#docsunset

it’s late, and the cool summer air engulfs you and erik at nearly midnight. the two of you are on the porch, leaned back against the railing. erik stands, though instead of his usual dark button ups and slacks, he’s more casual tonight. a blue t-shirt, jeans, battered sneakers. even his hair is a little longer, the waves coming loose, the stubble on his jaw grown out as well.

you sit on the floor of the porch, knees pulled up toward your chest. your head rests against erik’s jean clad leg, looking up at him with a smile. he returns it, one full of a warmth that he didn’t often share. smoke curls in the air as he exhales, cigarette grasped lightly between his pointer and middle finger.

for the past ten months since charles and erik recruited you, the latter has held a particular soft spot for you. he helped train your abilities, discover new skills. he helped you find your pride in being a mutant. even in class, you two got along much better than the others. neither of you thought much of it, you were just good friends — it just so happened that you were a student. but you two were close, and he was different with you. you felt comfortable telling him things charles shouldn’t know, like the parties you and alex hosted, or the fact that sometimes you hated your mutation. he was always there.

the same way he was now, a steady pillar for you to lean on, literally and figuratively. you chatted casually, something about hank and raven finally getting together. the moment was shared easily, no tension or even real worries. neither of you paid mind to the fact that you’d been outside for more than three hours, being as curfew happened to be three hours ago.

“can i try?” you questioned, nodding your head toward the cigarette in his hand, cheek rubbing against denim as you did so.

he looked down at your outstretched hand, playfully rolling his eyes with a soft smile. “you’ll hate it,” erik chided, but handing the cigarette to you nonetheless.

inhaling shallowly, you felt the smoke fill your lungs, and you broke away, coughing. “you’re right,” you replied with a strained voice. your hand reached back up to return the cigarette. still, your head felt a little fuzzy afterwards.

“i usually am. besides, you did it wrong.” it was common for the man to playfully lecture you, bringing a smile to both of your faces.

“it’s kinda cold out here,” you commented. this made erik sigh, shaking his head in breathy laughter. you were wearing pajama boxers that covered virtually nothing, paired with one of your many little tank tops — obviously you were cold. you didn’t even have shoes on.

“would you like to go inside?”

“and go where? i don’t wanna go to bed yet.”

erik shrugged, dropping the butt of his cigarette and stomping on it with his sneaker. “did you want to go to my room?”

the question was innocent, not holding the perverted undertones one may expect to hear when a teacher invites their student into their bedroom. right now, you weren’t his student, and he wasn’t your professor.

after considering the suggestion, you nodded, adjusting your shorts. he reaches his large hand out to you, and you take it, engulfed in his warmth. erik hauls you to your feet with casual strength, the kind that makes you smile a little.

he walks beside you, a hand resting softly on your lower back as he opens the glass door, letting it shut behind him. he gently leads you down the corridors, pressing his pointer finger against his lips in a reminder to be quiet, though that did not mean much when he grinned playfully.

his door opened to reveal a room similar to yours, though larger. the walls were a soft beige, joined in all the corners and edges by dark trim and accents. his king bed sat against the middle of the far wall, under his window. the room smelled of something warm, distinctly erik. it brought a smile to your face. one that had something behind it that even you couldn’t decipher.

the large bed, neatly made save for a hoodie thrown on top of the maroon comforter, called to you.

“this is so nice,” you called out, throwing yourself onto the foot of the bed with very little grace, one leg hanging off. erik chuckles at your immediate path to his bed, shaking his head a little.

something you notice is the sheer amount of metal in the spacious room. it made sense — magneto, and all — but it felt odd, seeing it in his personal space, too. metal figurines and coins, little iron marbles on his desk, just trinkets.

“one of many luxuries.” his hand ran across his sharp, stubbled jaw, eyes falling shut for a moment. when he opened his eyes again, erik caught sight of you in a different light, literally and figuratively. you’d turned on the lamp next to his bed and had sprawled out once more, moving his pillows to your comfort. it seemed as though this was more your space than his. the image of that brought a smile to erik’s face, something reserved only for you — though you don’t see it, being as you’re tinkering with a bottle of cologne on his bedside table.

you had no reason to smell his cologne from the bottle, seeing as it surrounded you now in his sheets, but you knew it would be different. the glass did not hold the same warmth his body did, and neither did the fragrance, no matter how pleasant it was. you enjoyed it far more when he wore it.

“smells like old man,” you joked, crinkling your nose in face disgust. that did nothing to hide the smile that felt sweeter than honey coming to your lips.

you lay on your stomach now, one pillow under your arms and chest as you faced the bedside table to be nosy. this meant you didn’t see erik approaching the bed and laying down across the bed widthwise, until you felt the dip of weight.

“do i now? maybe you should respect your elders, insolent girl,” he chuckled out. erik didn’t need to look at you to see you rolling your eyes. the man reached over his own torso with the hand that wasn’t behind his head to flick the exposed strip of skin between your tank top and shorts.

“you’re too mean to respect.” a little huff of air came from you, though all in good fun. you twisted a little to move away from his hand, though the tiniest bit of contact felt like electricity surging through your ribcage.

despite this, you’d continued on with your nosy findings, and had found the book he was reading, one you likely would have deemed boring before later reading it yourself. you flicked through a few pages before setting it back down.

at some point, you’d forgone your nosiness and instead set your eyes upon erik. his perfectly angular nose, his blissfully shut eyes, the way his muscles made themselves prominent through his t-shirt.

one arm is looped behind his head, bicep nearly bulging from the simple stretch, and the other rests on his abdomen, clutching a pack of cigarettes. his dark blue shirt rides up enough above his jeans to where you can see most of his stomach, from above his navel to where the waistband of his dark boxers makes itself visible, enough to see the dark hair starting at his navel and descending lower.

the silence in the room was pleasantly calm, though only if for a few minutes. you’re sure erik had no idea you were looking at him, being as his eyes were closed — but he knows. you’d never stay quiet for this long otherwise.

“y’know, professor, i’d say you’re much better looking than charles,” you cut though the silence. you knew he would tell you to call him erik, and you generally did, but sometimes the title grabbed his attention more. that’s what you believed, anyway. you always had his attention.

“erik,” he reminded, a lazy smile on his lips. “i think you might be biased, darling. you look at me more often than you do charles.” erik’s eyes remained closed, but his brows furrowed a little now. he certainly hoped you looked at him more than charles.

you just huffed out a laugh, mostly distracted by his face.

