that’s shaking you out of your trance. there are cops. detectives. your mother and step-father are there immediately.
you explain what happened so many times. at some point, it feels like a hallucination. like when you repeat a word too many times and after a while, it stops making sense.
you don’t call pope. you’re too stuck. it should’ve been a red flag when he showed up. but you’re too wrapped up in fear to question him. when you spot him, tears well up in your eyes again and you’re rushing to him. he immediately wraps his arms around you, cooing in your ear as you cry. “it was s-so, so scary, pope.” you cry in his arms, letting his arms soothingly rub at your back.
“i know, baby, i know.” his voice is so soft and sweet as he holds you. “you’re okay, everything’s okay.”
it’s how you end up in his home again. wrapped up in his arms in bed. you’re still a sniffling mess. you’re recounting the story again. every single part. but you skip the last part. how the thief was… taking you in.
“that’s all?” he asks softly, gently swiping the tears from your cheeks.
you hesitate. “‘s all…” you lie.
you’re like this for days. distraught. paranoid. he’s helping you a lot. holding you. talking to you. you swear this is the most he’s ever spoken.
“let’s do something.” you two are lying on your sides, facing each other.
you shake your head softly, “no… i don’t feel very good.”
he sighs softly, not from annoyance, but clear concern. “you can’t just… you can’t let this stop you.”
you huff out a small laugh, “yeah? isn’t this your dream date? doing nothing with me all day?”
he nods, “yes but i want your dream date. do everything with me all day.”
it warms your heart that he’s trying. really trying. not a single part of you picks it up as guilt. so, you groan dramatically, sitting up. “fine. but that means record store, beach, steak, and ice cream.”
he grins, sliding off the bed with you. “deal, baby,” he smacks your ass as you walk past him. you laugh happily, “get ready quick.”
and you do just that. anything you want, you get it. not that you didn’t before. he likes taking care of you. you can see it makes him feel useful. like his days have a purpose. but it’s different today and you can’t put your finger on it.
it should have been really obvious to you when suddenly, he has no qualms about being with you. about sex. despite being stuffed by your meal that afternoon, you two are heavily making out. and then, his face is between your legs. and then, it’s happening. he’s being so gentle, his touch full of love. he doesn’t need to say it. you know he’s feeling it.
soft praises fill your ears. the bed beneath you feels softer. your skin feels hot.
your breath catches as he pushes only a tiny bit of his cock. nothing crazy, just notches the tip of him in you. a small whimper leaves you, “fuck…”
he’s worrying immediately, “whats wrong, baby? too much? i can sto—“
“don’t you dare stop, pope, i will kill you if you pull your cock out.”
you both fall into a fit of laughter at your words. his forehead is leaning against yours, hand caressing your cheek. “i love you,” the sound of your name coming from his mouth makes your eyes fill up.
despite the fear you felt that day, you’re happy. You were so lonely before. and now, you’re losing your virginity to the man you love, “I love you, too, pope.” and he pushes in, hollowing out completely.
you think you’re a sex addict from there. you can’t get enough of him. more time passes and your anxiety is easing. you don’t flinch or pull away from random men you come across. you’re still slightly paranoid but pope helps you calm down, come back to earth.
“y/n…” he groans as you press kisses up his chest.
“what?” you’re smirking as you do so, skipping a ton of skin and pressing your lips to his. “you know that thing that men spew when they take a girls virginity? that they get clingy and obsessive? think im feeling that.”
his hands slides down to the curve of your ass, lightly smacking it. “yeah? you were already obsessive and clingy before.”
you feign a hurt gasp. “how dare you? i was rightfully clingy either way. you’re sexy. and you’re so weird. that’s all girls want lately. sexy and weird. god, im so horny. let’s have sex.”
he laughs heartily, “later, baby.” one final pat to your butt and he’s sitting up. he reaches over and grabs his wallet, handing a bill over to you. “delivery guy should be here soon. tip. gonna go shower.” he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving out from under you.
he doesn’t notice how you still, staring down at the bill. the familiar bill. how your finger traces the familiar drawing. it’s small. barley even there. you’d have to really inspect the bill to notice it.
when your mother first met your step-dad, you didn’t like him. you didn’t get why she needed someone else’s love when she had yours. it was silly but the first day you met him, you asked for collateral. a deposit. you asked for two hundred dollars, which you would not return if he ever hurt or left your mother. her boyfriends never lasted long so you were just in it for the money. easy 200 bucks. he only had 20s. you were bored in homeroom and you drew a heart on one using a purple glitter gel pen. in the middle you wrote your step-dads initials alongside your mothers.
when they didn’t break up and you were the maid of honor at their wedding, you gave him the 20 back with their initials. “you two should really be thanking me. because of this 20 dollar bill, you two got married.” it made the room erupt in laughter and your mother cry as she pressed soft kisses all around your face.
“it was you.” your voice wasn’t soft. it was cut-throat. unlike your soft-spoken nature. your hear shuffling. you don’t look up, eyes still on the purple glitter heart and initials. “it was you. you were… you and your brothers… you hit the store.” you finally look up. he’s watching you. the same intense fucking look he always has on.
“what are you say—“
“don’t fucking lie to me, pope.” you hold the bill out to him. “this… i gave this to my step-dad. he must have been keeping it in the safe. the safe that you and your brothers stole. right?”
he doesn’t answer for a moment. his breathing is labored. and then, he’s fine. as if this weren’t a big deal. “yes.”
Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.
But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.
Besides, it’s just paper. Right?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!
-
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not really, no.”
Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.
You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.
“Then why are you doing it?”
“For Lena.”
-
“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.
You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.
Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.
Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.
“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”
You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.
Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”
You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…
“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.
Adoption because you’re married.
“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.
Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.
Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.
Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.
And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.
“Okay.”
-
“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”
“Your niece.”
“Your whole life.”
“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”
Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.
“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.
Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.
Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.
-
The ride back is dead silent.
So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.
“You don’t have to do this.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.
“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.
But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.
His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“
“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”
“Smurf-“
“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”
Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.
-
“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“
“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“
“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”
You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”
“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”
“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”
“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”
“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“
“You can’t trust Smurf.”
“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”
“She always has a reason to lie.”
“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”
Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.
“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”
“More than yourself?”
“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”
“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”
“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”
Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.
-
It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.
There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.
It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.
But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.
Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.
So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.
You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.
When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.
It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.
You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.
And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.
-
Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.
He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.
Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.
And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.
That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.
You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.
This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.
And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.
But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.
