#doctor!reader

Jack blinked. "And yours?"

"Ah." You waved a hand dismissively, already halfway down the hall toward the breakroom. "I'll grab something later. The cafeteria's open till three."

By noon, you'd checked on Crus twice ("Eat the damn sandwich, I saw your hands shaking earlier"), coaxed the intern into taking a ten-minute nap in the supply closet ("Hand me your pager, I'll cover it."), and discreetly swapped Shen's watered-down coffee with a fresh one.

At 2:47 AM, Jack found you in the middle of explaining discharge instructions to an elderly patient, your voice patient as you repeated the same sentence for the third time.

Your pen hovered over the paperwork, but your fingers had started trembling. You didn't seem to notice.

By 3:15 PM, you managed to sneak a granola bar into the pocket of Crus' scrubs, reassured the new intern that no, she hadn't killed anyone by mislabelng a vial, and somehow talked Shen into sitting down for five minutes.

You were mid-sentence, something about ibruprofen dosing, when the world tilted sideways.

Not metaphorically.

Your vision narrowed to a pinhole, the edges fuzzing like static on an old TV. The papers slipped from your fingers, fluttering to the floor. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, but your hand missed entirely, swiping at empty air.

The last thing you registered was the sharp scent of expensive cologne, the distant sound of someone calling your name. Your name, not "Doc" or "Hey," and then the cool unforgiving floor rushing to meet you.

Jack saw it happen. One second, you were talking, hands moving in that animated way you had, like you were physically shaping the words between your fingers.

The next, you were folding at the knees. He moved before he thought, his body reacting faster than his brain could catch up. He caught your before your head could hit the floor, one arm hooking under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders.

The first thing you registered was the smell. Then the texture beneath your fingertips, the kind that came standard on hospital-issued blankets.

You blinked, and the ceiling tiles swam into focus.

"Back with us, sleeping beauty?"

Jack sat perched on the edge of the gurney, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper, tighter. He held a juice box with a straw already punched through the foil.

When you didn't immediately reach for it, he shook the box pointedly, the liquid sloshing inside. "Drink," he said, and it wasn't a question.

You tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. Jack's free hand shot out, pressing gently against your sternum to keep you horizontal. His palm was warm through the think fabric of your scrubs.

"Nope. Try that again and I'm cuffing you to the rails." The jokes fell flat when his fingers twitched against your collarbone.

Across the room, Shen hovered near the door, his arms crossed. "She's fired," he announced, too loud, like he'd been rehearsing the line.

The juice box straw brushed your lips, and you took a reflexive sip, the flavor bursting across your tongue. Jack's gaze didn't waver, tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed.

Behind him, Shen snorted. "Even I can't fire her for fainting," Jack said, still staring at you like you'd personally offended him. "Half the department's running on caffeine and spite."

You managed to lift a hand. Weak, but enough to take the juice box from him. His fingers lingered a half-second too long before releasing it.

"Statistically," Shen drawled, "she's also the only one dumb enough to forget to eat for hours while force-feeding the rest of us like we're her kids."

Jack leaned in, voice dropping so only you could hear. "When was the last time you ate?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The granola bar you'd given to Ellis flashed in your memory. Your last one, plucked from your locker this morning.

"Thought so," Jack muttered. He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar, the kind stocked in vending machines. The wrapper was already torn open, one corning missing.

"I bit it," he admitted, handing it to you. "Just to make sure it wasn't expired."

The bar tasted like sawdust and regret, but you chewed anyway, because Jack's stare had taken on the intensity of a laser. Shen, still hovering by the door suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Hold on. She packed my lunch today." He left for a moment and came back with a tupperware container in his hands. "Here. Eat this instead of that expired vending machine crap."

Jack looked at the container before you could react, flipping the lid open. His eyebrows climbed "You made him goddamn club sandwiches?"

You swallowed another bite of the bar, which was sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue, and shrugged weakly. "His wife's out of town. He burns toast."

Shen pointed at you triumphantly. "She gets it."

The sandwich tasted like guilt. Rich with mayonnaise and thinly sliced turkey, the kind of careful meal you'd never make for yourself. You managed two bites before you hands stalled, the weight of eyes pinning you to the gurney.

"Jesus," he muttered, plucking the container from your lap. "You're worse than the med students." He tore off a corner of bread and held it up, hovering near your mouth.

You opened your mouth, more our of shock than compliance, and Jack fed you with a precision that suggested he'd done this before, probably with Robby drunk.

Shen coughed into his fist, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "I'll just..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Charting. Or whatever." He disappeared before you could protest, abandoning you to Jack's relentless stare.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "You'd do the same for any of us." The truth of it hit you square in the ribs. You had done this. Last month for Ellis when she was hypoglycemic after a double, last week for Nazely who'd forgotten her lunch.

The difference was, no one had ever noticed when you skipped meals.

The next bite came with a sip of juice, Jack tilting it toward your lips with exaggerated care. His thumb brushed your chin, catching a crumb you hadn't felt fall.

Something cracked behind his eyes. "You're allowed to be selfish, you know," he said, so low it was almost audible. "Just enough to not collapse in the middle of paperwork."

Your fingers curled into the blanket, the starchiness of it grounding. "I didn't..." you started, but Jack cut you off.

"Yeah, you didn't mean to. That's the problem. You keep giving everything to everyone and nothing for yourself. It's stupid."

The word should've stung. Instead, warmth pooled under your ribs. No one had every called you stupid with that particular edge. Like it physically pained him to say it.

"Christ. You're smiling? Now?" But his thumb was already tracing the curve of your lip where it had lifted, rough skin catching. He froze, as surpised as you were by the contact.

A knock of three sharp raps flooded the quiet room. Crus, leaned in, his scrubs rumpled. "Uh. We have a GSW incoming, ETA for minutes."

His gaze flicked between you, Jack's hovering hand, the half-eaten sandwich. "Should I... tell them you're working on something else?"

Jack didn't move. "Yes."

"No," you said at the same time, pushing upright. The room only spun a little this time. Jack's palm landed between your shoulders, steadying. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."

Crus hesitated. "Garcia was called downstairs. She said you--"

"Garcia," Jack interrupted, "can eat my entire--"

You elbowed him. Hard.

Crus' mouth twitched. "Right. Well. The GSW's stable, but it's Senator Reeve's nephew, so." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Media circus incoming."

The senator's nephew could wait. Jack's hand stayed firmly planted between your shoulders, his grip telegraphing a silent, immovable no before he even spoke.

"Crus," he said, "tell them we're in a trauma consult." He didn't blink. "And if anyone asks, I'm instructing her."

Crus opened his mouth, glanced at your still-pale face, then snapped it shut with a nod. "Got it. Try not to let her die before shift change, please." He ducked out before you could protest, the door swinging shut.

"Lie back down."

"I'm fine, Jack."

"Lie back down," he repeated, softer this time.

And you did, because his voice had cracked open somewhere between exasperation and something raw. The gurney creaked under your weight as you sank back against the thin pillow.

Jack's fingers skimmed the curve of you shoulder, tentative, as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You scared the hell outta me."

You stared at him. Really looked, and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

"I didn't mean to," you said, and it came out embarrassingly small.

Jack's thumb traced idle circles against your collarbone. "That's the thing about you," he murmured. "You never mean to."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away just as fast. "But you do it anyway. Every damn time."

The overhead lights hummed as Jack's fingers stilled against your collarbone. His thumb rested there, an anchor point in the spinning room.

"You're not going back out there today," he said in a way that wasn't negotiable.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Jack's other hand came up, pressing his fingers to your lips. "Don't even," he warned. "I will physically restrain you."

The threat should have been laughable, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he'd bench-press the gurney with you on it if it meant keeping you there.

A knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Crus' wary face.

"I know you said to tell them you're busy, but the nephew's asking for the 'hot doctor with the nice hands.'" His eyes flicked to where Jack's fingers still hovered near your mouth. "I'm assuming that's not you at all, Abbot."

Jack didn't move. "Tell him she's off-duty."

Crus hesitated. "He's--"

"Tell him," Jack interrupted, "she's indisposed."

Crus' eyebrows shot up. The door clicked shut with exaggerated care.

You stared at Jack. He stared back. His fingers were still at your mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of them, not quite touching anymore but not pulling away either.

"You're staring," he murmured.

"So are you, you whispered back.

The overhead page crackled to life. "Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3. Repeat, Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3."

Jack's fingers tensed against your collarbone, his body already pivoting toward the foor before the announcement finished. But he didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat like he was memorizing the shape of it.

"Don't move, okay?" The protein bar wrapper from earlier fell to the floor as he reached for the IV pole beside your gurney, yanking it closer. "I'm hanging a bag of dextrose. "

Another page, more urgent said, "Trauma team, Trauma Bay 3, now--"

You saw the exact moment duty won. His jaw locked, shoulders sagging as he stepped back. The warmth of his touch lingered.

"Crus!" Jack shouted toward the foor, never taking his eyes off you. "Get in here!"

Crus materialized instantly, as if he'd been hovering just outisde. He took one look at Jack's expression and raised both hands. "I'm on it. Go."

Jack hesitated. Just a breath, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth again, then turned on his heel.

Crus let out a low whistle, nudging the abandoned juice box toward. "So. That happened."

You pressed two fingers to your pulse point, counting the slugging rhythm as Crus adjusted the IV drip with practiced ease.

Crus didn't comment on the way your gaze kept flicking to the foor. Instead, he nudged the juice box closer. "Drink," he said, echoing Jack, but gentler. "Before Abbot comes back and burn me alive."

You took a sip, the flavor cloying without Jack's glare to make it taste like a challenge. The ER's distant chaos filtered through the closed door. The raised voices, the beep of a crashing monitor, the unmistakable sound of gurney rattling past at a sprint.

Crus' pager buzzed violently against his hip. He glanced at it, grimaced, then deliberately silenced it. "There's someone else on the floor, it's okay," he muttered, though his knee had started bouncing in a restless tempo.

"You should go."

Crus shook his head, adjusting the IV flow. "Abbot said--"

"I know what he said." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened them with a weak smile. "But we both know he's elbow-deep in someone's chest right now. Go help him."

Crus hesitated, his fingers drumming against the rail. "Abbot's been pacing the nurses' station like a lost child since they wheeled you in here," he admitted, voice dropping.

"Nearly took the head off an orderly who tried to move your chart." He tilted his head, studying you with sudden intensity. "You know he canceled that thing he had with that cardiology chick last week? Said he had 'charting' to do. Pretty sure he just sat in the break room watching you force feed Nazely those sandwiches."

The juice box crumpled in your grip, the straw bending at an awkward angle. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen him bite open a protein bar for anyone else before."

His pager buzzed again, more insistent this time. He ignored it. "Pretty sure that's his version of a love letter."

The door burst open before you could respond. Jack stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest heaved like he'd sprinted the entire way.

"You're still here."

Crus stood smoothly, pocketing his pager. "She's all yours, Romeo." He dodged Jack's half-hearted slap, pausing to turn back and look at you, "He told me he cried during Marley & Me in med school," before disappearing into the chaos beyond.

The overhead lights hummed a steady note as Jack stepped fully into the room. His fingers flexed at his sides, still damp from where he'd scrubbed hastily at the blood streaking his forearms.

Jack didn't speak. Neither did you. The silence between you stretched, elastic and charfed, as he reached for the IV bag with one hand, his fingers skimming the tubing to check the flow rate. His other hand landed on the gurney's rail.