“you stare an awful lot,” erik remarks, eyebrows raising in emphasis. his long fingers tap mindlessly on the pack in his hand, as though debating another smoke. he doesn’t need it, though. he has you here and deems that more than enough nerve stimulation.

your eyes widen suddenly, your face feeling a little warmer at his words. “your eyes are shut,” you murmur, confused as to how he knew you were staring at him.

something akin to laugh escapes his mouth, eyes finally opening. “but you didn’t deny it.” the way his grey eyes met yours mirrored the weight of your own previous gaze, a look that held something that seemed an awful lot like love.

you scooted a little closer to him, though not giving him a reply. the hand that idled on his muscular abdomen lifted, abandoning the pack of cigarettes on his exposed stomach. instead, his arm rose and wrapped around you, guiding your head to his chest. you were on your side now, a hand on his torso and your head resting on his chest and shoulder.

his body was impossibly warm and large beneath you, muscular frame radiating heat as though he had sensed the chill that hadn’t fully left. even one of your exposed legs, hiked over both of his, had found warmth through the denim. neither of you dared to move, or even speak. not when your fingernails lightly scratched patterns along his chest and bicep, and your eyes started to fall shut despite you being quite awake.

“erik?” you asked, voice quiet and eyes still closed.

“mm?” erik hummed, looking down at your calm form.

“do you think that if things were… different, you would like me?”

the older man frowned, but knew entirely what you meant. obviously, there was something between the two of you, but neither one had pursued. instead, a friendship that could nearly be deemed something else had been. and he knew people talked, but the only thing they could speculate was something secret. your friendship had always crossed the line of strictly professional, but he had never become anything more than someone you could trust.

that’s what the rest of the school knew, anyway. they didn’t know that on more than one occasion had you sat far too closely to each other, often overlapping, or that he stood outside with you for hours after curfew instead of telling you to go to bed. they didn’t know how you looked at each other. erik knew, though. he saw it in your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking, because it was the exact same look he had in his.

“i do like you.” his breathing stayed steady, his heartbeat a constant in your ear.

you frowned a little. “i meant.. y’know, just forget it.”

erik rubbed your back softly, communicating understanding. “i know what you meant.”

a smile finally graced your lips, one softer than just minutes ago. “you— really?” you tried to confirm, itching to know if he felt the way he claimed.

his arm just squeezed around you a little tighter, a feeling that you found nice enough to slowly doze off on his chest. erik stayed awake though, absorbing the weight on his body and his mind. he knew it was wrong; you were a student who trusted him to teach you control over your abilities, to train you and be a stable figure in your life.

but how could he stop the lingering looks, the late night conversations that ended up like this? you were the sunshine in erik’s life, no matter how much he says otherwise.

so he doesn’t move, and he lingers in the sensation that he’s grown accustomed to. erik doesn’t fear the consequences that would fall upon him if someone found out, but he fears what would happen to you. over the past few months, he’s learned that you seem to need him just as much as he needs you. it shows in how you come to him in tears, or how you never seem to let him get far from your touch.

there’s one question he’s been asking himself, though, and been mindful of not thinking about it when charles is around. is it love? could it be love if you can’t be open about it? erik lehnsherr had to relearn how to love after his life was shattered into pieces, and he knew he loved you. he happened to have a pretty good feeling that it wasn’t totally one sided, but he didn’t mention it.

it certainly felt like you loved him when you sat on the porch in your pajamas, head resting on the side of his leg, looking up at him with soft eyes. it felt like love when you laid on his chest and felt safe enough to fall asleep.

eventually, his eyes set upon you, erik fell asleep himself. if he was being honest, it was the best sleep he’d gotten in a long time. he held you close, sideways on the bed and blissfully knocked out.

by the time he woke up, it was five-thirty am, too early for most of the mansion to be up. pale blue light filtered in through erik’s window, casting light shadows on you. you were still asleep, face mostly hidden in the side of his chest. you were so peaceful, lost in the confines of dreams.

regret inched into erik’s mind, but it washed away the second he saw your hand fisting his t-shirt when he tried to carefully move you off of him. your eyebrows pinched a little when he slowly lifted your sleeping body, setting your head on a pillow and off of him.

“you’re okay, honey. i’ll be right back,” he whispers, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. his voice is soft, but holds a gravelly tone that shows he just woke up.

your eyes stay shut, but you grumble a little from being moved and the loss of his body heat. but as he strokes your cheek, his eyes soft, the furrow in your brows dissipates back into that peaceful state.

when erik stood, he moved away from the bed, but could not tear his eyes away from you for the first few minutes. when he did, you still remained the only thought in his mind.

he went to his bathroom, the warm light flicked on showing him the messy waves on his head and his overgrown stubble. he should have shaved yesterday, but you had said last week that he looks better with longer hair. it feels more natural, not like he’s hiding in the confines of professional appearance.

when he gets out of the shower, waves damp and messy across his forehead, erik is still mindful to be quiet when making his way back into his bedroom. however, when you come into sight, you’re mostly awake, sitting up against his headboard in a ball. he feels a little flustered when he realizes you’ve woken up, considering he’s still damp and has only a towel slung loosely around his hips.

your facial expression mirrors his, albeit with more sleep lingering in your eyes. erik stands still for a moment, lips parted and cheeks a little warm. his hair is slicked back in loose waves with the remaining water, and you can see his muscular chest rising and falling as his breathing picks up.

“i’m sorry, dear, i.. didn’t know you were awake,” he finishes with a brief smile. as he grabs a few items of clothing out of his dresser, you’re still in the peripherals of erik’s vision, turned away as though to offer him that brief modesty.

“it’s okay, erik,” you reply softly. it seems the light embarrassment of seeing him — or perhaps it was that you were staring — had found you, your cheek caught in your teeth.

erik turned back to you, abs on display in a manner charles would call ‘a little slutty’. “i’ll just be getting dressed, i’ll be out in a moment.” with that, he disappeared back into the large bathroom, the door clicking softly behind him.

as soon as he was gone, you silently screamed at yourself, unsure of even what to do after seeing probably the hottest man to ever exist with nothing but a towel on. you hoped that being several rooms away, and not technically being allowed to be in the teachers suite, meant charles would not be able to discover these thoughts.

it may have taken a moment, but you regained your composure, stretching your back and standing. you didn’t want to leave quite yet, and truth be told, you were afraid you would get caught.

just as soon as he’d left, erik returned, clad in a grey long sleeve t-shirt and jeans, a casual sight you enjoyed so much. the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows and left his muscular forearms exposed. when he met your eyes, he offered a smile with raised brows. the barely-there light of the sun inching into the sky cast long, blue shadows along his face that made him seem all the more serene.