And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.
And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.
He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.
He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.
And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.
And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?
And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.
But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.
And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.
-
The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.
It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.
For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.
You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.
And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.
“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.
“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”
The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.
Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.
In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.
-
“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.
Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”
“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”
“Would you? If I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.
“I didn’t know you even slept.”
He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”
“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.
You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.
It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.
“Do you think this was a bad idea?”
He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.
“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.
After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.
You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.
“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.
“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.
And then he kisses you.
It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.
You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.
Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.
“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.
Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.
“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”
“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”
He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.
If he is, he fails at it.
His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.
You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.
“I’ll do it.”
You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.
His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.
And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.
He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.
The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.
“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”
You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.
And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.
“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”
Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.
“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.
“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.
You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.
-
You wake before him.
You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.
You’ve never seen him sleep before.
You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.
There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.
Married. You’re married. For Lena.
What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.
Shit.
You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.
His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.
For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.
“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.
His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.
“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.
“I have t-shirts.”
You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”
“Do you…like the shirts?”
“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.
And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.
He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.
“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”
He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”
“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”
He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”
And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.
He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.
And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.
-
Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.
Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.
And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.
And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.
But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.
And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.
So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.
-
Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.
“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.
Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”
“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”
He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.
You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.
“She needs more than just us.”
“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.
“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“
Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.
“A what?”
You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.
“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“
“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.
“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”
He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”
You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”
“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.
“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”
To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.
“Andrew.”
You blink. His gaze does not falter.
“My name is Andrew.”
For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.
“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.
“She doesn’t.”
“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.
He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.
“It didn’t work for me.”
“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”
He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.
You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.
“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”
His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.
“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”
His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.
“I don’t want to get angry.”
“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.
He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.
“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“
His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.
“She needs help.”
“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.
“Did you think something was wrong with you?”
His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.
“There’s a lot wrong with me.”
You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”
“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”
You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.
The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.
“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.
“Can I watch TV?”
Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.
You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.
“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.
And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.
And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.
-
Lena is gone.
And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.
And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.
And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.
“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”
“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”
You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.
“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.
She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”
Oh.
Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.
And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.
And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.
This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.
She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.
So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.
The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.
It takes six minutes for you to break.
“Pull over.”
He does.
You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.
And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.
“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“
“Andrew.”
You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.
“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”
“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”
“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”
You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.
“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”
“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.
It needs to be done.
-
You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.
“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.
“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.
You turn to go.
“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.
“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.
“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.
“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”
You shake your head.
“Want some coke?”
You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.
“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”
You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.
“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”
You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”
“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”
He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.
-
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.
“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”
“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”
“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”
“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”
“You sound like your husband.”
“Don’t call him that.”
You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”
“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.
He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.
“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”
You frown, and shake your head.
He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”
“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”
“You know you’re being a dick, right?”
“Rude.”
“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”
Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”
He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.
“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”
“M’not-“
“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.
“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.
“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.
-
You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.
You don’t take the ring off.
Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.
Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.
But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.
One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.
“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.
“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”
“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”
“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.
“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”
You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”
“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”
“Craig!”
“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”
“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.
“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”
“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“
“Smurf’s got him fighting.”
And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.
“What?”
“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”
That’s all it takes.
You’re out the door in five minutes.
-
When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.
You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.
His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.
“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.
“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.
You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.
You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.
“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”
His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.
His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.
You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.
“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.
“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”
“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.
“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.
And you kiss him back.
The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.
This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.
And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.
But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.
You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.
“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.
“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”
Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.
“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.
He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.
“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”
Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.
This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.
“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.
“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.
“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”
Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.
“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.
You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.
“Did I hurt you?”
No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.
“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”
He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.
And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.
-
You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.
“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”
You look up.
The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.
“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”
You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”
On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-
“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.
You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.
-
Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.
You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.
Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.
“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”
You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.
“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”
Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.
“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”
You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.
He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.
He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.
“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“
Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.
He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.
You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.
You sink to the floor.
You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?
Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.
He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.
Oh, fuck.
-
You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.
You don’t. You don’t even think to.
You call your husband.
He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.
The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.
“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“
“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“
“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.
“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.
“Are you safe?”
No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.
“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”
You nod again.
It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.
But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.
“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.
But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.
Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.
You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.
When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.
“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.
Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-
“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.
Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.
“Can you stand?”
You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.
He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”
You shake your head.
Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.
He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.
You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.
“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.
“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.
You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.
For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.
“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.
“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”
He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.
“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”
And you do.
You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.
“Is this…okay?”
You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.
He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.
And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…
But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.
He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.
His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.
He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.
He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.
You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-
And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.
“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.
Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-
“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”
“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.
You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.
“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.
“Please, Andrew.”
He grips you tighter, and leans back down.
And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.
You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.
“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”
You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.
“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.” He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.
“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.
“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”
“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”
“You’ve gotta take care of the…“
Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-
“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”
Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”
Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.
You turn back to Craig, and nod.
He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.
“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”
Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.
“Yeah.”
And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.
-
Pope is gone for hours.
Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.
“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.
“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”
You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.
“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Will you relax?”
“You’re definitely not doing it right.”
“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”
“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”
He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.
“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”
You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed
eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.
“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”
“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.
“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.
“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”
Ugh. You might start crying again.
You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.
“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”
You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.
-
You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.
There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.
“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.
“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.
Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.
“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.
He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.
“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“
“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”
That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.
“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”
“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”
His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”
“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”
His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”
“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”
This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.
-
EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER
“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”
“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”
Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.
“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…
A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.
“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.
“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”
“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”
“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.
“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”
“The birth was traumatic.”
“The birth was three months ago.”
He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.
All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.
And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.
“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.
“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.
Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.
“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.
“You really wanna throw another party?”
He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”
He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…
And now, you finally answer.
“Ask me.”
He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.
“Will you marry me?”
You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.
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summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
baby, it's alright -- ex!michael robinavitch x fem!reader (part three)
The long awaited part 3 has arrived!! And there will be a final part 4, which will be smutty 🤭
<< Part One || << Part Two
Summary: Busy schedules keep you and Robby away from one another, but an accident in the kitchen sends you to the Pitt right at shift change. Will the trip to the ER be the catalyst for forgiveness?
Warnings: our usual angst + lots of fluff, reader is very squeamish ok don't laugh at her bc then ur laughing at me /hj, it's not graphic but mentions of a deep cut that bleeds a LOT + feeling faint, jack being a sweetie, dana being a mother hen, overprotective sister appearance, medical innacuracies are inevitable bc i've had many an ER trip but never for stitches so just run w it, mentions of not eating/disordered eating, they finally Talk ["Baby" by Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise]
WC: 8.5k
Letting Robby back in is too easy.