The bag crinkled under his touch, nearly empty now, the last of its content slipping into your veins like a slow, sugared confession.

None of you said anything, but you're exactly where you want to be.

A/N - i forgot how much i love making smaus they're so fun!

tags:

“You’re shitting me,” Trinity says, her voice deadpan as she looks at the stick in her hand, the two pink lines present on the small digital screen. “You have to be shitting me. You’re pregnant?!” She looks up at you in disbelief, her eyes wide and gleaming with shock and yet a sort of pleasant glee. 

            “Is it that surprising?” you ask, your tone just slightly tense, just slightly offbeat, your mood high and happy and yet dark. You feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some bad news to arise. You feel like it’s going too well. 

            “No, not really,” she says, rolling her eyes even though the gesture is half-assed, still tinged with that shock running through those clear mahogany eyes. Those eyes that can never lie, have never been able to lie. Not to you. “You and Jack fuck like wild rabbits so one of those times you were bound to wind up a statistic of failed contraceptives.”

            “So, kind of you,” you reply, crossing your arms as you lean back against the bathroom sink, the granite top digging into your hip while she sits on the toilet seat lid, ankles crossed over ankles. 

            “Have you told Mr. Fiancé yet?” she asks and you sigh, gaze flicking up to the ceiling, the white popcorn texture shadowed by the light. 

            “I’m waiting until after his bachelor party. Don’t really want to spoil it and suffer through Robby’s whining all the way through to the wedding so…” you trail off, looking back down at her, at the way her lips are pursed as if she’s holding back a laugh, mirth glimmering in those eyes that you know almost as well as your own. 

            “You just don’t want to mess with Huckleberry’s first Vegas trip.” You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, the way that Trinity knows you so well, has always known you so well. She knows you in a way that few people do—she knows every dark secret and thought that you’ve had and have, knows every fear and every dream. She knows because she’s been there since first year of medical school—eyebrow arched as always. 

            “Have you seen that boy? He could use some…exposure,” you reply and are delighted by the way her face twists into laughter, her body folding on itself as she snorts, head bopping in only the way she has, ponytail bouncing with the force. 

            “Well,” she says, regaining her composure, swallowing hard, her laughter and yours still echoing in the en suite bathroom. “You have to tell your mother at least. I am not putting up with Lena when she finds out you didn’t tell her right away. Because she’s vicious.” You sigh and glance down at your feet, at the socks designed to look like ice cream cones, a gift from Vicky for Galentine’s. 

            “How pissed would she be if I didn’t tell her until after the baby was born?” you ask and the only response you get is the choked snort of your best friend as it cracks into a belly laugh, the sound rich and deep as it echoes off the walls and the bathroom tiles, the echo making it octaves louder than it truly is. 

            “If you try that, you’re dead meat,” she tells you in between laughs, the stick still in her hand. 

            “Yeah,” you sigh again, one hand coming up and running through the strands of your hair with a violence that Robby would be proud of. “I was afraid of that.”

            You watch as your mom walks into the café, her bag over her shoulder, dark red hair pulled back in that ponytail she always has. You can see that her eyes are tired, bags under them from the lack of sleep, from the shifting of her hours for everyone else in the world but herself. But they still have that gleam in them—the one you remember from your childhood, the one that promised fun and love and acceptance. 

            You love her, your mom, Lena Handzo—the mother who chose you. You were a child abandoned by people who didn’t want you, put into the care of people who only took you in because they got paid to. You were a child who believed that they would never have anyone who chose them, who wanted them. You were a child that felt like a burden and then in walked a woman with red hair and a smile that spoke when she couldn’t. 

            “I’ve been waiting for my daughter,” she had said, crouching down before you, hands kept to herself as if she knew the fear and hope that had been warring within you. “And I think you found me.”

            And you thought she was right. You were her daughter—she chose you and you chose her. She wanted you; she loves you and she is here for you. 

            “Hey, sweetie,” she says now as she sinks down into the booth, her large bag moving to sit beside her, what appears like a change of clothes sticking out of the top of the old tote she’s had since you were a kid. “What’s up?”

            “If I tell you what’s up,” you begin, pausing, measuring your words carefully, thinking as best you can, a part of you ready to just blurt it out and another knowing this needs to be done properly. “Then you can’t freak out.”

            “Never a good lead up, kiddo,” she says, her eyes narrowing at you behind her black frame glasses, the size of which continues to get smaller the older she gets—she claims it’s an old lady thing. “But fine. Spit it out.”

            “I’m pregnant,” you tell her, laying your phone flat on the table, the screen unlocking with your face, the picture of the five tests that Trin made you take already up and there and visible for her. You can feel that tightness in your throat, that bit of anticipation as your heart rises into your throat, the muscles pulsing with every beat as you swallow, watching the way she takes in the photo. 

            In the fact that is displayed on a small little screen. 

            You can see when the knowledge settles on her shoulder, you can see the way she seems to melt, her shoulders sinking down and her lips quivering as they tilt upwards in a watery smile, her eyes glimmering with joy and tears behind her glasses as she looks up at you, drawing in a hard breath nasal breath, her nostrils contracting, pulled together as she flicks her gaze up and away for a moment, lips still quivering.

            “Mom?” you say, your voice cautious and tender and slightly fearful as her one lifts, shaking just slightly as she draws in another shaky breath, her hand going to rest over her mouth as a small cry escapes, echoing in the still air. “Say something, please.”

            “I’m so happy!” she cries, turning back to you completely, small tears falling from the corners of her eyes, trailing over her cheeks as she lowers her hand, taking both of yours in hers, the phone still sitting on the table. “I’m so happy for you, sweetie! How’s Jack? He happy?”

            “He doesn’t know yet,” you tell her, sighing, removing one hand from the warmth of her grip to run it through the strands of your hair, looking down at the stained and aged Formica tabletop. “I’m waiting until after his bachelor party. But I know he’ll be happy…right?” You look up at her, at your mother, finding peace in her smile as she nods, just once, the Mom kind of nod. 

            “Yes, sweetie. He’ll be happy, I’m sure. He loves you,” she says, her confident smile softening into a different kind of smile—the one a mother has when she is proud for her child, happy for her child. At peace because her child has the life she deserves. The love she deserves. 

            “Yeah, he does,” you say, a smile growing on your face at the thought of him, of Jack, your fiancé. At the image of him just this morning getting in, wearing his scrubs and a frown which brightened to a smile as he saw you, taking you in his arms and just holding tight to you, murmuring how much he loved you over and over and over. How lucky he was. 

            “Have you thought of names?” There is no waiting with your mother, she always cuts straight to the point, no dilly-dallying or hesitation. 

            “Mom!” you cry, sighing and rolling your eyes, wincing just a bit at the cluck of her tongue. 

            “I am your mother, do not roll your eyes at me, young lady!” And you can’t help the laugh that comes out, bubbling up your throat before entering the air, echoing through the coffee shop. Even more so when she joins in the laughter, her hand squeezing yours as the laughter turns to tears and she walks around the table to sit beside you, pulling you against her, tight and secure just as she’s done since you were a child. 

            Since she helped you beat the nightmares and the demons back with every time she said I love you, daughter-mine. 

            “This kid is gonna know—love,” you choke out around the lump of tears and mucus sitting in your throat, the one that makes it hard to breathe. “Right, Mommy?” You can feel her arms tighten around you as you cry soft tears with her, yours falling on her shirt and hers dripping into your hair, her chin on your head, your head on her shoulder. 

            “Yes. Yes, sweetie. Your kid is gonna know so much love that they’ll be…just sick of it. I know it, sweetie. You got so much love to give,” she says and you give one more choked sob, a thought rising and escaping from your mouth, voiced aloud and made real. Acknowledged. 

            “My kid will never have the feeling I did before you adopted me…they will always—always know they’re…wanted.”

            “See you in two days, Bluefire,” Jack says, pressing a kiss against your cheek, his hand resting on the dip of your waist, warm and sure and strong. “I’m gonna miss you.”

            “Oh, shut up,” you tease him, your hand finding his free one—the one not currently on you—and giving it a short, sharp squeeze. “You’ll be back before you know it and then we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Handzo, right?” You can feel that sharp smile growing, the one that occurs when you’re teasing, when you’re analyzing, pranking or you know something no one else does. 

            “If that’s what you want,” he says, stepping closer, lifting your joined hands to his heart, “then that’s what we’ll have.”

            “Stop being so perfect!” you tell him, your voice only slightly irritated, mostly full of joy and happiness. A kind of happiness you used to think you’d never have, the kind that the fear of never being wanted said would be impossible. 

            Yet here you are—you have a mother and three best friends and a fiancé. Everything you thought you’d never have when you were five years old sitting on yet another bunk bed in the tenth foster home, your things in a trash bag tucked underneath the rickety metal frame, the sounds of other kids echoing, but not in a happy way. 

            Here you are, building a family. One step at a time. 

            And who knows. Maybe after your baby is born, you can do what you always wanted to do: adopt. Save kids just like you in the same way Lena saved you. 

            “Can’t help it, Bluefire,” Jack says again, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss against your lips, yet still one that has the ability to steal the breath from your lungs at the same time that a horn sounds, long and loud and annoying. 

            “I think Robby has arrived,” you tell him as he pulls away, squeezing your hand one last time as he steps back and opens the door, stepping out onto the porch, a slight hitch in his step from his new prosthetic—after his old one cracked during a SWAT mission. “Have fun!” you call out after him, waving as he turns back to smile at you, taking a photo of you standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. 

            “I will!” he replies, turning back around to Robby who has leaned across the passenger seat to pop open the door for Jack. 

            “Just not too much!” you yell out as your final note, crossing your arms, cold creeping into your body and down your spine the longer you stand on the porch. 

            “Love you too!” he yells and then the door is closed and Robby backs out of the driveway, turning onto the road and towards the airport. 

            “Thank god, they’re finally gone!” calls out an exasperated voice from somewhere behind you, the voice of one Victoria Javadi—your best friend since childhood. 

            “Wow,” you deadpan, turning back around to face her, one eyebrow arching as you look at her and her irritated expression. “I’m so glad my fiancé annoys the fuck out of you, Vicky. Makes me feel so great.”

            “Oh, shut it, kid,” your mom says, peeking her head out from the dining room, eyes narrowed at you in the way that only a mother has. “She wants to get on with your day.”

            “My day is like, nothing because I’m pregnant,” you counter, making sure to enunciate each word, clearly and cleanly for the both of them. 

            “That’s why she made me bring all of this shit,” Trin says, stepping out, her body half-behind Vicky and half-out, her hand holding a bag full of baby planning books. “Her goal is to pick your name options. Personally,” Trin says as you sigh, walking over to them, taking the first book that she hands you, “I think you should name this baby Trinity, but I’m just biased. Always wanted a kid named after me.”

            “Then have your own kid,” Vicky counters, the sentence making it impossible to stay straight-faced and the three of you burst out laughing as your mother clucks like a worried hen.

            “And here I was thinking you three had grown up,” Lena mutters and you can’t help but smile at her, the soft smile that you have—the one of daughter-mine as she calls you. 

            “We have, mother-mine,” you tell her, watching as her irritated face softens. “We just don’t always want to act the way we’re supposed to. There’s nothing wrong with staying young while you can. I’m not a mother yet.”

            The sound of the door opening was what woke you, the metallic clink of a key in a lock, a deadbolt sliding out of place, echoing through your living room, causing you to jolt to that state of conscious alertness, startled arousal. 