“so.. erik, how am i supposed to leave without someone seeing me?” you asked, voice a little low out of caution. your fingers twisted along the hem of your shorts, hoping erik would have an answer – he usually did, though.

his eyebrows pinched a little, sight now falling upon his door. with it being so early, he assumed the only real threat could be logan, considering he enjoyed running off to do god knows what at awful hours. long strides, relaxed in manner but tense in emotion, took him to his door, looking out the peephole. nobody, not in the teachers suite, anyway.

“i suppose i’ll just.. walk out. then you’ll follow. if anybody asks where you were, you’ll say you were outside. if they see us* together, you had a question about an assignment,” the older man instructed carefully, hoping you could remember it. those instructions made your eyebrows furrow, looking at yourself — wearing a tank top that did virtually nothing, boxer shorts that were only for modesty purposes, and white socks. nobody would believe you were outside. but even still, you couldn’t think of anything else, so you accepted.

when he opened the door, erik looked out for a few seconds before looking back at you, giving a shrug and a nod.

no noise came from anywhere in the mansion, save for the soft padding of your socked feet and the quiet tap of erik’s boots. it was nearly empty, everybody asleep at nearly six am on a saturday. when you made it to your room, erik close behind, you opened the door with a bashful smile. he had to reason to follow, except that he wanted to spend a few more minutes with you.

erik leaned against your doorway, telling you to get some real sleep, things like that. his soft grey eyes met yours with unwavering affection, telling you all he didn’t say. the stubble on his jaw only accentuated his smile, a kind of adoration nobody else saw.

the large windows in the halls let you see him in the early morning light, the day young and already so full of life. unable to rest your eyes off of him, a loving caretaker in his whole being, your hand inched toward his again.

something came over you, though. maybe it was the heat he radiated, or maybe it was the fact that nobody loved you so deeply, so surely, without ever saying it. but without warning, your hands found either side of his stubbled jaw, pulling him in for a slow kiss. it wasn’t rushed, not even desperate. it was the work of almost a year of friendship shattering into what it really was.

erik’s hands found their places respectively on your waist and the back of your head. his soft lips moved in sync with yours, pushing you back as he yearned for more. the door stayed open despite him walking you backwards into your room, your body pinned against a wall.

neither of you wanted to pull away because you knew what would eventually come — guilt. but when you did, his lips were parted and his chest rose heavily, your lips swollen and panting. a smile came onto your lips though, out of breath.

erik’s hand on your head slipped to cradle your face, his grin mirroring yours when you pulled away.

“so.. i’ll see you later?”

he chuckled, placing one last gentle kiss on your lips. “i’ll see you in a bit,” erik replied as he walked out the open bedroom door, closing it behind him.

6:48 AM. it wasn’t busy, but god, it was a rush in the ED. or maybe you just felt that way. was it just you?

it had been all too familiar, a cross of far too much in your mind before your eye. the best memories that were quick to become warped by the worst.

sweaty. shaky. unstable. you felt like your own body, your own brain, were becoming unreliable. unsafe, even. even if you couldn’t help it, everything about it felt wrong. it still felt like the blood dripping down your cheek and the ringing in your ears after both shots reverberated through the air.

a tragic, yet unfortunately common case — a 14 year old boy with a GSW to the throat — that had rendered one of the best residents frozen. you didn’t just freeze, no, that wasn’t like you.

jack, ever the saint, recognized this — he recognized the anxious nature in which you clawed at your collarbone, how your eye widened, how your left knee jerked back and forth.

“go. sit down. you will not work this one, kid.” he said it softly from across the room, no hostility in his voice. he understood. more than anything. and once he saw shen had it under control, he moved to follow you.

it was a blur, sprinting out into the hall and up the stairs. eventually, you found the solace of the roof. fresh air. slinking to the concrete ground on the — thankfully — safe side of the railing, your nails violently scratched at your collarbone as though it would calm the episode. an anxious tic you’d had for many years. grazing over the ball chain that carried your tags didn’t help.

memories intertwined with one another, but one stood out in particular. the one that ruined your life, the one that kept you up for days at a time, that rendered you useless to PTSD on the bad days. the pitt seemed so far away as you sunk into the worst voids of your brain.

you were twenty. slowly climbing the navy’s hierarchy alongside your twin brother. enlisted together at seventeen—it was supposed to be smart. you didn’t know it would destroy you.

your third true deployment, out on the coast of the UAE. it had started safely, plenty of backup and views, but suddenly it had trickled down to just the twins. a dark room — a basement, maybe? — with a flickering light and something dripping. your hands were bound and your head throbbed and the burn in your face made it clear what the dripping was. your blood pouring out of your nose and mouth. what happened??

the question was discarded as you finally opened your eyes, blinking at the fuzzy image of your brother next to you. ”mikey? are— what happened?”

it felt like a fever dream, but there wasn’t time for answers when the door slammed open, the sound bouncing off the crumbling walls. four men barged in, harsh orders barked in a language you didn’t speak and didn’t recognize. both of you were grabbed, guns pulled hastily as they questioned her in the foreign dialect.

“please, just- let us go, we ha-“

your voice was cut off by the harsh whip of a pistol against your brothers cheekbone.

were you still on the roof of the hospital? it felt like you were crammed into that basement again.

more threats or orders spat at you, though not understood. twenty minutes of brutal beatings and questions without answers. then it was the final yell before the ringing sound after the trigger was pulled.

firing into the throat of your counterpart. your twin brother. your other half.

he stared at you, his sister, for a second, choking as blood gushed from his throat and out his mouth. eyes wide.

realizing he wouldn’t see the sun rise again.

as you sat on the roof in front of the sunrise.

a scream left your throat.

“wait- wait, wai- MIKE ! please, no, no-“

a second shot, moving across your right eye, most of it exiting, notable wounds marking the right half of your face.

it went black, and it was four days before you woke up again.

your breathing quickened, nails collecting blood under them as it began to seep into the collar of your scrub top. the vision you retained was blurry and the skin-coloured stick-on eyepatch felt like it was compensating for a lie that went too far.

rocking where you sat in a ball on the ground, it felt like the cool air had turned into four walls, closing in. like your lungs were too big for your ribcage and the pounding in your head was the same as it was in that basement. the rational side of your brain couldn’t make sense of the fact that it wasn’t.

you hadn’t heard the door

opening nor jack running to your side, but he was quick to do so. abbot was far more experienced with PTSD episodes, but he knew you already had underlying anxiety, apparently since you were a child is what he’d figured out. that never made it easier. “hey— hey, can you look at me, kid?” the man spoke softly, gentle enough to ease your winding brain into the words.