It starts with texting to try to figure out a date to grab coffee. (Not a single day of your schedules line up in the next two weeks. Not one goddamn day.) And then, one evening, when you’re just sitting in bed, he responds to a text that you sent two minutes ago.
He never answers anything on his phone that fast when he’s at work, which can only mean--
“Hello?” he says, sounding exhausted and slightly confused.
“Hi,” you breathe. “I think this might be a miracle.”
His laugh rumbles down the line, warm and soothing. “Jack sent me home early.”
It’s probably nothing, and none of your business too, but you still frown and ask, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just--” He pauses. He sounds like he’s walking home. “My therapist sometimes fits in a session for me before I go into work and today it was…not a bright idea.”
Your heart aches for him. You’ve made the same mistake before, doing a session before a busy or important day, thinking it’ll be easier to push through when it only makes everything worse. You told your therapist about it after one particularly rough session followed by probably your busiest day of the year, and the look she gave you was enough for you to never do that again.
You are, however, very happy that Robby at least listened to Jack and went home early instead of fighting it. He would’ve fought Jack on it before, and then stayed late just to spite him. You see this as a little glimmer of progress.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask tentatively, sliding down in your bed to get more comfortable. You’ve known that he’s been in therapy this whole time, but the two of you haven’t talked about it. Not like this.
“Not really, no,” he says, chuckling again. “Tell me about your day.”
And that’s how it starts. One minute you’re just texting him once every few hours, sometimes once a day with your schedules, and the next thing you know, nightly phone calls with him are something you look forward to the second you wake up in the morning.
It’s dangerous. But that doesn’t make you want or even try to stop.
Two busy weeks pass easily with a call every night. Robby jokes once that it reminds him of shift handover in a weird way. The way you debrief him on your day, and then he does the same. It’s the fact that he reciprocates that has a spark of hope blooming in your chest.
He doesn’t give you full details, obviously, because there are things he can’t say, and some things he won’t say because he’s not going to traumatize you unnecessarily. But he tells you the good stories, like:
“Dana misses you,” he says out of the blue one night. “I told her that we’ve been talking again.”
“Yeah?” You can’t help the evil grin that crawls onto your lips, not even caring that he can see you because tonight you finally convinced him to work the video option on the call. “What’d she have to say?”
“A few choice words,” he admits, shaking his head. He’s sitting up in bed as well, raking his fingers through his hair. “And that if I fuck this up again she’s going to kick my ass into the next decade.”
“So into the grave, then.”
He looks up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but a genuine offense hiding in his playful gaze. “Hey.”
Your uncontrollable laughter at his playful hurt is something that Robby wants to bottle up and keep forever. The sound, the look on your face. You don’t realize it until you’ve calmed down that he’s been watching you the whole time, a devastatingly fond look on his face.
“What,” you murmur, now a little sheepish, looking at the blanket on your lap.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, softly, looking away.
But it’s obviously something.
Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have pushed it. Tonight, for some reason, you’re feeling bold. “You can’t look at me like that and say nothing.”
He looks back at you with that same expression. “I just miss you.”
It cracks your chest open, hearing him admit it so openly. In words.
“I miss you too,” you say, and it sounds a bit like a vow. You’re promising something to each other, neither of you know what just yet, but you feel it there. The heaviness of it.
He drags a tired hand down his face. “If I wasn’t so exhausted right now…”
“I know,” you smile. “Me too.”
If he hadn’t worked a full day today. If you hadn’t too. If both of you didn’t have full, busy days tomorrow. Always if and never when.
When you shift to lay down, he tilts his head at you, smiling softly. “Tired?”
You nod. “I don’t know how you’re still awake.” You get up two hours later than him and get off work two hours earlier.
“I’m used to it.”
You just scrunch your nose at him, and he laughs.
“Go to sleep,” he says. “I probably should too.”
“Or we could do what the kids do these days and stay on the phone until one of us falls asleep.”
“The kids?” He’s incredulous. “The kids do that?”
You’re giggling too hard to hear as he rambles nonsense about how he did that when he was younger so really his generation started it and the kids these days don’t know about their history.
“You are so dramatic!” you cut him off, still laughing. “It’s so easy to rile you up.”
“Oh, so you are doing it just to get a rise out of me!”
“Why else?” you snicker. “You’re cute when you’re so heated.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re laughing at me.”
The two of you just stare for a moment, recognizing what has happened. Somehow, somewhere, the conversation veered dangerously close to sounding like something the two of you would’ve had when you were dating. At least at the beginning.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
You don’t argue this time, you just shut your eyes with a little nod.
He doesn’t hang up until the morning, when he wakes up for work before you do. But you’ve got him all soft again, so he sends you a little good morning text and tells you to have a good day at work. And all of it makes him feel like being hit by an ambulance would hurt less than the fact that he can’t have you and that it’s all his fault.
+++
one year ago
The very first time you went to visit Robby at PTMC, you weren’t immediately met with smiles.
You went through the main entrance, asking at the desk to see Dr. Robinavitch. You told the clerk to tell him that you were waiting for him, and that he would know who you were. Lupe looked skeptical, and like she did not want to tell Robby that you were there, but she did anyway.
Thankfully, the waiting area wasn’t too packed that day. It was still pretty full, because it always is, but there were still some empty seats. You didn’t take a chair, just stood off to the side in eyesight of the doors to the ED.
No less than five minutes after you spoke with Lupe, Robby came barreling through the doors, eyes wide as he searched for you. And once he found you, he was a stream of questions, both hands resting on your elbows. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What are you doing here? Despite the fact that you were standing, fully conscious, and had coffee and a croissant in hand -- because you had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t eat that morning, and he didn’t -- Robby still looked you over like he was checking for injuries, blood, or anything else concerning.
“I’m fine,” you laughed through it, through the fact that he was causing an obvious scene. “I’m just dropping off coffee and a croissant. I doubt you ate this morning and we were on the phone until late last night.”
He melted. He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing as he bent to kiss your forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Why don’t you come back for a moment? I can introduce you to everybody.”
Your eyebrows raised slightly. You had only been seeing Robby for a little over a month. You hadn’t introduced him to any of your friends and only briefly mentioned him to your sister, and yet here he was, asking you to come back and meet his coworkers -- who, arguably, classified as meeting his friends.