            You had fallen asleep while watching 10 Things I Hate About You, one of your comfort movies. The last thing you remembered was watching Kat dance drunk on the table, yet now the TV displays Mona Lisa Smile and your front door is opening, shuffled footsteps echoing in a way that makes your blood run cold. 

            You’ve dealt with too many patients, crying and shaking and aching in a way that will never really go away because of people who break into their homes, hurt them in not just physical ways, but the ones of the mind. The scars that never really fade, never really heal in any way that is true or tangible. 

            You don’t want that and it’s why you sit up, reaching underneath the couch for the baseball bat you keep there, something that can buy you time while you get to Jack’s safe, get his gun. You’re not going to be defenseless—if someone’s going to hurt you, they’re gonna have scars of their own. But as you tiptoe from the living room, through to the hall, baseball bat held aloft, ready to swing, to smash someone’s head in if you have to, you hear it. 

            The slurred words of a very drunk and very engaged man. 

            “Baby.” Your shoulders dip, the tension in your body unwinding, uncoiling, set back to normal as you let the tip of the bat fall, resting against your foot as you step out into the hallway, the sight of Jack further relaxing you in only the way that he has. 

            “Hey, Jackie,” you call out, leaning the bat against the hall wall, walking to him, ready to take his bag from him and help him struggle up the stairs, take his leg off and put on the cream, positioning the bucket by the bed so he doesn’t have to struggle with mobility when he’s sick. “Thought you were you were gonna take it easy.”

            “M’sorry, Diane,” he says, voice slurred, yet eyes open wide, focused on you, seeing but not seeing because that is not your name. That is the name of a dead woman. A woman who has had his love, who has been his love. A woman who is not you. 

            She was first and you are the one who comes after, but hearing her name leave his lips…hear her name from him as if it were yours makes you wonder if you’re coming after her at all. 

            Or if you’re just a living placeholder, a Barbie doll of wives. Dress you up and make you anyone. Dress you up and make you into the wife that was so that she can be again. 

            “Jack,” you whisper, your throat closing around his name, around your words as if it doesn’t want to let them out, doesn’t want to put truth to the fears. Doesn’t want to make them a reality. “I’m not Diane.”

            “’es, you are,” he says, stumbling forwards, falling just slightly but you’re there, right there, to catch him, arms under his armpits, looped up and around to his shoulders, palms flat on his back and even through the pain and hurt and anger running through you, his body is still warm, still solid and comforting. “You’re ma wife.”

            “Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh as his head rests on your shoulder, lolling just slightly as he laughs at nothing, walking with you as you lead him up and into your bedroom, setting him upon the bed, kneeling down before him and rolling up his pantleg. “I’m your wife.” You can’t say her name, can’t even put in your mouth, can’t feel the syllables. Not now. 

            Because it would feel too much like erasing yourself. So, instead you focus on removing his prosthetic, taking the ointment from the bedside table and applying it the end of his leg, right where the saddle for his leg rests, the adjustment period still ongoing, the skin rubbed red, making you wonder just how long he’s been on his feet, been drinking and dancing. 

            And for a minute, you wonder if there was anyone else he was calling Diane. Anyone else he mistook for her, the first woman he loved. 

            And the thing is, is you’re okay to be second place to her. You understand that he loved her first, that he loves her always. You like that, you like that he loves with all that he is, but that he has room for more. You just don’t want to be erased. 

            You don’t want to be a Barbie doll in your own marriage. You want to be yourself. Wholly and completely. 

            “Love you so much, Diane,” he murmurs, his hand coming to tangle in the strands of your hair, twining them round his fingers, watching the way they shift in the light. “O’ly one I’ll ever love.”

            And you bite your lip at his words, the sting of tears echoing through your body as your chest constricts with the held breath, lungs burning at the sob you hold back. Because Jack is tender, yes, but never like this. Never quite like this with you and even though you understand that Diane was his first love, his always love, you thought he loved you too. 

            Loved you in a way that matters. But maybe you were wrong…

            Or maybe it’s just hormones. You are pregnant after all and everyone knows that pregnancy does wild things to people. Especially in the first trimester. 

            At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you help him into bed, not bothering to help him change his clothes because you know that when he’s drunk, he’ll just fight you on it and think you want sex even though he can’t consent. So, all you do is roll his pantleg up, pinning it so that it doesn’t tangle, pull or hurt him. 

            And then you step back, lower lip wobbling, vision just a little blurry, a sob still sitting in the base of your throat, pressure on your lungs, on your windpipe, screaming to be let out. To be let out into the air, given weight in your reality. 

            But if you hold it in, then you can pretend this isn’t really happening. You can pretend that he’s seeing you when he looks at you with those perfect, warm hazel eyes and not her. The one who came before. 

            “Where you going, Diane?” Jack calls out just as you turn around, turn away, the tears slipping down your cheeks, rolling and stinging and drying you all the same. 

            “Gotta…uh get…cleaned up,” you say, the words thick and filled with quiet sobs as you swallow hard around the lump in your throat, swallow hard around the sob still waiting to be released. Still waiting for the fear to be acknowledged. 

            “Good plan,” you hear him murmur, the words not only slurred from alcohol but from sleep now, a fact confirmed when you glance over your shoulder, noting the way he’s dozing, half on his side, half on his back. “Love you, Di.”

            And that’s when you leave, shutting the bathroom door behind you as quietly as you can, the same bathroom where just three days ago you found out you were pregnant. The same bathroom where you, Vicky and Trin ended up the day Jack left, putting on face masks and coming up with names like Sammy if it’s a boy and Margot if it’s a girl. The same bathroom where you’ve been throwing up every evening, your morning sickness actually night sickness. 

            You stand at the sink, gripping the cold marble between your fingers, letting the tears fall and the sobs out, choked sounds echoing in the room. Choked sounds of not being seen. The sounds of someone still harbouring those fears of the child who thought they could never be wanted. 

            Who thought they didn’t deserve a family because they weren’t wanted in the one they should have had in the first place. 

            The sobs you let out rip from your throat, leaving it red and raw but my no means empty, the feeling of thickness and tears, mucus and despair still there as your eyes continue to water, tears sliding down your cheeks, salt tracks in their wake, your nose following suit as you sob. 

            Because you thought you’d found someone who saw you, but you can’t help but wonder if he ever really saw you at all.

            Or if maybe he saw Diane all along. 

            In the light of the morning sun, your fears don’t seem as heavy, don’t seem as possible. They seem like a hormonal pregnant woman overreacting, taking her childhood fears to adult ones with the snap of a finger because of one drunken moment. 

            You tell yourself it’s nothing as you set about brewing a pot of coffee, popping protein Eggos into the toaster after the two pieces of toast you’ve made for Jack, accompanied by the gallon jug of water and the mug of coffee. It’s waiting at his spot for him while you take in a deep breath, plating the waffles when the toaster dings, pouring your coffee into your cup, adjusting it the way you like it and waiting for Jack to emerge. 

            Which he does with stumbling steps, his eyes heavy and tired as he steps forth, squinting at the bright lights of the kitchen. 

            “Morning, Abbot,” you say, your voice purposefully loud, a sadistic part of you delighting in the way he flinches at the sound, his hands going to his temples, blocking out the light and noise. “How was Vegas?”

            “What happens in Vegas,” he says, his voice hoarse and husky, no doubt from the vomiting at 3 AM and the off-key singing he did at midnight, “stays in Vegas.”

            “So, I’ve been told,” you tell him, nodding at his spot at the table where he sinks, groaning at the comfort of the chair, but wincing at the sight before him—the food and hydrants. “Now, you’ll eat the toast and drink the water for sure. Coffee’s optional.”

            “You’re one cruel woman,” he mutters and if it had been any other morning, you would have laughed it off, but you can’t. Not today. Not after last night when the fears only feel a little bit too much, not entirely wrong. 

            Not entirely false. 

            “I have a question for you,” you tell him and he looks up as he takes a bite of the slightly burned toast, exactly the way he likes it, something you learned in the two years of being with him. 

            “Shoot.”

            “Do you want kids?” You know he’s hungover which is exactly why you’re asking now because he’s honest when he’s drunk and he’s honest when he’s hungover. He’s not always honest sober. 

            “What?” he asks, the word just slightly slurred from the toast in his mouth, the bread he’s chewing and swallowing, the path easily tracked down his throat. 

            “You heard me. Do you want kids?”

            “No,” he says and the response is fast in the way that truth is, not the way that conditioned responses are. “Diane and I missed our window so why would I have any now?” You know right then that last night was him being honest in the way he is when he’s drunk. 

            You’re his fucking Barbie doll wife. 

            Just dress her up and play pretend. You’ll almost never know she wasn’t your real love. 

            “What about adoption?” It’s the final card. The one you know will tell you what will happen next. The ball is in his court even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

            “What?! No…just…leave me be! I’m hungover. Jesus Christ.” And you nod, standing from the table, leaving your breakfast and coffee behind, trying to act as normal as possible as you press a kiss to the top of his head as you pass and he touches your hand gently and then you’re gone, locked in the main bathroom, your phone in your hand. 

            And you send one text into the group chat Vicky insisted on setting up three days ago—the one with her, Trin and your mom. 

            You send just one:

I need out.

            And this is why you love them. Why they are your family even when the idea of the family you were building is crashing down around you with the idea of being Jack’s fucking Barbie. 

            You love them because of many things, but mainly because they answer. Each of them. The same sentence. Just one. 

Then we get you out.

            To them it’s that simple: you need out. They’ll get you fucking out. Because they love you too and it’s a love that doesn’t let you down. It’s one that doesn’t pretend. Doesn’t play dress-up and lie and make you feel like you’re special when you’re just mannequin chosen to superimpose her image over you. 

            It’s not a love that is designed to erase you. 

            It’s one designed to shout your name from the rooftop. Do stupid shit for you. Make you known. 

            It was almost scarily easy how they got you out. Vicky made calls and your mom made calls, an immediate transfer passed, moving you to a New York City trauma centre ED, day shift. Trin showed up as soon as Jack left for a suit fitting, helping you pack you stuff up in boxes and get it out of the house, Dennis helping. 

            They packed you into a U-Haul and each took three days off to help you move, to help you shift your life into a different city, different state. Different everything. 

            But they left you alone enough to write your goodbye letter. The one where you told Jack everything about how you felt. 

            Just leaving out the baby growing within you. If he didn’t want children, he wouldn’t have one. He didn’t need to know. 

            It’s not like he would want to be a part of their life anyways. And then you took your engagement ring off and placed it on top of the letter, leaving it in clear view on the dining room table. Precisely where he’d find it when he came home. 

            And then you got the hell out of there. 

Dear Jack,

I’m sorry that it’s ending like this. I want to say I’m sorry it’s ending at all, but that would be a lie. It would be a lie because I’m fucking hurt. Because you don’t see me. 

I don’t know what you see when you look at me sober, but I know that when you’re drunk you don’t see me at all. You see Diane. I thought, at first, that that was the first time you saw her in me, but Dennis was quick to disabuse of that notion. He said it happened more than anyone would like to admit. 

When we first met, you called me Wildfire, remember? Called me that because I was feisty and strong and smart and ready to set people right when they were wrong. And I countered you and said that I wasn’t a wildfire because I was more controlled than that. I said that I was more like the hotter parts of fire, the one you can still see. The blue flame. 

And then you called me Bluefire. 

And when you did, I thought that meant you saw me, but I see now, I was wrong. You saw someone strong enough to not break when you made them your Barbie. Your Build-a-Bitch. Great song by the way, recommend it. But…you saw someone similar enough to her to become her in a way. 