“i’m here. you’re okay,” he consoled you, one arm looping around your back as he fell seated to the ground, resting his prosthetic on the ground with a sigh. his hand gently gripped your wrist and pulled it away from where you had scratched your collarbone raw.

in some ways, the touch was grounding, comforting. maybe it was what you needed. but that didn’t suppress the choked sobs that tore through your throat. “i- i don’t.. jack, please-“ you hiccuped out, breathing uneven as you shook next to him.

jack knew better. he didn’t stop you from feeling it, he didn’t try to fix it. he knew you needed someone to support the emotional toll that weighed down on you. and he wanted it to be him. “it’s alright, honey. you’re gonna be okay. you gotta breathe for me.”

his head rested against the railing, eyeing his watch as the end of your shift quickly approached. thank fucking god, he would feel horrible if you had to continue working directly after this. your body shook harshly and he had to pinch his eyes shut, hating how someone so young, so kind, could deal with the burden that nobody should have to face. but jack let you feel it there, and he decided he would help you talk through it later.

tears slowed, heartbeats got gentler and the choking feeling of guilt began to subside a little, or become less apparent to you. “ah.. ‘m sorry, i jus- i dunno what happened..” you murmured into his chest where your tears had been caught. you knew, though. the truth had never left you.

it was such a stark contrast to jack, seeing this side of you. you were always so calm, funny, always knew just what to say. patients and staff loved you. this wasn’t the resident he’d learned to love. this was the raw, bloody insides of the person who depended on him. but somehow, he already knew how to love you properly like this.

“ ‘s jus’- that kid, he.. he looked so much like..” you paused to swallow harshly. “he looks so much like mikey did when we were kids.”

jack knew the bare minimum about your past, as you did his, but he knew enough to figure out why seeing that child threw you off.

“it’s alright.” a beat passed as jack thought. “what was he like?” he quietly asked, hoping the prompting of remembrance could pose as some semblance of comfort.

with a small sniffle, you rubbed at the patch covering a bit of the scar on your eye. “mikey was my twin. 7 minutes older than me, so he kinda always thought he was in charge,” you dryly laughed out. “we ar- we were pretty different, but he was my best friend.”

memories flooded, taking in every detail as they had happened. “we both did really good in sports, but i was uhm.. more academically gifted than he was, i guess.” you almost smiled at the thought of going to school everyday with your other half. “when we graduated, i got scholarships for pre-med, but he couldn’t get his grades up enough to fully qualify. so he enlisted in the navy,” you took a fair amount of time explaining to jack, something he understood. “i wouldn’t let him do it alone, so i did too.” a pause left the air thick with emotion. your head fell a little lower now.

“i guess it didn’t matter, though, not if he died anyway.”

the years of college, psychiatrists, and physical therapy were torture. but you made it through med school, ended up in Pittsburgh, more than 4,000 kilometres from home. you had jack. dana. robby (whom you refused to call michael). cassie. samira. they made it worth it some days. you had a life now, one that had people who didn’t all know what had happened. it was the start of moving on and some part of you still hated that.

“of course it mattered.” jacks voice was finally present after a few moments of silence, his strong arm curling around the gently shaking form of your body. “it mattered because you cared. it mattered because he mattered to you,” the older man comforted.

“i think you’ve obviously noticed my… face, eye.. you know,” you began, letting out a nerve-filled breathy laugh. “i didn’t get the full reconstructive surgery by choice. it just- i don’t know, it didn’t feel right. it didn’t feel right having them patch me up like it never happened.”

a breath. coming to terms with it as you spoke everything into existence for the first time.

“because i think when everything, i guess, went to shit, i didn’t want to get rid of that piece of him. it would’ve been like by trying to cover up that part of me, i was trying to cover him up.”

there was a soft click from dr. abbott’s watch as the end of their shift arrived like a breath of air after being underwater. “uh- I don’t think you should be alone right now, kid,” he clarified, clearing his throat, “in case you have another episode. would you be okay coming home with me?”

of course, you’d been to jacks home before, but this was different. walls down. emotions raw. scars present. but you knew that he knew well enough of what to do.

“..yeah, i think.. i think that’d be okay.”

a soft smile of relief hit his face at your response.

it helped, having that sort of unspoken, unnamed connection — made it safer, more reliable. of course, reliability was never an issue with either of you. especially not with jack.

it wasn’t a particularly long drive to his house, just under 10 minutes — but the silence of the ride was beyond pleasant. jack had texted robby before they left, about shift change and the handover — how shen would inform him on anything he needed to know.

there wasn’t words spoken, the soft hum of the music on the radio — something system of a down, it was too quiet to hear — played in the background. and for once, the quiet didn’t leave a pang in your chest. because after all the nights spent alone, dark and quiet in your home, the company was everything to you. night shift hadn’t exactly made you feel any less alone, not when you knew how much it screwed up connections, but it held some sort of solace for you. getting to see the sunrise again each day at the end of your shift.

your thoughts were interrupted by jack opening the passenger side door, giving you a moment to get out before closing it and locking the car. “oh, thank you,” you mumbled, standing just past the sidewalk on the front walk. you trailed after jack inside, taking in the way the dim blues of the waking sun slowly started to light up the porch.

his house was nice, you’d realized, though large for just one person. the door shut behind you and his keys dropped on the glass table by the door. it was clean, a little dust collected here and there, but it was a home. that much was clear. the throw blankets on the couch made sure of that, at least if the pictures on the mantle and walls didn’t.

“it’s, uhm.. it’s a nice house, jack.”

you smiled as best as you could with how heavy your face felt. and a small smile crossed his face with more weight behind it. “yeah, it is. thank you,” he finally replied after a moment, voice gentle and a little raspy. you didn’t pry for details, you knew better — but it was recognizable what happened.

“you hungry? i can make something, or..” he trailed off, eyebrows slightly raised as he awaited your opinion. you had taken a seat on the soft couch, cautiously sinking in as you considered the question. “uh, only if you are,” you answered. a simple nod, jack walked to his softly lit kitchen, making something presumably wonderful (he was a great cook).

eating had been something you’d struggled with for years, a symptom of ptsd you would never admit to. maybe it shouldn’t have been a shock that jack recognized that, knowing the bond between you.