“Sure,” you had said, forcing him to take the coffee and croissant right then just so you knew he had it. “If that’s okay.”
He shoved the croissant into a hoodie pocket so he had one hand free to hold yours. “‘Course it’s okay. Come on.”
That was the first day you met Dana, and the day you learned her coffee order so you’d “know what to bring in for the next time,” she had told you with a wink.
Hearing it then, next time you’re in, made it all feel so real, so permanent. Like you could get used to it. To stopping by with breakfast after you finally woke up a few hours into Robby’s shift. To dropping in with lunch because you knew otherwise he would only eat a protein bar. And you did get used to it, maybe too quickly.
You became a welcome face in the Pitt, a welcome smile among all the chaos. You only ever stayed for a few minutes at a time because of how busy they were, but it was enough. It was a genuine reprieve, Robby told you. There was a weight that you lifted just by showing up with a smile and a kiss.
You just don’t know when that stopped being the case.
The first day you met Jack, you coincidentally had bought a small Redbull. You had planned to give it to Robby to have him give it to Jack at shift handover. You were delighted to see Jack was still there so you could hand deliver it.
“This is Jack,” Robby introduced you. “Who should be going home.”
“I have a gift for him actually, so this is perfect,” you said, so pleased with yourself as you dug the can out of your bag. “Redbull, right?”
Jack’s ears perked and he smiled just a little, which for Jack was a lot. “Yeah, thank you,” he took the can from you, then tipped it at Robby. “You better keep her.”
“I’m trying, brother,” Robby said seriously, smacking Jack’s shoulder. “Now go home. Don’t drink that.”
“Saving it for shift tonight,” Jack promised, offering you another little smile. “Thank you again.”
You just beamed at him, and then beamed at Robby even though he was shaking his head and calling you a menace.
But he kissed you right through it, right there in the middle of the ED, as if he didn’t have things to do -- but he always did.
“You’re a bad influence,” he had mumbled against your lips, smiling through the words and the kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” you had whispered against his mouth, just quiet enough for only him to hear.
The look he had given you was full of awe and lust, one he had to physically shake himself out of. You left that day with a smug smile, knowing exactly what you had done, and knowing with bone-deep certainty that as soon as he got off shift, you’d see him. And you did.
He didn’t even call. Just showed up at your door, and grinned like a madman in love when you pulled him inside by his hoodie.
+++
You try to tell yourself that it isn’t that bad.
Even as you drive yourself to the ER, finger wrapped in a dish towel soaked with your blood, you keep saying it. Out loud, even, because you’re trying to keep yourself sane while you’re behind the wheel.
“It’s not that bad,” you repeat, over and over. “Maybe a stitch. Or two. But it’s fine. It’s fine!”
You’re less and less convinced as you feel your finger pulsing with every heartbeat. You check at a stoplight to see if it’s still bleeding, and curse loudly when you see that oh, it’s bleeding alright.
And then you’re lightheated, so you quickly wrap it up and take deep breaths and think about literally anything else for the rest of the drive.
You park at the hospital in a reasonably close space, thank fuck, but your legs are feeling a little weak on the walk to the ER entrance. You chalk it up to your anxiety and apparent squeamishness -- that up until now you had no idea about -- and make it inside.
There are quite a few empty chairs, so that bodes well for you at least. When you walk up to the desk to check in, though, Lupe’s eyes go wide, her mouth opening to no doubt shout for someone.
“I’m fine!” you rush to tell her, dropping your injured hand out of her view. “I just nicked myself in the kitchen. It’s fine.”
She takes your ID and insurance and says it won’t be long. You believe her, sort of. You don’t think Robby’s here, or Lupe probably would’ve shouted for him. You texted him earlier asking if he was at work and he didn’t respond. Usually when that’s your question, he sends a quick reply, especially if he is at work, so you know he’s there in case, God forbid, you need him to be at the ER.
Today, he hasn’t replied, and it’s around the time for shift change, so you’re thinking he’s gone for the day. Or in therapy. Or sleeping.
God, you wish he had replied. You hold your finger in your lap, still feeling the pulse and cringing each time. But it’s slightly less now than it was on the drive over.
So, like an idiot, you decide to check on the cut. Just very quickly.
Except, even though it’s brief, it still ends with your head in between your knees and the back of your neck tingling like you’re about to pass out any second now.
You distantly hear the doors to the department opening through the ringing in your ears, and then you hear Dana’s voice right by your head.
“Hey kid,” she says gently. “You out?”
“No I’m up,” you say, lifting your head and looking at her, but now the room is spinning, so you kind of look around her, which just means she’s not at all convinced about you being fine.
“Come on, sit,” she pats the seat of the wheelchair she brought for you. “We need to get you back.”
“No, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head a little. “Just a little cut.”
She raises an eyebrow at the dish towel with red patches coming through. “Uh huh. Sit. Do you need help?”
“No,” you grumble, surprisingly able to shift yourself onto the wheelchair. “This is dramatic.”
“Sure, kid,” she laughs, wheeling you back. “Just be glad Robby already left.”
The confirmation makes your heart tug a little. Maybe he’s just in therapy then, and that’s why he hasn’t replied.
Or maybe he’s just busy doing other things in his free time. He doesn’t have to be texting you all the time. It’s not like the two of you are dating. Anymore. Even if you’ve been talking more.
You never thought you’d let him back in like this, and now that you have, all you want is for him to be here. He told you that if you ever thought you needed the emergency room to call him first. And you did. He just didn’t answer. Why didn’t he answer?
Dana notices your silence. She doesn’t mention it.
She wheels you into an open room, shouting over her shoulder for Jack. You spotted him a second ago through your haze but hoped he wouldn’t acknowledge your presence because at this point you’re just mortified.
Jack calls out your name in surprise the second he sees you and you groan in embarrassment.
“I’m f--” you start to say fine but Jack speaks right over you.
“What happened? Vitals?” And a dozen other questions while he shines the stupid pen light in your eyes.
“My vitals are fine,” you hiss, not knowing what they actually are but not caring either. “It’s a small cut. Just wouldn’t stop fucking bleeding.”
“Didn’t get a chance to triage her yet, she put her head down in chairs and Lupe yelled for me,” Dana relays the info to Jack.
“Lightheated? Dizzy?” he asks, eyes scanning your face as you speak, no doubt assessing how alert you are, but you’re starting to just feel stupid.