And I’m not her. 

I’ve lived my life with this fear that I’m not enough. That I won’t get a family, that I don’t deserve it. That I don’t deserve to be seen. It comes from my past, from being that five-year-old whose grown up in a system designed to destroy. It comes from being abandoned by people who never wanted you in the first place but carried it through because it was the right thing to do. It comes from being someone who was never chosen…Until Mom, of course. But I live with that fear, even being chosen, even having that life, I still have that fear. It doesn’t go away. 

It can’t. It’s who I am, it’s a piece of me. I thought when I found you, that you understood. That you saw me, your Bluefire. Dr. Handzo. Me. But you didn’t. You saw her. 

I don’t begrudge you that, Jack. I just wish I’d known how much it would hurt to find out the way I did. I’m sorry for what it’s worth that it’s ending like this. But I deserve someone who sees me. 

And you deserve to see someone. It wasn’t me but they’re out there. For both of us. I know it. That’s another thing—you have hope when you’ve been on that bed with your stuff in a trash bag. You hope because it’s all you fucking have.

So, I hope they’re out there for us. I hope we find them. We deserve that. And don’t worry about the wedding costs. The venue paid us back, deposits there are returned until the actual day and your suit is returnable…unless you want to keep it for some reason. The ring is yours. Not mine. I took all my stuff; there’s nothing for you to do. I took care of it. 

Good luck, Jack. I love you. I think I always will…maybe…maybe you’re my Diane. Who knows. 

But goodbye. 

Good luck. Don’t hate me, please. 

Love,

Your Bluefire. 

            Jack came home to an empty house, the kind of empty that rings with the echo of a previous presence, a presence that’s now gone. Gone completely and totally. Irreversibly. He came home to a coat room that had none of your shoes, none of your coats. A living room that was devoid of your trophies and trinkets. A kitchen that had only his plain glassware and cutlery, all your novelty or special ones were gone. 

            Except the ones you’d given him. Like the mug which said Power tools? I think you mean arms, a picture of his bicep on it, one you made and one which made you laugh when you’d given it to him. Just laughed in a way that he loved, that he wanted to see always, that had rung through him. 

            He came home to a house that was empty of you. Everything of yours was gone, from the bedroom and the bathrooms and the closets. Every single thing that was yours was gone. 

            And that was when he found the letter. The ring. And he read it, every word, took note of every tear stain, of every place you’d written so hard that there was a hole. He took note of every emotion that must have been running through you as you wrote it. He took note of it all. 

            And then he lost it. 

            He lost it because you were wrong. So horribly wrong. He did see you, he always had. He just didn’t always know how to express that. He thought marrying you would show you, that being yours in name and body and soul showed you that. He thought that waking you every morning saying I love you did that. He thought everything he was doing was showing that to you. 

            Only for him to find out that it didn’t. 

            And to find out in a fucking letter. He thought he deserved a face-to-face conversation, a sit-down talk, one where you could reason through those things destroying you and him and the two of you, the us that you had. A talk where you could salvage what was, could see the truth. 

            The truth that he loved you. That he saw you. That he’d do anything to have you understand that, to understand just how much he saw you. Just how much he loved you. 

            Because he does, love you that is. With all that he is, with all that can be. He felt that life had been rote, just a set of actions that had to be done, death a grand temptation—until you. 

            You had walked into the ED on a stormy day, looking like the sun for all the world, like a blazing fire, warmth and light and life with a darker centre. A sharpness, a wildness. You had walked in and suddenly life didn’t so rote anymore. 

            It seemed worthwhile for the first time in seven years, for the first time since he held Diane’s hand as she drew her last breath, cancer having whittled her away to nothing. It seemed worthwhile because you made everything around you bright and warm and he had been cold for too long. 

            And now you were gone and the room was cold. The house was cold, the whole fucking world was cold and dark and he felt alone for the first time since that day three years ago when you walked in with that smile, the smile that made everything less. Everything lighter. 

            He reads the letter again, the tears pouring down his face, streaming, falling onto the paper, landing on the marks that were once yours, the last joining he’ll really have with you. And as he reads, he notices everything. It’s like he can see those instances before him as if they’re playing out before him. 

            He can see those drunken moments when past and present seemed to verge into one, becoming what was there. He can see those mornings when he was hungover and snappy and irritated. He can see those moments when it seemed like he looked through you and not at you. He can see the toll his mistakes took, the way you seemed to dim. 

            The way loving him took just a bit of your life away, a bit of your warmth. The way his love began to choke you, block the oxygen from your flame, slowly starving you away. 

            And he loses it, but not in anger. Instead, he holds your letter in one hand, the paper crumpling in his fist, the mug of his arm in the other, your laughter still ringing through the halls as he cries, tears fast and slow, hard and soft. He cries and lets the tears fall, his muscles spasming, pain shooting through the leg that was but never will be again. He cries and can feel the way his throat becomes hoarse, lungs start to burn and heart beat fast. He cries and it’s in those moments of weakness that the mug slips from his fingers and falls onto the porcelain, shattering. 

            The pieces of porcelain shatter into a million pieces, some large, some small, some so tiny that he can’t even see them. It’s then he understands. 

            The relationship didn’t break loudly like the glass, it broke in little ways, a million microscopic pieces breaking off amid every small little trouble and when it broke in a big way, like the way that made you leave, there is no putting it back together. 

            Because you’re missing all those little pieces that you didn’t even realize were gone. 

            Until you try to put it back together and nothing fits quite right. 

            “Lena! Lena, listen to me,” Jack yells, his voice echoing and cracking in his house, the house still ringing with your absence. “I need to talk to her! Lena!” He can feel that rage building in him, the helpless kind. The kind that chokes and kills and injures the one who feels it because it just seems to shut you down. 

            “Listen to me, Jack Abbot,” Lena says, her voice calm and low, quiet in an eerie, dangerous way. “I will be nothing but civil to you at work, but if you ask me about my daughter again, I will be going Mama Bear on you and you do not want to see my claws.”

            And then the line goes dead and he pulls the phone from his ear, looking at his lockscreen, at the photo of you that you didn’t know he had taken. A photo of you standing at the nurse’s station, caught midlaugh, looking for all the world like the sun. 

            His sun. 

            The light he took for granted never thinking it would be gone. 

            “Hi, Diane,” Jack whispers as he maneuvers himself to the ground, crossing his one leg, stretching out his prosthetic, taking it as he sits before the gravestone Diane had picked out during her hospice days. A simple arch, her name inscribed with her favourite quote—All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his act being seven ages.

            He had wanted something better, something that seemed more her, but she had fought him on it, asking him what was more of an English teacher than a Shakespeare quote. And he had said nothing because it was her grave, her death. Her remembrance.  

            You had said once that you wanted twin graves with whoever you loved. You said you wanted them like J.R.R and Edith Tolkien, the character inscriptions they had. You said you wanted people to know that in your life, you had love. The kind that lasts. The kind that heals. The kind that defies all odds. And then you had laughed, said that was impossible, just the ramblings of a hopeless romantic. 

            He had told you he loved you then. And then he had kissed you, the first kiss you two had shared, one sweet and unsure and unsteady, yet all the more perfect. One that tasted like the raspberry on your tongue. 

            A kiss he could still taste now. 

            “I know I’ve been gone a bit. I’ve been busy…planning my wedding that is now off. Remember when we were planning ours? How we decided it was too much hassle and just had a courthouse wedding? You wore a pantsuit and we didn’t even have our parents there…they were so pissed but we…we were happy. I remember that most of all. How you had laughed…how you smiled. I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world to have you smile at me like that. And I still do. I was lucky that I got to love you…but I don’t love you like I did then.

            “I fucked up, Di. I fucked up the relationship I had, the love I had because I feel guilty. I feel like I shouldn’t feel as much love for her as I do because of you…because…I had a love, you know?...I don’t want to…to make this, us, nothing, you know? But because of that guilt, I’ve fucked up a relationship that means everything to me. 

            “I feel guilty even saying that, but Di…I love her in a way I never loved you. I loved you like my equal, like my partner and I love her like she’s everything. And yet…yet I fucked it up because I felt so wrong for it, because I held onto you. I mean…fuck, I still have your ring around my neck on a chain. And she…she didn’t even care. She used to say she understood that you had been first, so of course I’d always love you. 

            “She’s fucking everything and I broke her heart because I couldn’t just talk to her. I lost her because I couldn’t communicate. I couldn’t tell her that I felt like I was betraying you or making our relationship…less. I broke her heart and yet she did everything she could to make her leaving even easier on me. How perfect is she, honestly? She seems impossible, like a dream but I know she’s real. I know she’s real because somehow she feels realer than anything in my life before.

            “And I fucked it up. And god…Diane…I don’t know what to do! That’s…that’s what I wish you were here for…so you could tell me what to do. How to fix it…because I think…maybe, I can’t. I wish you were here…not to love youthis time…but just so you could tell me what the hell to do! To do to get her back! Because Diane…I love her. So much. Impossibly much. And all I want is her back and I know one thing you would tell me to do so…I think it’s time, Diane. 

            “I think it’s time you have your ring back,” he finishes, the tears still pouring down his face, hot and heavy and drying as he removes the chain from around his neck, the one where he’s had Diane’s wedding ring resting since she’s been gone, that last bit he’s been unable to give up. 

            He digs into the ground before her gravestone, just deep enough that he can bury it again, laying the woven sterling silver band down and covering it with the dirt, a single red rose laid over to cover it. 

            And then he pulls your engagement ring from his pocket, slipping it onto the chain and clasping it around his neck. 

            “Bye Diane,” he says and then he rises, brushing the dirt from his knees, tucking the chain beneath his shirt and walking off, holding tight to the last piece of you.

            He just wishes he didn’t have to lose you to realize how much he loves you. 

            New York is a lot. 

            It’s big and busy and crowded and yet empty at the same time. It’s quiet and it’s noisy and it never sleeps yet is in bed by nine o’clock. It’s restless and reckless and yet overly cautious. And you love it. 

            You feel alive in a way you didn’t back in Pittsburgh. You feel alive because you’re home. 

            “I still can’t believe Lena never sold this place,” Vicky says, her hands trailing over the wall, her fingers marking every notch your mom made your first two years as her daughter when the two of you lived here, in this house. The notches of your height, your childhood playroom still filled with your toys and the photo albums of your childhood where every awkward phase is perfectly captured. 

            “Mom says it’s too special. It was her parent’s and now hers and…she wants it to be mine one day,” you reply, turning, two glasses of iced water held tight in your hand, perspiration slicking against your skin. “And I’m glad. I love this place.”

            “It’s home, right?” Victoria asks, her voice softer than normal. Delicate and fragile in a way she hasn’t been in a year. Not since Pitt Fest. 

            “Yeah,” you whisper, looking around the room, taking in every inch of the kitchen. The kitchen where your first full day as a Handzo had taken place, your mom asking you if you wanted to help her bake some cookies. 

            You had never been asked that before. You’d never had homemade cookies, period. 

            “Why?” Vicky asks you, her voice still fragile but with an undercurrent of anger in it. As if she’s angry that you don’t consider the place you really grew up, grew up with her, home.

            “Because this was the first place I had a family,” you tell her and you can see the way she softens, that small, delicate smile blooming as she takes one glass from you, her fingers brushing yours in a tender, familial way. “Pittsburgh was just the place where it got bigger.”