“how does waffles sound? i’ve got strawberries, too.”

something that looked an awful lot like a genuine smile met your lips. “yeah, that sounds good. thank you, jack.”

a responsive hum and the sound of pans and cupboards in the kitchen was heard as you waited, curled up on the couch in a ball, shoes kicked off near the others beneath the coffee table. eventually, the greying man came over, the strain in his stride a little more prominent, lacking much of an expression. “foods almost done, did you want to go change into something a little comfier?” he offered. “you can grab something out of my dresser.”

you thought for a moment. the kindness that he emitted enveloping you sounded more than appealing. at your nodding, he rubbed your shoulder in a comforting matter as you stood slowly from the couch, before making his way back to the kitchen.

you walked the short hallway to his bedroom — pristine, hardly anything out of place — and frankly, it felt very much like Jack in there. the running blade on a short shelf and the crutches next to it. a perfectly made king bed with a soft blue duvet. opening the dark wood dresser, you found neatly folded and organized drawers full of clothes.

you cautiously reach in for a soft, worn-in t-shirt and open another drawer for shorts. ones you find to be a little too large, so you make the swap for a pair of boxers that sat towards the back.

changing in the spacious bathroom connected to his bedroom, you can’t help but use the fixation on learning about jack as a distraction from your own.. issues. jack’s cologne faintly fed into your nose, making your tense shoulders relax a little more as you slipped his shirt over your head. the same cologne you’d smelt when he guided you through procedures or brought you a water bottle and a few reprimanding words to take care of yourself. the same cologne you’d smelled every time he got down to your level to help you on a bad day.

you observed the oddly spacious bathroom for a second longer before quietly leaving, shutting the door softly. the carpet of his bedroom floor felt soft beneath your socked feet, grounding in a way that was more than being beneath you. as you walked into the kitchen once more, the sight of jack humming a song (one you recognized heavily and could almost name, you think) and arranging two plates of waffles with sliced strawberries on them was a sight you thought you could get used to.

a smile started to creep its way onto your face at that. maybe having something like that would be nice. something where you got to do mundane tasks and see the most raw, domestic moments of each other. doing laundry and taxes, cooking breakfast after a hard shift.

“hey, kid, foods ready,” jack stated with a smile, having quickly realized you’d been standing there. “thank you,” you hummed in response.

you stood for just another second, considering, before taking a breath and peeling off the eyepatch — with a light wince at the pulling of some rough tissue — and throwing it in the trash can. washing your hands, you realized that for one of the first times without it on, you didn’t feel like there was a spotlight burning through the scarred half of your face. it was a safe option here. but it was still scary, even if it was something so miniscule as removing a glorified bandaid, having something so vulnerable just.. visible.

jack knew better than to say anything, but it made him feel a little better knowing that you were comfortable enough to be your true self, no coverups. so in an attempt to aid that comfort, he silently sat down on the counter barstool and removed his prosthetic, letting it lean against the cupboard. you looked a little more sure of yourself when he did. so you took a seat next to him to eat.

and it was calm, serene, something you both needed. the presence. you needed someone to be there for you, and jack needed someone to be there for. your knees rested against each other for a moment before you stood again, taking both plates to put in the dishwasher.

something about this all felt so familiar. like you two had been silently eating dinner and just sitting next to each other for years. like maybe it was all more than a feeling of longing. like the notion of the undeniable love had been there all along.

“it was never your fault, you know.”

jack didn’t push — he gave you the option of safety. he was a net to catch whatever you needed to get off your chest.

because not only did he care, but he understood. he understood the relief of having a scarred piece of both your body and soul on display and he understood how to not make you feel like it was all pinned on you.

because, really, empathy is one of the greatest gifts to living creatures — where’s the harm in showing it to those you love?

at some point, a tear welled in your eye. and jack couldn’t help but thumb it away when it fell to your cheek, his hand cradling your hand more gently than you’d ever been touched. so maybe it made sense when you leaned across the short gap of the stools and fell into his chest, his arms acting as a shield from everything that tried to claw you from the inside out.

it was quiet for a few moments, no heavy sobs or screaming. no more words yet, nothing breaking through. but he held you. just tear stains on his shirt and strong arms around you.

“i don’t know how to make it go away, jack,” you mumbled softly. vulnerability was laced through the words as they tumbled out.

the older man deeply inhaled, eyeing the early morning sun out the small window in the kitchen — his only window that didn’t have a blackout curtain on it. exhaling now.

“honestly, kid? i don’t know that it ever does go away. it’s a part of you, to some degree. there’s good days, there’s bad days. but there’s worse days, the ones that it feels like you’re there again. you learn to live with it, though. or it learns to live with you.”

he knew that well enough now, well enough to provide some comfort. jack had his bad days, the days that his house didn’t feel like the home it once was. the days of phantom pain and panic attacks. but he had more good days the more he learned about what happened and how to cope with it.

you shifted a little, looking up at him with a tear covered face, some stray hairs plastered to your left cheek and jaw. you opened your mouth to speak, then shut it again. the words didn’t come to you like you thought they would. but he understood nonetheless. the same way you understood the pictures on the mantle and bedside table and the value they held.

it was late (early) and despite the weight of it all, it was obvious you both needed sleep, especially after a shift like that one. that much was evident in the eye bags and voices that started to get a little groggy.

“i think maybe we should go to bed, jack.” your voice was a little gravely after the onslaught of emotions from just a few moments earlier. but neither of you moved. not yet. “yeah, probably. did you wanna crash with me?” jack asked after a few moments, voice a little more hushed.

sleeping in a bed with jack abbot — your attending (and unofficial best friend that neither of you knew about) — put you somewhere between thankful, mentally fist-pumping, and dreading it. “mhm,” you hummed in agreement, anyway. letting out that smoothie of thoughts didn’t seem like a great idea.

maybe if your brain was a little less scrambled, you would make several comments that could be deemed inappropriate by hr standards, but you could hardly stay awake without crying every five minutes right now. however, the morning is very much a different situation. that was a bridge to cross when you got there.

coherent thoughts were not something you were thriving in currently. every part of your brain had spent the past hour and a half trying to avoid the scariest memories of your life that half of the people you knew didn’t even know about. so god forbid you get a little excited and distracted at sharing a bed with a stupidly hot older man.

jack attached his prosthetic once more to walk to the bedroom — he didn’t have his crutches — and you frowned a little after realizing he did. the two of you made your way into his tidy room, your eye flicking around the area again.

when you sat down on the edge of the bed, falling back with your legs dangling to nearly touch the floor, jack just watched — only for a moment. but it brought a smile to his face. the comfort seemed like it had always been there, like maybe you two were more than what you thought you were initially.

it was the sense of peace that made it feel right. after his second of smiling like a fool at your blissfully (still suffering) face, jack snapped out of it and decided to get ready for bed. shedding his pants and shirt, he removed his prosthetic once more and the sleeves on the stump.

as soon as they were in their rightful place on top of the shorter dresser by his crutches, he sat on his side of the bed, leaned up against the headboard. you still hadn’t moved.