“Both,” you admit anyway, knowing better than to lie, especially when Dana is right here. “I’m just squeamish, alright? Don’t laugh when you see how small the cut is.”
Jack just gives you his little smile, wheeling the stool over so he can sit in front of your chair. “Let me take a look.”
You hold your hand out and squeeze your eyes shut. “I genuinely can’t look.”
You hear him chuckle but he says, “Okay, just-- I’ll let you know when you can look.”
You feel him lifting the towel, but he makes no noise, no indication of how bad it is, so like the idiot you are, you crack one eye open.
You see the blood and can barely say, “Oh fuck me,” before you feel lightheaded again, your head dropping into your free hand.
“I didn’t say you could look!” Jack scolds, but you can hear the humor in it. He really is amused by how squeamish you are, and you know you’ll never live this down, but right now all you can think about is how fucking nauseous you are.
You keep your eyes shut as Dana and Jack help you onto the bed, propping you up. You don’t dare open your eyes yet, still feeling cold yet somehow hot and a bit like your body is floating toward the ceiling.
“Dana, can you get some fluids just in case and maybe a sandwich?”
With your eyes still closed, you retort, “I’ll literally throw that dry sandwich at your head, Jack.”
Dana just laughs. “I’ll find something else. And bring you some juice.”
While she’s gone, Jack actually takes your vitals this time, silent as he does, making sure to not mention anything about the cut in your finger (that does need a couple stitches, but he can tell you that after you stop looking like you’re going to hurl).
“So…Robby tells me you two are talking again.”
You feel your pulse jump a little, knowing damn well that he felt it, too. “Yeah.” You pause. “Dana said he already left?” An innocent question. But still hopeful.
Jack nods. “I can see if I can reach him if you want.”
You think about it for a moment, but eventually shake your head, opening your eyes to give Jack a half-hearted smile. “No, it’s okay. Thanks though.”
Jack is quiet while he listens to your lungs just out of habit. Or maybe he’s stalling. He’s not sure yet. “He can’t be far.”
You finish your deep breath and say, “I don’t want to bother him if he’s got things to do.”
Jack hangs his stethoscope around his neck, shrugging. “I think he’d just want to know you’re here.”
“I texted him.”
Jack nods. “Let me see if I can reach him while Dana gets you hooked up, yeah?”
Dana is already emerging in the doorway of your room as he says it, sugary cereal bar and protein bar in hand, both no doubt from her and Robby’s secret stashes. She nods back toward the ED as she walks over to your bedside. “Princess is coming with your fluids.”
You smile, taking the cereal bar from her and ripping it open.
Jack stands and gives you a knowing nod. “I’ll be back in just a second.”
He shuts the door as he leaves.
Dana collapses into the chair next to your bed, setting the protein bar on your thigh. “First time back and it’s you giving us a scare,” she laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I know,” you groan, tipping your head back with a laugh. “I was just trying to make dinner!”
She squeezes your leg fondly. She waits a beat before asking, “Jack going to call Robby?”
“Yeah,” you nod sheepishly, biting off another mouthful of the cereal bar.
“You okay with that?”
“I texted him already,” you say. “So yeah.”
“Okay then,” she says with a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
“We’ve been talking,” you blurt, even though you know she knows, because Robby has told her. And Jack. It makes you wonder who else he has told, and if he told them because he just couldn’t help himself. If he’s just been so consumed by the hope of speaking to you again, the same way you have been.
“He told me,” she says. “Saw your name come across his phone one day and practically smacked him with the tablet.”
“Did he tell you he showed up at my door the night after Pitt Fest?” you ask quietly.
You see the surprise cross her face, and then the sadness. “He didn’t.”
You nod slowly, picking at a string on your leg. “When I broke up with him I told him he could still come to me if he ever had a shift he couldn’t be alone after,” you explain. “I didn’t think he would, but that was the one.”
“That was a rough day for everybody,” she sighs.
“Yeah, speaking of,” you remember what Robby told you and you nudge her arm. “How’s your nose?”
“Better,” she laughs. “Bruised like hell.”
“I bet,” you grimace. “And how are you?”
She squeezes you again. “I’m okay, kid.”
You don’t push it, though you can tell she knows that Robby must’ve told you about her thinking that she’s done here. You don’t think she is, and she’s still here so maybe she isn’t, but you leave it be, just as she leaves the subject of you and Robby alone.
+++
Robby’s phone finally turns back on after having it plugged in for a few minutes at home. He had forgotten to charge it last night, and because it’s older and kind of a piece of shit, it died before his shift ended.
Text messages start rolling in and he sees your name, but before he can click on it to reply, his phone lights up with a call from Jack.
“Yeah?” he asks because Jack only ever calls like this if he forgot something Robby said in his debrief at handover.
“She’s here.”
Robby’s stomach drops. Surely Jack doesn’t mean-- “What?”
“She’s conscious and alert, she cut herself pretty bad while trying to cook dinner, definitely going to need a stitch or two but the bleeding has stopped now. She nearly passed out a couple times, though, so Dana got her something to eat and I ordered some fluids just in case.”
Robby is listening, but he’s putting Jack on speaker so he can put his shoes back on and start grabbing his shit to leave again. But then he stops.
Jack is telling him you’re there, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about if he’s telling Robby this for a reason other than to keep him in the loop.
Robby sits down on his bed, puts his phone back up to his ear, rubs his face with his hand. “Okay. But she’ll be okay?”
“She’ll be fine once you get here.”
“But--”
“Robby. Man. I’m calling you because she asked me to.”
Robby jumps up, his charger getting yanked out of his phone in the process. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Jack tells him what room you’re in and Robby is flying out his door, damn near sprinting down the street back toward the hospital.
He’s never made it to the Pitt as fast as he does right now, and he scoots in through the ambulance bay. Jack is just coming out of another patient’s room when he spots him, and he points toward your room.
The door is open and he can hear you laughing with Dana, so that at least eases his worries. He slows to a walk so he doesn’t startle you when he stands in the doorway, knocking softly on the wood.
“Told you he’d run here,” Dana whispers clear as day, winking at you.
You’re hooked up to an IV and have one of his protein bars half-eaten in your hand. Your finger is wrapped loosely in some gauze with no red peeking through, so that’s a good sign.
Dana stands and lets Robby have the seat by your bed. “I’ll go get everything so we can get those stitches done and get you out of here.”
You nod but you don’t say a word and Robby can see the fear on your face.
He sits next to you and rests his hand over your non-injured one. “Hey clumsy.”