            “And New York is where you’re expanding it again,” she says and you can’t help the soft smile that blooms on your face as you look down at your stomach, the one just barely showing now at the three-month mark, your hand coming to rest on it, rubbing a small circle on the bump where your child grows. 

            “Yeah, it is. In the same place it started.” And you feel that lump in your throat, the one that’s never far away these days because you miss Jack. You miss the way he held you, his grip firm and soft at the same time, comforting and steady. Guiding when you felt like you were lost. 

            But guiding you to what?

            “How’s the ED here?” Vicky says, her voice enough to draw you from the slight image forming of Jack, his smile and the way his eyes though always tired seemed to gleam. 

            “Pretty good,” you tell her. “We get way more traumas through. Like…a lot. Maybe not like more, but a decent amount. And the other residents are awesome. Not like my Pittlings but…they’re pretty damn nice.”

            “Just don’t go replacing us, alright? Trin will kill you if she loses her godmother status to one of the New Yorkers,” Vicky says and you sigh, lifting the sweating glass to your lips and taking a swallow, the feeling of the ice water easily tracked as it slides down your throat, cooling your insides, causing a shiver to run through you. 

            “You guys are my family,” you tell her. “They’re just my friends.” And there’s nothing else you need to say because Vicky gets it. She always has, since the day you met her in the PTMC daycare—a crying two-year-old that exasperated the daycare attendants. The crying two-year-old that stopped when you cared for her. 

            The now twenty-one-year-old who still needs your shoulder when she cries. The sister you chose, the sister who chose you—whose shoulder is there for you. 

            Trinity gets it too. She gets it because she was the twenty-two-year-old M2 you ran into when you were late your first day who told you chill, I’ll get you where you need to go, kiddo. The older sister who just knew that you needed someone to look out for you, the way you look out for everyone else. 

            And Dennis, sweet little Dennis, understands too. Because he is your brother, the one you call your twin. The boy who asked you for your number after your first class together first day of med school and then blushed so furiously when he realized it seemed he was asking you out and he clarified that he needed a friend. 

            And you took him under your wing. How could you not?

            They understand because they know that family is not the blood, but rather the ties that bind and the four of you are so tightly woven that there is no untangling. 

            You’re bound for life. A family. 

            “Take a break, Jesus,” Antony cries out, his face twisted in exhaustion as he bends at the waist, hands on his knees, sucking in a deep breath. “How do you just keep moving?! You’re pregnant!”

            “As if I don’t fucking know, Ant,” you reply, one hand on your lower back, the other on your stomach, the weight of your bump growing heavier and heavier as the weeks go by. It’s one thing to objectively know that babies grow fast and grow heavy, but it’s another thing to experience it. 

            “Just saying!” he retorts, his eyes twinkling as he rises, his lips curving into a mischievous smile, one that you recognize as trouble. You’ve found that four months is enough to learn the language of someone’s smile. Especially someone as easy to read as Antony. 

            “What’s your aim here?” you ask him, taking the iPad that Charge Nurse Ava hands you, her head jerking in the direction of Central 2. 

            “I need someone to come with me to the gay bar on third! Just so I know if the guy I’m meeting with is going to kill me or not, pretty please,” he says and you glance at the iPad, taking note of the case—bowel issue—and back at him. 

            “Take this case for me and we’re good,” you tell him, giving him a sweet smile, one that’s saccharine with how sweet yet he doesn’t notice, simply takes it from you, mouthing thank you until he takes note of the chart. 

            “Shit,” he hisses, looking back up at you and shaking his head. “I’m never falling for that again.”

            “Too late.”

            Jack doesn’t even take notice of the sunset as he steps into the hospital, backpack over his shoulder. He doesn’t say hi to Robby or Dana or any of the Pittlings. He doesn’t do his old Nightcrawler chant. He doesn’t do anything he used to do. 

            Because the world is dark and cold and you are gone. Four months. Four months without your warmth, but he will go a lifetime without it so long as he can hold onto that little bit of hope inside of him. 

            The hope that you come back and he can win you over again. 

            “Jesus, Trin,” you hiss as you open the door, exposing her standing there on your porch, laden down with a bright blue bag so full that baby things are peeking around the zipper. “What the hell is all this?”

            “You’re having a boy,” she says, pushing past you, mindful of your five-month bump. “Which means we need to begin planning how to make him a good guy now. And I have to be the best aunt which means if I have to physically fight Crash, I will.”

            “You sure are dedicated,” you tell her as you shut the door, locking it and sliding the deadbolt into place along with the safety chain and the special snib lock. “But you know I’m alright, right?”

            She looks back at you, one eyebrow arched and lips pursed in that expression she has that calls bullshit, but you can see the slight wobble in her lip and the sadness in her eyes. This isn’t about your son; this isn’t about being the best aunt. 

            This about you being gone. 

            “Come here, Trin,” you whisper, opening your arms wide and she doesn’t hesitate, just runs and wraps her arms around you, the only person she can be tender with, the person who knows all her scars and loves her not despite them, but because of them—because they’re a piece of her. 

            “I just fucking miss you,” she cries, her body hiccupping with sobs as she holds tight to you, her tears soaking into your graphic tee. 

            “I miss you too. So much.”

            “Mother,” you say, tone stern as Lena falls quiet. “I am fine. Please do not transfer up to New York. I am handling pregnancy quite well on my own.”

            “I’m taking two months sabbatical for your birth though. Non-negotiable. I will be there for you to break every bone in my hand. I will be there so you’re not alone, okay? You need someone and I’m not missing this, sweetie,” she says and you feel like crying because how did you get so lucky to get a mother like this. 

            “Deal,” you whisper around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to be alone for it.”

            “And you won’t be.”

            What can Jack say about his life?

            It’s empty and it’s lonely and it’s cold. It’s dark and it’s cramped and it’s horrible because you’re not in it. 

            He’s realized these past seven months that he hadn’t seen you. Not really. Because he missed all the little things. All the small things you did that seemed to brighten a room. That seemed to warm it from the inside out. That seemed to fix it. 

            He realized that he’s only seen the outside part of you. The curated sunshine for everyone’s benefit. But as he overhears Santos and Javadi and Whittaker talking about you, about what they’ve done with you in New York, he realizes that he missed seeing a whole version of you. 

            He didn’t see you when he had you. 

            He’s only seen you now that you’re gone.

            “MOM!” you cry, your gaze locked on the puddle underneath you, the one glimmering in the lights, the one that’s sticky on your legs, caused by that contraction. “MOM!”

            “What’s wrong, sweetie?” she cries, bursting into your room, her hair coming loose from her ponytail as she takes in the puddle, in you and she just nods. “Okay.”

            And then she guides you to the car, grabs your go-bag and drives you to the hospital, guiding you into the wheelchair, wheeling you up to the maternity floor herself. 

            She’s there when they get you in a bed. She’s there as the contractions grow closer and closer. She’s there as they rip through you, her hand in yours, voice calm as she tells you that you’re wonderful and perfect and she loves you and she’s there. 

            She’s there as the doctor guides you through the birth. She’s there as you push your baby into the world. She’s there as you hear his first strangled cry. She’s there as they cut the umbilical cord. She’s there as you hold your son for the first time. She’s there for it all. 

            Because you’re her daughter. 

            Where else would she be but with you?

            Even when the only person you want beside you is the person who broke your heart in the first place, the person with those steady hazel eyes and the smile of a thousand stories. 

            You want Jack.

            “Sammy,” you whisper, lifting the bundled baby from his crib, his cries ripping through the still air of your house, where just you and him live. “Sammy, bud, Mommy’s here. Mommy’s not going anywhere.”

            It’s while you cradle him to your chest, his cries softening as you rock him and hold him and sing to him that you wish Jack were here, not for the first time, just behind you, his hand on your shoulder and the other on Sammy’s head as he whispers calm down, bub. We’re not going anywhere. 

            “He’s a little terror,” you tell Dennis as you lean back against the couch, your feet on Trinity’s lap, Vicky in the kitchen while Dennis plays with Sammy on the floor, race cars zooming around your chubby little son. 

            “He’s an angel,” Dennis counters—precisely as Sammy runs the car over his little toy with shocking force. Enough that Dennis cries out. “Maybe…a fallen angel.”

            “Not for me,” Trin says. “But that’s cause I’m a cool aunt.”

            “You’re not a normal aunt; you’re a cool aunt!” Vicky calls out as she steps into the room, Jones’ sodas held in her hands as she passes out the flavours, the four of you cracking them open and reading the fortunes in the lid while Sammy giggles at his race cars. 

            “’You will grow to love yourself’,” Trin says, snorting as she takes a swig of the cream soda. “I already did.”

            “’Take joy in the small moments’,” Dennis reads and he screws the lid back on, setting the bottle aside as he lifts Sammy up and onto his lap, looking over you and Trin and Vicky. “I think I am.”

            “’Understand that you are you’,” Vicky says and she sighs, leaning back in the recliner, smiling at the three of you. “I understand.”

            And you look at your fortune, heart stuttering just a bit at the words. “’Remember that perceptions in love matter. Not everyone sees it all the same’.”

            And you can’t help but think of Jack.

            Jack loves you. 

            That’s all he really knows these days. These years that you have been gone. He loves you, every bit of you, every scrap of an update that he over hears. Every piece that he remembers. 

            Every piece that was. 

            He just loves you. 

            And he’ll do anything to get you back. 

            The email sits before you, the job offer to be an attending back in Pittsburgh. Back in the PTMC at the ED. The place you’ve wanted to work since you arrived there with your mother all those years ago, your things in cardboard boxes in a professional moving truck, objects that belonged to you and not just clothes that you needed. 

            “What do you say, bud?” you ask your little boy, now turned two. “Should we move…home?” And when he claps twice and giggles you take it as a sign. 

            You accept it. 

            “Don’t worry about hand-offs this morning, kid,” Robby says, his voice familiar to you, the only ex of your mother’s that ever actually cared for you. “I know you don’t wanna see him.”

            “Robs,” you sigh, looking away out your window, the house you share with your mother since she insisted you needed help watching Sammy even as you’ve managed on your own in New York. “I’ll have to see him eventually.”

            “But you don’t have to on your first day back,” he counters and you can’t argue with him, simply shrug and look down at your interlaced hands, the baby monitor not far away as Sammy snoozes. 

            “Okay,” you say and then Robby is there, pulling you into a hug, one that’s strong and steady and reminds you of when you were ten and your mom had already been divorced twice and she was dating Robby and he understood. 

            He understood that you and Lena were a unit, that no one came before you for her because you were her child. And he put you first. 

            And now, as you return the hug with the first man whose been like a father to you, you wonder if he still is. 

            “Jesus,” you hiss, rolling your shoulders, the muscles aching from the day you’ve had. The day of rolling people and doing chest compressions and working within the small budget. “New York had way more tools.”

            “Only because you were at that fancy one,” Dennis reminds you and you can’t help but stick your tongue out at him as you lean against the counter, the two of you the attendings for the day, Trin off and Javadi still in residency. 

            She chose the ED when she had a pregnancy case. She told you she couldn’t stop wondering what if that had been you? Someone needs to be there for them. And she can be that. 

            “The fancy one was wonderful and god, I miss it,” you reply as you lean against the nurse’s station, observing the chaos of the Pitt, the day shift. “I’d be home by now with Sammy there.”

            “Can you shut up about New York?” he asks you and you look over at him, one eyebrow arched as you take in his appearance, the pinched expression and the sad gleam in his eyes. You know that New York didn’t just save you from seeing Jack, it also hurt the people that you love because you were always there and then suddenly you weren’t. 