“hey, c’mon, kid. you’ve been through it today, time to get some sleep,” jack reminded with a couple knuckles tapping on your shoulder. you groaned playfully and flipped onto your stomach, pushing yourself up his bed to be a little more level with him — or his lap, anyway, which is where your head ended up.

your eye was shut, but you still let him run his fingers along your scalp and silently observe your scar with a smile. “mhm, i know,” you hummed in response. using your legs, you kicked the blanket onto your body and jacks legs.

it seemed perfect, almost, the dim lighting from the bedside lamp and how it hit your face. even the rough, gaping scar and bone that sat on the right side of your face held more beauty than it seemed. it was calm, unlike earlier. the switch in your attitude was clear after you got to his house and really spent the time to let jack take care of you.

“goodnight, sweetheart.”

jack flicked off the lamp and scooted down to lay in the bed, maneuvering you on top of his broad chest and one arm wrapping around your back.

“goodnight, jack.”

and you neither of you said the words, but the weight of them was still there.

4:30 in the morning — too early for most people to be awake, let alone flooding the ED. The few patients who were there didn’t wait long, and despite the superstitions surrounding the word, it was slow. Hence why Dr. Abbott stood a few feet from the nurse’s station counter, tossing pens into a cup while glancing at the board.

Jack was bored enough to take the next case no one else jumped on — a 20-year-old female with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing out of the ordinary, though he was never one to turn down a case anyway. Once you had been called back, assisted by a nurse to walk toward a private space, Jack nodded his thanks. Sitting you down on the bed, he took a seat on the rolling stool in front of you.

“So, I guess a good place to start is — how did this happen?”

“Uhm… yeah — I was at pre-season practice this morning, and I was diving, like… really far for a ball. I dove into the bleachers.”

Jack hummed in acknowledgment, eyeing your chart as he filled out other sections. You’d only been marked as having a mild concussion and a dislocated shoulder — which you’d earlier described as “kinda numb” — so he made a mental note to ask if anything else was bothering you.

“You play volleyball?” he asked, shining a penlight into your eyes, one warm hand gently bracing your head.

“Mhm — since I was eight,” you replied softly, sniffling away the tears from earlier. You shivered a little in the cold hospital air, dressed only in what you’d worn to practice: spandex shorts, a UPenn t-shirt, kneepads, and athletic shoes — not exactly ideal for the chill.

“Mm, must be pretty hardcore then. Can you tell me your name and date of birth, sweetheart?” His hands moved to the shoulder of your dominant arm, frowning a little at the wince you gave when he pressed too hard.

When you recited your info without issue and described the pain in your shoulder, he looked into your teary eyes and told you he’d make sure you could keep playing.

“Okay, I’m gonna have you lie down for me — there you go,” he said gently, clearing his throat at the way your thighs squeezed together as you adjusted on the table. “This might feel a little weird, but I’m just going to rotate your arm.”

His hands settled on your skin, the heat of his touch grounding as he brought your arm up, then over.

A pop sounded, and the pain washed away — relief bubbled in your small laugh.

“And… there we go.” Jack smiled at your happiness, giving your arm a soft rub before standing to grab a sling. “See? Isn’t that better?” he teased, raising an eyebrow before helping you sit back up.

“So, we’ll keep you in the sling for about four weeks, but I have to recommend waiting at least ten before playing again.”

He saw the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you looked up at him. Jack ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper curls before helping you into the sling.

“I’d suggest a follow-up with your athletic trainer or primary provider — whichever works best for you,” he added after a moment, his fingers lingering a little longer than strictly professional.

“Yeah. Uh, thank you, Dr. Abbott. You’ve been really great,” you said, your eyes trailing from his arms to his kind, tired eyes. Batting thick lashes and offering a shy smile, you had him grinning like he didn’t have a license on the line. But the curve of your ass in those navy blue spandex had him muttering a curse under his breath as you left.

However, you had come to a different realization.

Dr. Abbott definitely talks you through it.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You never showed the signs, at least not easily.

They weren’t blatantly displayed in behaviours or messages, there wasn’t a book of those thoughts or days where it was obvious what you planned to do.

So really, nobody was to blame for what happened. Let alone you. How could they hold it against you, when nobody could even recognize it was happening.

There was nothing they could’ve done to stop it, to stop you, because it was fated to happen, scrawled in the fabric of the universe. It had to happen. You had to do it. Every arrow pointed to it, it was just a fact. But, truthfully, that was what made it the worst.

It was quick, like a snap of your fingers, and then all of a sudden, it was like the world had shifted; because it did. You were the greatest thing they had ever lost, and nobody could figure out why you left them so soon. Not even Earths Mightiest Heroes.

Not even the leader of the elite profilers that you’d known and loved far too much. It took Tony a week to find the letter you’d left. Seven days, far longer than it should have. You didn’t want anybody to find out, apparently, and that’s exactly how it turned out. Tony said you nearly always got what you wanted anyway.

So maybe it was for the best, but none of your loved ones would ever be able to understand why. They didn’t have to. It was the secret that went with you into the ground, and that was what needed to happen. But the curiosity never swayed, the yearning for the reasons you could do such a horrible thing only grew as the days and weeks passed. Though, a small part of them all, knew exactly why you did it. They just didn’t want to admit it.

There was before it happened, and there was after. And before, there has been some rough days. It had been a rough week, In fact. For everyone, really. Nobody could deny that as a fact. The missions had been particularly grueling — one with losses that left everybody a bit more empty inside — and the legal issues were almost worse. Grieving the loss of normalcy and pieces of your soul was necessary after every mission for everyone. But after a few hours, someone typically made the move to bring some sense of comfort to the team. Sometimes it was ordering food, or going out for an activity. Other times it was a movie night, or maybe an arts and craft nobody particularly tried on but goofed off with. Today it was making dinner together, like a family. The family that wasn’t asked for, but needed. The family that couldn’t bring themselves to leave one another alone, isolated, pained. And they didn’t, at least not on the surface.