A laugh bubbles out of you and he’ll take it. “Hey,” you murmur. “This is what I get for trying to cook when I’m already starving.”
Ah, he thinks. So that explains you nearly passing out on Jack and Dana. Pair your squeamishness -- that he doesn’t remember being this bad -- with intense hunger and it was inevitable that you’d feel faint.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, discreetly glancing up at the bag of fluids and the speed of the flow. He trusts Jack and Dana, of course he does, but still. Doesn’t hurt to double check things.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Sorry for stealing a protein bar.”
He just shakes his head at you. “Don’t.”
“Thanks for coming,” you whisper, turning your hand over to squeeze his palm against yours. “Dana said you had just left.”
“My phone died too, or else I would’ve seen your text and I could’ve been here when you got in,” he says. “I’m glad they got you back quickly.”
“Yeah, well, nearly passed out and Dana came over with a wheelchair,” you chuckle. “Pretty good for a first ER trip here.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t anything worse,” he says sincerely, gently rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Jack said you just need a couple stitches.”
“Yeah.”
Robby cups your hand with both of his. “Hey.” He tips his head down a little, trying to get you to look at him. You finally do. “Jack’s gonna do the stitches, and I’m gonna be right here the whole time distracting you, okay? We can get Dana in here too, keep you focused on us, and Jack will be quick. He’s a pro.”
“Okay,” you breathe, leaning your head back. “God. I feel like such a baby.”
“You’re not a baby,” he says sincerely. “You might be the most squeamish person I’ve ever seen, though.”
You just glare at him, but you’re smiling. You’re smiling and laughing and talking with him and that’s all he needs. His worst nightmare is you being here unconscious, unstable. He’s not happy that you’re here right now, but Jesus, is he happy that you’re conscious, stable, alert, and you just need a couple stitches before he can take you home.
Jack comes back with Dana a few minutes later, wheeling in a little cart with them. And when you start eyeing all of it warily, Jack shakes his head at you.
“This is none of your business,” he scolds, then points at Robby. “Look at him.”
You look at Robby and say loud enough for Jack to hear, “Tell him he needs to work on his bedside manner.”
Robby snorts, leaning over, “Hey Jack--”
“Can it, Mike,” Jack tells him, but he’s smiling just a little, hands working practically on instinct as he sets everything out the way he needs it.
Dana sits on your bed, so you’re flanked on both sides, and so she can be mostly in your line of sight. Jack stretches your arm out to rest on the tray, and you keep your gaze locked on Robby.
“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing or just--?”
“Jack, I swear to God, if you don’t get this over with in the next five minutes--”
“Duly noted,” he says. “I am gonna tell you about the lidocaine, just because I don’t need you flinching away from me. Just a prick and some burning, okay?”
You chew on your bottom lip when you feel the burning just as he warned.
“What were you trying to cook earlier?” Robby asks, redirecting your focus.
“Yeah, what’s for dinner?” Dana jokes.
You tell them the dish and Robby immediately recognizes it as one of your favorites -- and his. “I haven’t made it since--”
Well, since that night. The night you broke up with him.
He remembers. “It was really good,” he says softly. “I did eat it all.”
“Good,” you say sincerely. “That’s why I made it.” You pause, trying not to focus on the dull pressure you feel in your finger, no doubt from Jack starting the stitches. “I didn’t get very far tonight, though, so we’ll have to order pizza or something.”
You swear everyone in the room -- including yourself -- freezes. We. You said we’ll have to order pizza.
Instead of calling you out on it, Robby takes it in stride. “Yeah,” he says, face soft as he continues the conversation. “We can order from that place down the street, have it ready to pick up on the way home.”
Home. You love the sound of that. You’ve missed the sound of that word coming out of Robby’s mouth, especially in this context. A place the two of you share. A place the two of you can run away to.
You just nod weakly, hoping he means it. Hoping this isn’t just to distract you. “I can make you watch another shitty romance movie.”
“Anytime,” he replies easily, squeezing your hand. He glances over at Jack’s work. Jack catches his eye for just a moment, a knowing look passing between the two men. “He’s almost done,” Robby tells you, looking back at you with a smile. “Just needs to tie the final knot.”
You nod. “That was quick.”
“Why, thank you,” Jack says, smirking. “You’ll just need to keep it clean and dry for about a week. These should dissolve on their own, so you don’t need to come back unless it gets infected -- redness, if it’s itching, leaking.”
“I’ll just panic and send Robby a picture of it every single day,” you tease.
But in all seriousness, Robby replies, “I can come check on it every day just to be safe.”
It’s a small, though deep, cut. Both Robby and Jack (and Dana and you) know that he doesn’t need to check on it every single day. He really doesn’t need to check on it at all, unless it bothers you. But you all know what this is really about.
An excuse to see you every day. Even if for just a moment, just to hold your hand in his, and take his time examining the stitches just so he can hold you a little longer.
This knowingness hangs above you all. And none of you mention it.
“You should be fine with some ibuprofen for the pain, but again, if it gets too bad, just panic and call Robby,” Jack chuckles. “But seriously, you’re all done.”
“Can I look now?” you ask.
“Are you going to try to pass out on me again?” Dana says, sounding a bit like she’s scolding you, but you can hear the genuine worry.
“No,” you protest. Then, quieter, say, “I don’t know. I hope not. There’s no more blood, right?”
“You’re all cleaned up, kiddo,” Dana says, patting your leg. “Look now while we’re all here to catch you if you go down.”
Robby opens his mouth to protest, but he supposes you need to look at some point, and Dana is right. Might as well look while you’re in the ER, safe in a bed, with all of them surrounding you.
So, you look. And it isn’t so bad now. You take a deep breath and smile, looking up at Jack. “I’m good. Thanks for the handiwork, Jack.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Try to be more careful, yeah? You’re not supposed to be a patient when you’re visiting us.”
“Noted,” you say with a salute of your stitched hand, doing it only because you want to see his eyeroll.
“Okay soldier,” Jack scoffs but grins. “I need to go check on everyone else, but Dana’ll get your discharge paperwork.”
“I’ll bring you a Redbull tomorrow,” you say. “Or two.”
“Looking forward to it,” Jack says, sharing another little look with Robby before he leaves.
Dana leaves as well, with the promise that she’ll return with the formal discharge information that they have to give when you get stitches. Robby stays with you, continuing the distraction, even though you’re better now, and your fluids have finished, so he takes out the IV for you.