            “No,” you tell him, sliding along the station to be right beside him, your arm up against his as you look at him, your brother for all intents and purposes, the one you can call at 3AM because you’re freaking out about a baby temperature. “Because it happened. I lived there, I worked there and I’m only just back, but Den…this place is home.”

            “Glad to hear that kiddo,” you hear Dana say and you glance over your shoulder, taking in your aunt—Dana Evans ne Handzo, one of three daughters. 

            “I literally told you that yesterday, Auntie,” you reply and all she does is let out that laugh of hers, the husky smoker one as she steps around to stand in front of you and Dennis, her lips curved up in that smile she has, the one that says I love you, you annoying bastards. 

            “It’s nice to hear it though,” Dennis whispers and then you can feel his arm around your shoulder and you lean into him, your head resting on his chest as you sigh just slightly, looking up at the display board, the time 7:00 PM and the names of patients in their bays.

            “Just tell me when you need to hear it,” you whisper and the squeeze on your upper arm from his hand tells you that he understands. “Now, where the hell is the night shift?”

            “Behind you, bitch.” You can feel a smile grow on your face, the one that you try to suppress but can’t, the full expression their as you take in the sight of Parker, their face twisted into faux-outrage, but really just happiness. 

            “Nice to see you too, Ellis,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your brows as they drop their bag and step to you, arms open wide. In a gesture you return, the embrace calm and steady and everything you’d missed. 

            “Missed you,” they say into your hair and all you do is squeeze them in reply. Because you don’t think you can reply, you don’t think you can speak around that lump in your throat, the one that’s hard and salty like the tears that burn your eyes. 

            “Save some of that for me!” calls the voice of one John Shen. You pull back from Ellis and shake your head at him, before lifting one arm and gesturing him over, wrapping him in a hug, one that he returns with vigor, lifting you up and spinning you around. An overly flamboyant gesture for someone normally so reserved and chill. 

            “Jeez,” you say, your voice tight, just slightly choked around the lump in your throat, “you guys are gonna make me feel all special if you keep it up.” And when you pull back from John, you can see his face has shuttered into that serious expression he has. 

            “You are,” he says and those words themselves are almost enough to bring you to your knees, but you simply smile a watery kind of smile, waving your hand, washing away his statement. Ignoring it even as it rings through your bones and your heart. 

            “Deliver for Attending Physician Handzo,” calls out the familiar voice of your mother and you turn, taking in the sight of her holding the hand of a very small and chubby toddler with auburn curls and hazel eyes. 

            “Thanks, Mom,” you tell her, drawing in a sharp, nasally breath, blinking past the tears that have gathered in your eyes, instead waking to her and scooping Sammy up into your arms. “Hey, buddy. You ready to go home with Mommy?”

            “Yeah,” he says, his voice high-pitched in that frail toddler way, the kind of way that is soon to be gone, grown out of, just like everything else. Because someday he will grow up to be a boy. A boy who needs guidance to become a man. A boy will know the rights and wrongs, the struggles of the people that are not him. A boy you have to guide to become a good man. 

            “Then I shall leave the handoffs in Uncle Denny’s hands, right?” you ask him, wincing just slightly as his small, chubby hands find your hair, tugging on the strands with a force that’s all new of his terrible twos. 

            “Yeah!” he cries, one hand tugging on a strand with particular force as the other waves in the air, excited and fast. 

            It was then you heard the strangled sound, the kind that was deep and yet high at the same time. The sound of a man who has seen the most shocking thing, the most beautiful, the most miraculous and you knew. You knew it was Jack because you felt it in your bones, in your heart, in your mind. 

            It was like you had some sensor for him. Like you were attune to him. 

            You don’t know why you turn, only that you do and the sight is enough to knock the breath from your lungs because he looks awful. He looks like a man devoid of purpose, a man who is living life like a machine, doing this and doing that and not getting anything from it. Just doing it because it’s what’s supposed to be done. 

            A glint of light on his chest draws your eye down, your gaze snagged by the ring around the chain where Diane’s wedding ring always sat—where the engagement ring you left behind now sits, his hand drifting up to clutch at it as he looks at you and the baby on your hip. 

            The baby who looks a lot like him. 

            “Bluefire?” he whispers and even if the entire ED hadn’t fallen quiet, you would have heard him. Would have heard him ten thousand miles away because you still love him. You weren’t lying when you wrote that he was your Diane. He is the first man you ever loved—first person—and the first who broke your heart in totality. 

            But he is still the man who helped you fix the pieces of yourself that you thought were broken when you first met.

            And he is still the father of your child.

            “Hi, Jack,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but from the way his face brightens, the way a gleam comes into his eyes, you know he’s the same as you. 

            He would hear you from ten thousand miles away. 

            He’ll always hear you. 

            Life has been rote, nothing and empty, just a house that echoes with your ghost, your image everywhere doing a million different things. He could see you in the living room, your legs thrown over the top of the couch, your head on the floor as you watch TV upside down. He could see you smiling at him from the chair in the den you turned into a library, knees up and textbook resting between them. He could see you in the kitchen making cookies, the recipe one of Lena’s, the first ones you’d ever made. 

            The first ones you’d ever had. 

            He could see you doing face masks in the bathroom, gesturing him over, trying to put one on him. He could see you with your gym bag, leaving the house and coming back, sweaty and tired but smiling. He could see you lying in bed, trying to meditate but really only sleeping. 

            And in all of those, there was always a hint of your smile, of your joy. Of your happiness. The smile that has been missing from his life for three years. 

            Three painful years. 

            Three years of watching your ghosts spin around his house. Three years of holding onto your hygiene products just to lift them up to smell them, hoping to capture your scent, but always missing that essential part—you. Three years of holding onto your engagement ring every time he missed you, wanted you, felt pain or anything at all. Three years of writing you a thousand letters that he had no way of ever getting to you. Three years of mourning you as if you’d died because in many ways, you had. 

            He was dead to you and so, in a way, you made yourself a living ghost in his life. 

            One that haunts him every day, so much that when he stepped into the ED and saw you lift a toddler up and place him on your hip, he thought he was hallucinating. 

            Seeing what he wanted. The future he had dreamed of, but thought was impossible. Something he didn’t get to have, something he didn’t deserve. 

            The guilt over moving on didn’t just apply to you but to that family he never got to build with Diane and seeing you now, with a baby, one with his auburn curls and his hazel eyes and his nose sends that shockwave through him. 

            The one that says that what he is seeing is a miracle. The one that says that what he is seeing is real in a way that nothing ever really has been. The one that says you need to grab hold of them, hold fast and protect them. 

            Don’t fuck this up again. 

            “Bye Jack,” you say and then he’s seeing you turn and begin to walk away, the baby babbling away, tugging on strands of your beautiful, perfect hair. 

            And he’s frozen, every muscle rigid.

            And he just lets you walk away. Because what else can he do?

            Seeing Jack hurt you. It felt like being stabbed in the gut over and over again destroyed over and over, your heart stomped on again and again and again. 

            It hurt you like nothing has before—not because the hurt of not being seen is still as strong, but because it felt like he did see you. 

            But only once you were gone. 

            “Mom watches Sammy while I’m work, you know this, Trin,” you tell her, the two of you walking in tandem towards the incoming trauma, the two of you running the Pitt as efficiently as possible, waiting for traumas as they were called. 

            “Yeah, but,” she says as the two of you pull on over-scrubs and gloves, glasses firmly in place. “You, Huckleberry and I never all work on the same days…This means that at least one of us is always available to watch Sammy. It would give your mom time to rest and me more time to…educate your son.”

            “He’s two,” you say, your tone deadpan and flat. “He doesn’t need his feminism education yet.”

            “It’s never too early to start,” she counters and you sigh, turning to her and fixing her with a glare, one that causes her to wince. 

            “When he can understand the words needed for a basic feminism education, fine. But he’s two. He cannot yet understand it; it’s enough that his bedtime story is Gender Trouble, okay?”

            “Who the fuck picked that?” she asks you as the EMTs arrive, wheeling the gurney holding the SWAT officer, blood dripping from him to the floor. 

            “You did,” you tell her as the two of you rush to assist the EMTs, the team awaiting in the trauma prepared, transferring him to the table and starting work on his two GSWs. 

            But what catches your attention is not the body before you but the man behind you, the one you caught a glimpse of in the glass, arms crossed, biceps bulging against his SWAT uniform, worry etched in every line of his face. 

            “Get him up to surgery!” you say, the resident whose name you haven’t yet learned and the new med student nod, assisting the surgical transport team as you peel the gloves from your hands and the over-scrub, dumping them and stepping out, your safety glasses coming off, tucked back into the breast pocket of your scrubs. 

            “We need to talk.”

            The words you’ve been dreading since you came back, since you first saw Jack. Since you started avoiding him, successfully for two weeks. The words that tell you that maybe you did fuck up by just leaving. 

            By not telling him that you were pregnant and giving him the opportunity to tell you the truth. By not giving him the truth. 

            The words still ring through you as you follow Jack to the on-call room, mind just slightly hazy as he closes the door, locking it, preventing any nosy Pittling (Trinity) from getting in and disturbing this. 

            Because this is the moment you need to tell him. It doesn’t matter how he looks at you, what he says or does or how he reacts. It doesn’t fucking matter because he deserves to know. And he deserves the chance to say he wants to be part of his son’s life. 

            And he deserves to know that he just can’t be a part of yours. 

            Because no matter how much you love him, you can’t go back to being someone who isn’t seen. 

            “Jack…” you whisper, but you don’t even get a full sentence out before you begin to cry, breath hiccupping as the tears fall fast and furious down your cheeks. And then he’s there, his arms around you in that grip that is steady and safe and warm. His arms locked tight around you as he holds you upright as you cry, your tears soaking his scrubs, knees buckling as every sob becomes harder and larger and more painful. 

            “Shh,” he whispers, one hand moving up and down your back in that rhythm he’s always had that calms you, rights you and tells you all will be well. The rhythm you’ve missed in your time apart. “It’s okay. I understand.”

            “But Jack,” you cry, pulling away from him, away from his touch, your arms going around yourself, holding tight to your abdomen as if it’s the only thing holding you together. As if you remove your arms, you’ll fall apart, all those loose pieces spilling and breaking even more. “You…you have a—son.”

            “I figured,” he says, his voice steady and soft in that way he has to comfort, never judge. “He looks like me.”

            “He…h-he really fucking does, doesn’t he?” you cry, your breaths still hiccupping and frail and fragile. You feel breakable in this moment, more than you did three years ago when you left him. When you chose yourself. 

            “Yeah. Minute I saw the hair, I had a guess,” he says and you can feel your knees buckle, give way and you sink down onto the couch, your head falling into your hands, elbows digging into your thighs. 

            “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your mind running so fast that there’s a ringing in your ears and the world is blurry as your vision tilts and skews. “I didn’t think you’d be this cool about it.”

            “Sweetheart,” he whispers and you can feel the couch bend under his weight, dipping on his side as his hand comes to rest on your back as the hiccupping and burning starts again, the tears never far from the surface. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. I…I k-know I didn’t…see you so…I know what I did. I know what I said and I wish, god, I wish I’d never done those things, but I did. I can’t change them…but I can try to…to move forwards.” You lift your head to look at him, at the way his face is open, twisted in pain and sadness, tears marking his cheeks just like yours. 

            “You really hurt me,” you whisper and you watch as those words land, his face twisting in on itself even more. “But…but a part of me didn’t tell you because…because I didn’t want the first time you really saw me to be…to be with anger because you don’t fucking want a kid!”