Via the usage of a vote (that was mostly useless), the group had decided on making pasta accompanied by salad, strawberries, and Peter (accompanied by Steve) got put on dessert duty — blondies, if they had to guess. For a lot of it, it was a few people splitting the tasks and working, while the others talked, brought comedic relief, and would probably eventually go off to the living room while they waited on dinner when they realized they would not be of use. So, in short, you and Tony were the only two remaining in the kitchen (aside from Bruce, but he had headphones in). You sat on the counter next to a large serving platter of sliced strawberries and on your right was the stove, where you eyed some noodles being cooked and Tony perfecting his craft of Alfredo. It was domestic, sweet, and you could see the others on the couch watching what seemed to be Up, based on the tears that welled in a few of their eyes. A smile you had been unfamiliar with lately had found its way back to your lips for just a moment. “What’s on your mind, honey?” The man asked, rubbing his bearded jaw. Dark eyes gazed over towards you on the counter, curious at the very least.

“Hm?” You hummed, making true eye contact with Tony. “What’re you thinking about?” He repeated himself, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to evaluate what was wrong with you. “Uh,” you almost slipped, “nothing. Just..tired; and my ears.” For the record, both were true. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks now, but the help of naps and energy drinks had been able to mask that for the first few. Maybe your luck was running out. Although, the ear pain and migraines were properly excused, an unfortunate downside of the odd abilities you’d gotten. A tragic one you’d found the hard way in childhood. One you couldn’t shake, even to this day. “Uh-huh,” Tony sarcastically murmured, brain prowling every possible thing that could be wearing you down. Tony always knew when something was wrong, it was just a matter of getting you to fess up to it. But this didn’t feel right, didn’t sit well with him.

It was a few hours later, after everyone had eaten and gone to bed, that the reminder of just how alone you were really set in. The darkness hit you, cracked through your bruised ribs and choked its way down your sore throat. With shut curtains and shut off lights, you truly couldn’t describe the feelings you held now. Tony had started to catch on, and surely the others had too. You hoped maybe you could take that piece of pain from them, keep it hidden in your chest and away from them. It wasn’t theirs to see, to feel, or at least it shouldn’t have been.

Being an Avenger was everything to you, but it took everything in you every single day. The missions, the cruel losses, the mental and physical battles that piled up the emotions. But the sense of family, of community, the feeling of being loved by people who had been through so much, made it worth it. There would come a day when the price to pay was too much. You’d been able to shake it off easily enough your first year or so of being part of the initiative, but now you started to hold something against it. Or maybe against yourself?

It was tug-of-war in your mind, a psychological battle where you sat on the floor of the dark living room. Of course you all had dark days; that was guaranteed. But the days that you felt like you were trying to play catch up to your own life made you wish for something else, something more. Losing physical and mental pieces of yourself every mission was starting to feel like more than it was worth. I mean, really, the bionic eye and vocal box was probably a good example of that. Yes, as a family and community, the Avengers were caring and supportive, but the way you never seemed to get the same help on missions wasn’t discreet. Maybe they weren’t trying to do it, but you felt helpless when you were left to fend for yourself and wonder whether they even knew if you were still alive. Maybe that’s why you did it.

With a mind running rapid, soon enough, the tears fell — from one side, anyway. The lack of warmth streaming from your right eye was just another reminder of how you weren’t quite enough for them nor yourself.

Your sulking thoughts were interrupted by the gentle footsteps, though heavy, walking nearer in the dark. It was Steve, clear in true way he evenly held his weight even in a tired form at the late hour, the gentle sounds of his steady steps making your heart beat a little faster. Being seen meant questions, questions meant sharing more than you cared for. Though you didn’t see to care for much these days. When the footsteps stopped, you turned your head towards him, seeing the tall man holding his water bottle (what he’d come out for) staring at you with something close to understanding sympathy. You wondered if he could relate to the crippling sense of loss you felt in your own mind, or the anxiety that coursed through your veins as the serum coursed through his. “It’ll be okay, kid,” he murmured softly. Nothing intruding, no prying questions or unwarranted contact. Just — reassurance. It made you want to scream and cry like a child, cling onto him and every other Avenger as though if you let go, they would dissipate into nothingness. But you refrained, sniffing a bit before sending him a strained smile. “Mhm, thanks, Steve,” you replied with a hoarse voice. A hoarse voice that while, sounding exactly like your own, didn’t feel like it belonged to you. Something curated to make you feel whole again, like you were capable of more than you were.

“Get some rest.” You nodded silently, though he couldn’t see you anyway. It probably wouldn’t happen — sleep hadn’t been in your favour the past few weeks — months, even. It was another short moment until his footsteps began again, starting towards his quarters and you heard the door shut. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your lungs. You eyed the digital clock on the wall; it was later than you’d intended to stay out of your room.

So with a heavy heart and heavier eye bags, you stood from the rug in the living room and trudged towards your room — the second on the left on the north hall — to find the solitude you’d left behind with the mandatory team bonding. When you reached your room, a bit messier than you could enjoy, you let out an annoyed breath. The light flicked on with a snap of your fingers, and dimmed automatically with the clock it was on. You spent maybe fifteen minutes organizing the clothes and keepsakes you’d earlier made a mess of, all the while trying to ease the anxiety thrumming beneath your skin.

When it was to your standards once more, slumping down in your chair in exhaustion seemed like the best choice. Your hands — scarred, scratched, shakier than you enjoyed — rested on the cool wood of the desk. Fingers tapped it as you eyed a notebook and pen, debating whether to do that or type out a message to the group chat. You could go for time and convenience or a last piece of sentiment.

The choice wasn’t terribly difficult, grabbing the light pink notebook with more aggression than you meant to convey and flipping to the next section of empty pages. Soon enough the pen was between your fingers, and you couldn’t find any words you wanted to write down — or maybe you couldn’t find the right ones. Because some part of you wanted to say everything, to beg and plead for help and admit everything that was wrong. But you didn’t; not really, anyway.

To Mr. Anthony E. Stark, you began to write, I’m sorry you had to learn the whole story like this, Tony. I have to come clean. For starters, I am choosing to leave the initiative. I hope you find it in you to understand.