While the two of you talk about anything that comes to mind, Dana is at the hub, pretending she doesn’t notice the night shift -- notorious for their gossip -- peering into the room where you sit with Robby.
“Is that…?”
Dana just nods, keeping her eyes on the computer. “Yep.”
“I thought they were--”
“They are,” she says.
“So what the hell is he doing?”
Dana looks up with a smirk. “Groveling. What’s it look like?”
+++
As soon as you’re free to leave, and after giving Dana a hug and Jack another thank-you wave, you head out the main doors with Robby in tow. You turn toward the parking lot and realize you don’t have your keys in your hands yet.
“Let me just dig my keys out of my--”
Robby’s head snaps toward you. “Keys? Car keys?”
“Yeah?” you reply, just as confused while you dig through your bag. “I drove here. You think I have money for an ambulance? Don’t even get me started on what this might cost me--”
“You drove here?” he asks again, his face growing more and more incredulous by the minute.
“Yes,” you huff, finally retrieving your keys.
“Give me those,” he says, though he doesn’t exactly give you a choice because he promptly snatches them from your hands as soon as he spots them.
“Robby!”
“You are not driving,” he says. “I can’t believe you drove here when you were feeling faint. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
You just glare at him, even though you know you deserve this scolding. It wasn’t your finest moment, you’ll admit that. “Fine. You can drive. Just don’t wreck. You’re not on my insurance.”
He barks out a laugh as you reach your car. “I’ll be careful, just get in.”
You grumble the entire time, though deep down, a tiny fire ignites in you again after hearing him scold you and tell you, not ask, what he’s going to do.
But you shove that feeling away because you can’t. You can’t think about that without it being dangerous. Especially when you’re about to do something that’s equally as dangerous.
“About dinner,” you blurt.
He buckles himself in and turns the key in the ignition. “We don’t have to if you--”
“Do you want to have dinner with me?” you interrupt.
He turns his head toward you, features softening. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”
You nod. “It is. It is what I want.”
His smile is full of relief. “Then let’s order a pizza so we can pick it up on the way,” he says. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” you reply, as if no time has passed since your last dinner with him. The usual, as if the two of you had it just last week. “And--”
He rattles off your favorite drink and dessert with no hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smirk, pressing his phone to his ear.
You melt into the passenger seat as he orders everything and says he’ll pay when he picks it up, which just tells you that he’s planning to pay for it himself, but you don’t have it in you to argue about it. You want to let him, for once.
So you do. He drives straight to the pizza place, heads inside to pick it up, and comes back with a smile and an armful.
He’s driving with one hand, the other arm propped on the center console, and you have to restrain yourself from clinging to his arm the way you used to. It’s so tempting that you almost give in, missing the way you used to weave your limbs around him in any way you could, because he’d let you. He always let you hang on him around the house, never one to complain when you’d walk up behind him and bury your face in his back as you wound your arms around his middle, sometimes underneath his shirt.
You’re just about to say fuck it and wrap yourself around his arm when your phone buzzes rapidly in your lap.
“That would be my sister,” you chuckle. “I sent her a picture of my battle wounds.”
Robby laughs as you answer the phone, barely getting one word in before your sister starts going in on you. He tries not to eavesdrop on your call, he really does, but he can’t help it when your sister is practically shrieking over the phone, so much so that you even have to pull the speaker away for a second.
“Are you okay?! You can’t just send me a picture of stitches with no explanation!”
“I’m fine,” you chuckle, and you pointedly ignore Robby’s little scoff. “Just nicked myself trying to cook dinner and it wouldn’t stop bleeding so I drove to the ER.”
“You drove?”
Robby is glad to not be the only one incredulous about the fact that you drove while feeling faint.
“Yes, but I am fine,” you hiss. “Just shaken up, but fine.”
Your sister says something that he can’t hear, and then says something like, “...eat enough today?”
Robby’s eyebrows furrow as he drives. He really shouldn’t be paying attention to this call. It’s clearly personal and private and none of his business anymore, but.
“I was in the process of making dinner” is your quiet reply to your sister and he can’t help the way his eyes narrow a little at the road. Does that mean you didn’t have breakfast? Lunch? A snack? Anything until Dana handed you a protein bar?
Your sister’s voice goes soft again, but you’re nodding along, looking out the passenger window and saying, “It’s fine. No, I know. I was just busy. It’s fine. We got pizza and stuff. Yeah. He’s driving me. Yeah. I know. Love you.”
You’re quiet when you hang up. Robby doesn’t mention what he heard. He just drives.
When he parks at your place, he grabs all of the food before you can even try, handing your keys off to you instead so you can get the door. Your little glare is met by his unfazed smile.
He drops everything on the kitchen counter, letting you help unload it because he can tell you’re restless. He focuses on clearing away the little bit of dishes from when you were attempting to make dinner earlier, trying to give you some physical space.
He doesn’t want to bring up what he heard, but clearly it’s bothering you. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s here again, in your apartment, when you told him he couldn’t do this again. Except you invited him in -- again.
Just as he’s about to open his mouth and say something probably very stupid about how he can go if he’s bothering you, you speak instead.
“It’s not a thing,” you say.
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence and you both know it. He reaches under the sink for the pack of paper plates you always keep there, retrieving a few.
You let out a sigh, taking a plate from him. “What my sister said. It’s-- It’s not a thing.”
He nods slowly, grabbing a slice of pizza and putting it on your plate. “Okay.”
“You don’t need to pretend like you didn’t hear it,” you chuckle. “She was practically screaming.”
“Well,” Robby lets out an awkward laugh, grabbing his own slice. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I know we’re not,” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “so if you say it’s not my business, then…it’s not my business.”
You rub your forehead, setting your plate down on the counter. “It’s not that it’s-- I just don’t want you guilting yourself.”
“Why would I--” he starts but then stops, the realization dawning on him.
“It’s an old habit, you didn’t cause it,” you clarify. “But the breakup and a load of other shit happened at once and it sort of created the perfect conditions for it to come back, I guess,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t want you guilting yourself, it just got worse after things ended, but I know I ended things, so I don’t really have room to talk--”
“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“But it’s the truth, I’m the one that pulled the plug.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt,” he argues. “That doesn’t mean you hadn’t been hurting. Because of me.”
You open your mouth, pause, close it. You frown. “Are we doing this right now?”
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Should we?”
“I don’t know,” you reply, just as honest, just as quiet.
“Eat first,” he says, softly, not accusatory. “And let’s sit.”