            And in his eyes you can see confusion and then the dawn of understanding and he pulls you against him, tight and strong and fast, his arms steady and strong as you continue to cry and he does too, his tears falling on your head, on your neck, feeling for all the world like raindrops. 

            “I thought I was too old,” he whispers, his hand still rubbing your back in that soothing motion. “I thought I was too old…too fucked up…I didn’t think I deserved a kid. Deserved to have a family. I had this…fucking guilt that I had moved on and when you asked that day…about a kid. I felt so guilty that I said no, but baby, I wanted—want—everything with you. I want whatever you’re willing to give me.”

            You look up at him to see that quiet sincerity in his perfect hazel eyes, those eyes that tell you a thousand different things in a language you learned to read long ago. A language you can still read now. 

            “I need you to prove that you see me,” you whisper and watch as he pulls from his bag three large stacks of envelopes, the top ones addressed with your name in his tight, neat script. 

            “I wrote you a letter,” he whispers, setting the stacks between the two of you, a barrier of a different sort. “One for every day that you’ve been gone. 1095 letters, sweetheart.” His hand comes to rest on your cheek, palm cupping just gently as his thumb smooths across your cheekbone. 

            “Then let me take it one day at a time, Jack,” you reply and he nods, leaning forwards to press a soft and gentle kiss to your forehead. 

            “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Day 1 without you

Dear Bluefire,

God, what am I even doing? You’re never gonna read this, never even see me again if I know you. And I do know you. I know how stubborn you are and how brave and how perfect and beautiful. 

I know you. Just you. But you may have been right, sweetheart. I think I was too choked with guilt for loving you more to really see you the way I should have. 

But it’s too late now, isn’t it?

Maybe one day I’ll send these, these letters to you. Maybe one day you’ll read them and know one thing: I love you. 

God, do I love you.

Love,

Your Jack.

Day 37 without you

Dear Bluefire,

I really fucking miss you. I miss the way you sleep, the way you pull me tight against you like a blanket. I miss the way you needed to cuddle after a hard shift. I miss the way you’d show up during my shift just to bring me something even when you should have been sleeping. I miss the way you used to say my name. 

I miss the way you sit and the way you read, your mouth silently speaking the dialogue, as if you’re acting it out like an actor on a stage. I miss the way you watch movies, the way you get so into it, exclaiming in outrage or delight or sadness. 

I just miss you. 

God, this is pathetic. But it’s true. Perhaps the truest thing I’ve ever written. 

Day 365 without you

Dear Bluefire,

One year. One whole fucking year you’ve been gone and all I can think about is you. It’s like the world is dark and you were the light and now you’re gone. And I can’t see anything before me without you. 

In case you can’t tell, it means I miss you. 

And all I’ve been thinking about is what you asked me that day when I was hungover. If I wanted kids. And I said no. But that’s not true and I worry that that’s what’s fucked our relationship up. 

The truth is…is that yes, I want kids. I want kids with you, it doesn’t really have anything to do with Diane except that I feel guilty that I’m happy and she’s gone. I want kids but I fear that I’m too fucked up for them, that I’d ruin them by just being me. And I don’t want that. 

But all I can see in the house, is you. As a mother. You coming home after a long shift and scooping up the kid that I’ve spent my day with while I change out and go. You coming home on a night I have off and we settle down in the living room with our kids (yes, I know. Plural) and watch whatever kids movie they want for the umpteenth time while we share looks over their heads about how much we hate it. 

God, I sound pathetic. But I love you, Bluefire. I love you so much. 

Day 730 without you

Dear Bluefire,

I don’t really know what to say. Only that I miss you and that life is harder without you. The only that’s keeping me going is that hope you spoke about. The hope that you’ll come back and rescue me. 

Can you be my knight in shining armor? I’ll play the damsel in distress so long as it makes you come back to me. 

Please, Bluefire. Rescue me.

I love you.

Day 1095 without you

Dear Bluefire,

I will write one of these every day that you’re not in my life. Because it’s manifestation, right? Isn’t that what Javadi talks about? Manifesting destiny?

While this is me doing just that. Manifesting us and our happy ending. Our marriage. One where I see you. Every inch of you. 

I will never not see you so long as you come back. See? Manifesting. I really fucking hope it works, sweetheart. Cause I need you. 

I love you more than life. 

Your Jack.

            The letters made you cry, made you sob and heave and buckle, the noise of your cries disturbing Sammy who would only calm down once you did and once you sang to him. Once you sang to him “Looking Through a Window.”

            The letters made you fall apart because in them, you heard him, Jack. You heard him realize how he fucked everything up, how he didn’t see you but he did now and how much he needed you. 

            And you took it a day at a time, reading his thoughts over three years. It took you a day. It took you one whole day in between caring for Sammy and occasionally calming your friends down over something stupid. 

            It took you a day, but it took you through three years. Three years of emptiness and loneliness and understanding.

            It took you through a life of a man who realized he had lost everything he ever cared for. 

            And you didn’t want him to stay lost. 

            “Sammy,” you say, lifting him from his car seat, settling him on your hip, turning and noticing Jack, standing stiff and straight in front of the Toys-R-Us. It’s his soldier posture, hands clasped behind his back, chest thrown out. “Let’s go meet your daddy.”

            “Hi,” he says when you get close to him and you can see the vulnerability on his face, the fear. Something you never thought you would see on his face. 

            “Hey, meet Sammy Rhys Handzo-Abbot,” you say and you watch with that beating in your throat, that pulse of your heart in the muscles of your voice, bated breath. You watch as Jack looks up at you hope, surprise and fear all warring in those perfect, forest eyes. 

            “He has…he has my name?”

            “Yeah,” you whisper, looking down at the cracked concrete beneath your feet. “I told Mom I thought it was a good idea for him to know who his dad is. To carry a piece of him with him so…we filled it out that way.”

            “Hey, bud,” he says, eyes still on you as his hand comes up to cup Sammy’s chubby cheek. And then his attention falls to the little boy in your arms who lets out a small giggle, crying, “Dada! Dada!”

            You watch as silent tears fall from Jack’s eyes, the kinds of tears that show more emotion than any angry or desperate cry does. Because these are the tears you try to prevent from falling in the first place. 

            “Do you want to hold him?” 

            “Can I?” He looks so surprised that you smile at him, a soft and sad smile as you nod. 

            “I read your letters, Jack. I read every word and…I want you…in our lives.”

*

            “Hey,” you call out as Jack steps into the house, your mom out at work, her second job taking her to spend the day helping with caskets. “How was the zoo? Was Sammy too much work?”

            “Do you know he insists on being fucking carried? He didn’t want to walk or use the stroller. He just wanted me to carry him. Do I look like his personal carriage?”

            “No,” you tell him, a laugh bubbling up and over your lips as Sammy toddles in, his hands holding tight to a panda plushie. “You just look like his dad.”

*

            “Come on,” he whispers, his hands holding tight to yours. “I don’t want to be away from you and Sammy and even if it’s the fucking guest room that you live in…sweetheart, just please. Move in with me.”

            “What do you see when you look at me?” you ask him as he lets go of your hands, instead his hands come to rest on your waist, yours looping around his neck, Sammy out for the day with Lena and Dana looking for Mother’s Day gifts. 

            “I see the love of my life, the mother of my child and my future. I see a woman who is strong and bright and brilliant and perfect. I see a woman who holds my heart in her hands,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath becoming your air. 

            “I don’t think I’ll need the guest room.”

*

            “Sammy!” you hear Jack yell, the life you’re building slow but steady. It started with dates, days with Sammy and now…a year later, living together. It was a fight with Lena but a necessary one. You told her that you needed to build your family. 

            And Jack was part of it. 

            “What’s he doing now?!” you yell, stepping out of the library, a book tucked under your arm as you see Jack run past, the giggles your son echoing from a room not that far away. 

            “He has a snake!” You step back into the library and move to shut the door. 

            “I’ll let you deal with that one, babe!”

*

            “Happy birthday, Sammy!” you whisper as you step into his room, watching as his still solid, chubby frame jumps up and runs over to you, his arms looping around your legs as footsteps sound behind you. 

            You can feel Jack place his hand in between your shoulder blades, your body automatically adjusting, leaning back as his other hand comes to rest on Sammy’s head. 

            “Happy birthday, bud. Mommy and Daddy are very excited for today.” He says it just like you always thought he would. 

*

            “God!” Jack cries as you press your lips against his pulse point, your tongue flicking out against it as he thrusts into you for the first time in four years. This is not sex the way it used to be, rather in every thrust in, in every kiss you share, every caress and touch and every time he brings you to your peak, it is an exclamation of I see you, I love you, I will always see you. 

            Every touch Jack gives you, every kiss, caress, lick and thrust is him telling you how much he loves you, just how much he regrets ever losing you in the first place. 

            And in every touch you give him, you tell him just how much you forgive him. 

*

            The dining room is empty, rather laughing echoes from outside as you step into it, a baseball cap on your head, sunscreen on your screen and in your pocket. It’s the day of the farmer’s market and you look forward to it every year, the ones in New York just not the same. 

            “We’re leaving in ten minutes!” you yell, knowing they’ll hear through the open kitchen window and you grab your two canvas bags from where you left them on the counter, a glint catching your attention. 

            It’s a glint on the table. The glint of metal catching light and you walk to it, taking notice of a gold ring set with three stones and a space for a fourth. You see your birthstone, Jack’s and Sammy’s and a space where it looks like a stone was left off or lost. 

            And that’s when you notice the papers.

            You’ve always wanted to adopt, wanted to save a child from the system, give a child the same chance that Lena gave you. You just didn’t think you’d do it, having Sammy and your career and doing it alone seemed like too much, but here before you are the papers to adopt. The ones you fill out to end up on adoption agency records and they’re already partly filled out. 

            The age marked as a child from anywhere from one to twelve. The names…Jack Handzo-Abbot and yours, the same…Handzo-Abbot.

            “Do you know what I’m asking?” Jack asks and you look from the papers to the ring and you do. You really do. 

            He’s asking you to marry him with a ring that’s prepared for your next kid. The one you adopt, just like you always wanted. 

            “You haven’t asked,” you tell him, throat thick as you lift the ring up just as Sammy jumps and hugs your legs, making you stumble just a bit, laughing as you right yourself. 

            “You always wanted to adopt and you don’t have to go any of this alone anymore so…will you marry me and not only make your husband and Sammy’s father but someone you trust to adopt a child with too?”

            “Yes! Yes, I will!” And then he’s there slipping the ring onto your finger and pressing a deep kiss against you, one that tastes of love and family but above all: second chances. 

            Because Jack’s right. You don’t have to go it alone anymore. You never did. 

            Just this time you get to do it all with someone who sees every piece of you and loves you because of them. 

“Fine, did you put Nutella and strawberries in here like I asked? Last time you were very skimpy on Nutella.” You raise an eyebrow. 

“I did, but you didn’t check the bowl when I gave it to you, did you?” He picks the bowl up off your bump and urges you to sit up. 

“No, I just let you set it on my bump, and I thought it would be fun to see how long it would stay.” You smile sheepishly and take the bowl back. Taking a peek inside, you see there is a generous amount of both strawberries and Nutella on the oatmeal. “I’ll eat it now.”

“Thank you.” Nathan watches you take a bite before kissing your forehead and getting up. “I’ll be back around noon, then we’ll finish up the nursery. Please don’t touch it while I’m gone. I can’t have you getting hurt.”