You’d filled up two pages with the message to Tony, and had you had it in you to cry, the page probably would have been stained with tears. Then it was nearly a full page to Steve. One and a half to Natasha. Hardly over one to Thor. Peter and Clint both got a little over one and a quarter. Rhodey, Pepper, Strange, Bruce, and Happy all got their own as well. It took at least an hour, if not two. There was paragraphs of cherished memories, apologies, and finally what felt like an admission of guilt in every single one. It didn’t feel right to tell them like this. But when would you tell them if it wasn’t now? They had to learn somehow.

An ache permeated through your chest as you folded each message in half, sticking your signature seal — an origami sticky note heart — on the outside of them all, different colours for each person. You took a couple minutes to think it over anxiously before stacking them neatly on your desk. The next actions were the ones you regretted the most.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

It was a decent hour the next morning when Peter made his way to come wake you, accompanied by Steve. Breakfast had been made and they had a briefing to discuss — but the teens scream of horror was heard by nearly everybody, even Clint. Though the screams were nothing to those they’d heard from you, it made Tony’s blood curdle.

Your body was collapsed on the floor, propped up against the wall with an open eye. Blood was nearly everywhere. A scalpel was discarded towards the side. The throat piece that kept you alive — a bionic trachea, esophagus, and vocal box — had been sliced and torn from your throat, thrown ahead of you. The bionic eye had as well, blood dripping down your cheek and staining the front of your body, leaking on the carpet. The droplets had gone everywhere when you flung the metal chunk ahead of you, spraying on the papers resting on your desk. It was the crime scene nobody deserved to see.

Soon enough everybody had come running to investigate why Peter had screamed and Steve had gone paler than ever before. Tears were flowing soon enough, more screams erupting from people’s throats at the sight. People were ushered out of the room. Someone ran to puke in the nearest bathroom. Tony had come in last, confused and concerned at the commotion. But when he saw you, an open eye staring at him and an unreadable expression on your far more pale face, he could have died then and there. His heart sunk, his stomach twisted, his brain pleading. It wasn’t right. How could this happen?

Three Weeks Ago, 29 January.

Yesterday and the day before, with an abundance of phone calls, meetings, messages, and tears, you were delivered the unfortunate news that you had fourteen days left to live — two weeks. It didn’t seem real, but you were quick to realize just how real it was.

The deal you hadn’t quite agreed to was that you were to free two highly dangerous and hostile prisoners (which, you couldn’t even do, it was beyond your jurisdiction) or you would be killed in two weeks time. Several agents had tried to find the group that planned this, attempted to stop them even, and they were all murdered. Brutally, really, their bodies mutilated in ways you hoped yours wouldn’t be.

So, you had no choice but to accept the fact that death would hold you in its clutches when life could not. Your friends and family didn’t take this well, they all rioted and tried to make it better but somehow, the group was untraceable — the BAU team, the best of the best, couldn’t save you. Aaron was your husband, you’d been married for five years and together for seven, and he couldn’t save you either. This information destroyed him, tore his chest open and gripped his heart like a vice. How does one accept the inevitable death of their lover?

He felt helpless when he realized he couldn’t help you, felt unsure and afraid for the first time in a long time — but he was determined to change your fate. Aaron was always a focused man, his attention rarely strayed from his priorities and he was so put together. It was odd to see him now, on the floor in front of the couch, ankles crossed and elbows resting on them. His hands were running through his dark hair, messy and unruly with stress and his fingers trembling as he occasionally clenched them. Your husband wasn’t the type to sit on the ground and damn-near panic, like he was doing now, face red and the remnants of tears stuck to his beautiful face.

The lights were off and it was dark outside, the only visible glow being emitted from a lamp in the other room, casting an orange-grey shadow on the room and the man it contained. The day had already been long, many tears had been shared and shed throughout the past two days, and you were not exempt from that. In fact, you were nearly drowning in the sheer amount of sadness and fear that coursed through your blood, as though it had entered your lungs in the time it took you to realize this was happening. But you couldn’t help but set your eyes upon Aaron, his casual clothing of a crewneck and jeans, and just how different he appeared now. Everything he stood for felt like it had been crushed in just a few days. You were such a prominent part of his life now, he adored and loved you more than anyone could ever understand, how could he cope with knowing he would lose you when he spent so much time trying to never let you go?

Leaning against the wide, open-formatted archway in the living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to rip your teary eyes away from the nearly crumpled form of your husband. This wasn’t right, you knew that — but you couldn’t let this tear everyone apart from the inside.

“ Aaron, honey? “

You asked softly, sniffling a little as you tried to keep your head level.

“Come here, I think maybe we should go to bed; it’s… been a long day,” you decided, keeping your volume low even as you moved to walk over to him. His head raised, eyes red and a little bloodshot as he took in the sight of you. A short time passed until he was able to stand to his full form, exhausted from work – or, rather, exhausted from trying to find anything that could save you. The taller man merely hummed in response, frowning for a second before wrapping his trembling arms around you, as though he’d never let you go. He didn’t think he should have had to let you go. It was unfair, cruel, irrational.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You had managed to coax Aaron to bed, and he barely let you go, not even just to change. He hated the sudden attention to detail he had, how he was forced to commit everything about you to memory for you were running on a clock until you were torn away from him. From the world. How would Jack take this? And even worse, how could you tell him that it was inevitable? Nobody understood. It hurt, you almost felt like you had been given up on so fast, as if the FBI had decided they couldn’t even try to save you, as though you weren’t worth the trouble. Maybe you were bitter out of fear, maybe you thought it was unjust.

Your mind wandered everywhere as you lay in his arms, the cold air drifting in from the open window a harsh reality in the safety of Aaron’s hold. “I don’t understand,” he finally spoke, the first words since a mild outburst he’d had this afternoon, emotions at a high at the office. “You don’t understand?” You repeated back to him, confirming. “No,” he began, “I don’t. It’s.. untraceable, I don’t know why I can’t stop this. It’s my job to stop this, sweetheart.” Aaron was shirtless, wearing only flannel pajama pants, legs entangled with your own. You wore a shirt of his, something older; from college, probably. “I.. there’s been four agents dead because of me. There’s more risking their lives. I’ll get everything arranged,” you explained with a slowly breaking voice. Tears welled in your eyes at every blooming thought. You were thirty, barely a real adult but you weren’t lucky enough to live until your next birthday. The lottery of life was not yours to be rewarded. “I love you, Aaron.”

“I love you more, honey.”