“Yeah. Okay.” You nod absentmindedly, heading for the living room with your plate in one hand and drink in the other, careful of your finger.
Robby tries not to watch you like a hawk, but still you feel his eyes on you as you move and settle down on the couch. He sits beside you, nowhere near as close as when the two of you shared a blanket that night, but close enough. Close enough to mean something.
“I’m scared,” you say before you’ve even taken one bite. “I’m fucking terrified. Because you’re starting to remind me of the Robby that I fell in love with.”
He sighs, brown eyes softening and growing sadder with your every word.
“And part of me loves it, part of me is so-- so giddy every time I talk to you because I can see it. I can see the man I first met,” your voice breaks at the end, and when you look up at him, there are tears shining in your eyes. “But he disappeared on me once. How do I know he won’t disappear again?”
“Fuck” is all Robby can think to say, and maybe it isn’t the right thing to start with, but it’s honest. It’s raw and it hurts when he hangs his head and thinks about the ways he treated you, the way he snapped at you for days on end.
“Yeah,” you let out a wet laugh, resting your forehead in your palm. “That’s all I can think about. I want you so badly and every time I just-- I remind myself about the way it felt at the end and I don’t want to feel that way again. I can’t watch you fall out of love with me twice.”
His head whips up at that, eyes a little wide as he looks at you like you’ve just said the single most absurd sentence he’s ever heard. “Fall out of love with you?” he repeats. “I never stopped loving you.”
You sniffle, just offering him a sad smile. “Well it sure seemed like you did.”
“No, I--” He stops himself, turns his body toward you, hands reaching for you and landing on the couch cushion instead. “I was so-- Jesus, I was so angry but it wasn’t at you, it was never at you. Or I never meant it to be, but I know that doesn’t change that I hurt you because clearly it looked like I was angry at you, but I promise, you never did anything wrong.”
You cover your face with your hand, sniffling harder as you shake your head. “I want to believe you Robby, I really do, I just--”
“I know,” he cries. “I know and I know it’s my fault that you can’t believe me, I know I did that and I won’t blame you if you can’t, but--” He pauses, realizing abruptly that there are tears clouding his vision too. “When Jack called me and told me you were at the Pitt, for a second I thought something had happened to you, and I’d regret it forever if I didn’t get the chance to tell you I’m sorry and to beg for one more chance, I--” He cuts himself off again, making a split-second decision that he knows he’ll pay for tomorrow with the way his knees creak, but he has to do it. He has to get on his knees in front of you; it’s what you deserve.
“Robby,” you’re fighting back a disbelieving smile, “what are you--”
“I’m begging for forgiveness,” he says, as if it isn’t obvious. He reaches for your hands, sure to be gentle and careful with your injured finger. “For just one more chance. Because I need you to know I never fell out of love with you. I hated myself so much that I thought I didn’t deserve you or to be with you and every time you were kind to me I just felt like I didn’t deserve it, and I was driving myself crazy because I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see that I was a waste of your time,” he admits it all in a rambling haze, not even sure if any of it makes sense to you, but he needed to say it. He needs you to know that it was never you. It was all him.
You’re shaking your head at him, though, like none of his words are helping. “That’s so-- Part of me hates that you had that twisted train of thought because you do deserve love but a bigger part of me is so pissed at you,” you let out an incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think you deserved me and so instead of breaking up with me, you just treated me like shit?”
“I know,” he cries. “I know it makes no sense, and I realize it now, that none of it made any sense. My therapist is-- We’re working through it and part of it has been recognizing that it was twisted and so unfair to you--”
“Uh, yeah,” you scoff, wiping under your eyes with one hand, but then you return your hands to his, and that small action gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope.
“I’m staying in therapy,” he promises. “And I’m going to keep trying and keep doing whatever it is you need me to do for you to forgive me because I can’t-- I can’t go another day without you. It doesn’t feel right, and I know I did it to myself, I know you don’t have to forgive me, but-- Please.”
You just stare at him. For the longest time. And he lets you. He holds your gaze, never once wavering, because he needs you to see that he’s serious. He means all of those words. Every last one of them.
“You get one chance,” you begin. “Because I meant it, that I can’t watch you leave me twice.”
He nods. “Just one chance, that’s all I need.”
You stare. And stare. Until your silence makes him squirm.
“Please,” he whispers one more time, knowing that you don’t have to forgive him and knowing what a real possibility that is because it’s well within your rights after how he treated you. But he can’t let go until you tell him to. He can’t have this be the end. “Please, just one more--”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Because you don’t let him.
Your hands leave his so instead you can cup his face, tears and all, and bring his lips back where they belong: pressed against yours. He can taste the salt on your lips as he’s sure you can taste the salt on his, and it makes him sigh and relax, hoping this means what he thinks it might.
“You have to stay in therapy,” you mumble when you pull back for air. “I mean it.”
He nods, looking deep into your eyes. “I will. I promise.”
“Good,” you kiss him again. “For the record, I will be too.”
He laughs against your lips. “That’s good, it’s good for us.”
You pull back and stare at him. You twist his head as if you’re inspecting every inch. “Who are you and what did you do with Michael Robinavitch?”
He dives back in for another kiss. “He’s still here,” he whispers. “He just got a little lost there for a while.”
“You’re telling me,” you mutter, but you’re smiling through it. “We’re doing this?”
“I want to,” he says, and every word sounds like a confession. “But it’s your decision.”
“I want to,” you echo. “My sister might kill me, but I really want to.”
“Well, the entire Pitt crew will probably kill me if I fuck this up again,” Robby jokes, though knowing Jack and Dana, you imagine it isn’t that much of a joke.
“Let’s start with dinner,” you smile, hands smoothing down his hair, then ghosting over his cheeks. “Because I’m starving.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He starts to get up, bracing himself on the couch and promptly ignoring the popping sounds his knees are making.
You don’t ignore them, though, based on the little giggles he hears you letting out. He settles onto the couch beside you, a bit closer than before, and you take the opportunity to move even closer.
“I believe I was promised a shitty romance movie,” he says, leaning over to grab the plates of pizza, handing yours off to you.
“And who am I to break that promise?” you grin, reaching for the remote. “I saw one last week that was awful. I need to see your face in the third act.”
“Hit me,” he smiles, letting you tuck yourself into his side as you search for the movie.
It feels easy, just like this. The two of you right back where you should be. Not exactly right where you left off, because things weren’t working then, and changes needed to be made. But now that they’ve been made, the two of you can get back to what you did best: loving one another.
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