“I won’t, I’ll probably watch something.” You shrug. “There are some shows I want to start.”

“Whatever keeps you out of the nursery.” He agrees and walks to grab his gear. 

“This oatmeal is really good, babe.” You hum and take a few more bites. 

“All to your liking?” 

“Yeah, perfect amount of Nutella this time.” Nathan comes back with his backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m glad, I’ll be back to make lunch.” You smile over at him, and he sits on the arm of the couch.

“Okay. I’m coming to the game tonight, though. I can’t keep staying in this fucking house, or else I’ll lose my goddamn mind.” You sigh and lean your head into your hand. 

“I don’t want you to lose your mind staying in this house.” He chuckles.

“Oof.” You put a hand on your bump as your baby girl kicks. “She’s active today.”

Nathan reaches down and places a hand on the curve of your stomach. “Very active, be nice to your momma, baby girl. I have to go now, or I’m gonna be late. I'll see you in a few hours.”

“Drive safe.” He nods and cups your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. 

“I will.”

“Good. Now I can’t have my baby daddy being late to practice.” You peck his mouth again. 

“Baby daddy? I’m your husband.” Nathan scoffs, and you laugh. 

“My husband, who is going to be late. You have full permission to blame me, and tell Bednar to call me.” 

“You’re in a silly mood this morning. I love you, my beautiful wife, who is doing such a good job keeping our baby safe. I’ll be home later.” He kisses you one last time. 

“I love you too.”

Nathan leaves for practice, and you settle back into the couch with your oatmeal. You try to get comfortable watching a show, but the thought of the still unfinished nursery. You know Nathan would kill you for even setting foot in there. However, your mind keeps wandering, and the trash TV show you’re watching does nothing to distract you. Your eyes flick up the stairs, and you sigh. Pushing yourself off the couch, you waddle up the stairs. God, you hate fucking waddling. 

The nursery is almost finished, the crib is halfway built, the walls are painted to a pretty light blue, and all of the clothes, toys, and diapers need to be organized. It’s all so disorganized, and you need to do something about it. 

Your phone rings on the changing table, another thing that needs to be finished, you grab it and press it to your ear. 

“Hey Y/N, how are you doing today?” Melissa Landeskog says cheerfully over the line. 

“Nate’s gonna kill me.” You sigh and open the boxes of baby clothes and stuffed animals. 

“I'm sure whatever you're doing wouldn't warrant that.” 

“It’s been about twenty minutes since he left for practice, and I did the one thing he asked me not to do.” You want to turn around and walk away from the room, but you just can’t. “I’m in the nursery, and I just keep on thinking about all the things that need to be done in this house before the baby gets here. God, I think I’m going crazy, like I’ve been home for what? Three days? And I already have cabin fever.”

“Slow down, honey. Do you need me to come over and help you sort everything out? I would happily do that.” Melissa offers generously. 

“No, I can’t do that. Nate already said he would help me once he got back from practice. I just can’t seem to sit still.” You slump into the rocking chair placed in the corner of the room.

“You’re normally so busy, Y/N, it’s fine that you’re feeling this way. But you’re having a baby, honey.” 

“I know I am, I just feel so useless.” You rock slowly back and forth, hand resting on your belly.

“You’re pregnant, not useless.” Melissa chuckles. 

“Well, it doesn’t feel that way, I mean, my attending benched me from all surgeries, so I was doing scut work as if I’m not a goddamn doctor.” You feel tears burning at the back of your eyes, “I’ve just been doing so much since the moment I left home at 18, that being told to sit back and relax makes me want to say damn them all and do everything. Sorry, I’m just emotional right now.”

“Never apologize, you have every right to feel this way. But I have to ask, have you told Nathan any of this?” Melissa is a voice of reason, like an older sister who knows just what to say. “I’m taking your silence as a no.”

“I just don’t want to bother him with it, he’s stressed about making the playoffs, and I’m 36 weeks pregnant. He has enough on his plate.” You rub your temples.

“You are his top priority, like the utmost important thing in his life right now. Playoffs be damned, he wants you to be safe. So telling him how you’re feeling is something he deserves to know.” Everything Melissa says makes you realize how in the dark you’ve been keeping him. All for the so-called sake of protecting him, but have you really?

“Thanks for this, Mel. I should talk to him.” You come to the conclusion easily. 

“You should. If no one has told you yet, you’re doing great. You and Nate are going to be amazing parents.” The words catch up to you, and a tear rolls down your face. 

“Thank you, it really means a lot.”

“It’s really no problem,” Melissa guffaws, “Will I see you at the game later?”

“Yeah, you will.” You sniff and wipe at your eyes. 

“Good, I’ll see you then. Bye Y/N.” Melissa says. 

“Bye Mel.” 

The phone call ends, and you drop your phone into your lap with a sigh. You don’t really feel like getting up from the chair, and there’s a box of toys next to you. You pick up a dog plush that someone got you for the baby shower. You stroke its head and set it on the curve of your bump. Baby girl kicks, and you let out a watery laugh. 

“Like the dog baby girl?” You ask, and the flutters come back, “I guess so. It’s all yours, girly.”

You keep on rocking back and forth, cradling the plush against your chest. Your eyes begin to close, and sleep overtakes you. 

•••

“Y/N!” Nathan yells, and you’re awoken from your nap. “Baby, where are you?”

You clear your throat, “I’m up here.” 

You hear him walk up the stairs and peer into the doorway of the nursery, the worry is clear on his face. “I told you I would be back to help.”

“I didn’t touch anything. I just got anxious, but Mel and I talked for a bit, so that took my mind off things. Then I fell asleep.” You feel bad because Nathan looks extremely concerned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He crouches in front of you. “Do you want to get this done now or have lunch first?”

“Lunch.” You agree. 

“Alright.” He helps you up from the rocking chair and places a hand on your lower back. “What did Mel have to talk you down from?”

“I guess I should talk to you about it.” You look over your shoulder at him. “I’ve been feeling pretty useless lately, like yes, I went on maternity leave three days ago, but I was feeling useless at work for weeks too. But I didn’t want to bother you because you have games, road trips, and the playoffs to think about, so I didn’t tell you.”

“Y/N…”

“I know, I know. I should have told you.” Nate sits you down on the stools underneath the kitchen island. 

“Yeah, you should have. We’ve been together for 7 years now, baby, married and not. I want to know about everything that concerns you, tell me everything.” You nod and lean into the hand he has pressed to your cheek. 

“I will promise.” You agree, and Nathan smiles. 

“Good, now what do you want to eat?”

“Like a crispy sandwich, pesto, cheese, prosciutto, arugula, and focaccia. We should have everything for that. I bought some when I went to the store yesterday.” You pat his ass as he walks into the kitchen. 

“Yeah, it looks like we have everything. Do you want to drive with me to the game? I’d feel better if we could arrive and leave together, not that you can’t drive.” Nate pulls out all of the ingredients. 

“Three hours is a long time to wait at the arena. Maybe you could drop me off at Landy’s house, and I can go with Melissa.” You hop off the stool and round the island to the other side of the kitchen.

“Sounds good, then we can leave together, and we don’t have to worry about a second car.” He watches you waddle around prepping ingredients. “I can make you lunch, you don’t need to help.” 

“We just had a conversation about me feeling useless. I haven't had this much time off since our honeymoon, so sitting still is not appealing to me.” You slice open the bread and start to spread butter on it. 

“Right, sorry, umm…I’ll get started on the arugula topping.” Nathan backs down, honoring your need for autonomy. 

“Perfect.” You hum, and the two of you get to work. 

You both work in tandem perfectly, making lunch and eventually working your way upstairs to the nursery. Nathan finishes the crib, and you begin putting away the onesies, toys, and other accoutrements that are perfect for a newborn baby. 

“She kicked when I put this on my bump.” You show Nate the dog plush that causes the flutters from your baby. 

“Did she?” He takes the stuffed animal with a grin. “Just like her dad.”

“She better have some of me in there.”

“She should get your smarts, cause everyone knows that you’re leagues smarter than me.” He kisses your head and places the plush into the crib. 

“Very true, I can say I’ve never had a concussion.” You jab at him. 

“And I’ve had more than I can count.” He chuckles. 

“I know, your nose didn’t always look like that.”

“Hey, it has charm.” He touches his nose, and you smile. 

“It does.” You press your head to his shoulder. “We should start getting ready. This is the best we can do for now.”

“Yeah, we need to get going here soon. I have to be at the arena by 4, so I’ll need to drop you off soon.” He agrees, and you turn off the light in the nursery and make your way to the master bedroom. 

“What to wear, what to wear.” You hum and rummage through your closet. 

“Be comfortable.”

“Believe me, I will.” You pull out the only maternity jeans you own and try to pull them on. “Help.”

“Come here, sit on the bed.” He chuckles as you sit down on the bed and Nate helps you into the jeans, “and how about a sweatshirt?”

“Yes, please, I want the maroon one, the one the WAGs got for Christmas.” You watch him walk back into the closet, half-dressed in a suit.

“This one?” You nod, and he hands it to you. “What about a shirt underneath in case you start to get hot?”

“Alright.” You take off the baggy shirt you were wearing and grab a long tank top that fits over your bump. You put the sweatshirt on over top and fall back onto the bed, feeling slightly winded. “Why is it so hard to do that?”

“Because you’re pregnant?”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” You laugh and watch him get ready, eyes trailing up and down his body. “Fuck if I wasn’t pregnant already, I’d let you get me pregnant.”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you can’t just say things like that.” Nate blushes hard.

“What? That I think my husband is hot?” You sit up and flutter your eyes at him, making him blush again. “Can I not say that?”

“No, you can.”

“But you have to focus, be ‘Nathan MacKinnon’ right now to get into the mindset, and I’m distracting you.” You track him around the room with your eyes. 

“You are extremely distracting, sitting there pregnant with my kid and saying you’d let me get you pregnant again.” Nate stops fixing his collar and looks at you like you personally offended him. “Recipe for distraction.”

“Caveman.” You tease, and he does the final button on his shirt. 

“No, just completely devoted to you.”

“Don’t I know it.” You push off the bed and pad around looking for the perfect shoes to wear with your outfit. 

“Alright, I’m ready to go. I’ll meet you downstairs?” He peeks into the closet, and you give a nod. 

“I’ll be a second.” You grab a pair of white sneakers with maroon accents and take a few seconds to put them on. “Is my purse down there?”

“Yeah, it’s on the counter!” Nate yells up the stairs, and you begin your slow descent down them. Taking a step at a time, trying not to throw your balance.  

“Let’s go, you have pregame prep to do.” You take your purse from his hands, and both of you get into the car. 

•••

You and Melissa get to the arena around 6:30. Both of the Landeskog children are with a babysitter, so a child-free night was upon you both. Well, other than the nearly fully formed child inside of you. Security lets you in easily, and you both walk to the family suite. 

“You’re literally glowing.” Melissa holds the door open for you.

“Really? I just feel huge, like I’m actually waddling around and shit.” You sit down on the seats closest to the glass of the suite. 

“Normal part of pregnancy, hon, the waddle gets to everyone eventually.” Melissa grins. 

“Ugh, I know, it still sucks.” You settle into the chair. “My street cred in the hospital is gone.”

“You’re funny.”

“No, seriously, all these new interns come in and the first impression they have of me as a senior resident is me pregnant.” You sigh and lean into your hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m so excited to have this baby, because I wanted kids eventually. But I wanted to have kids after I became an attending.”

“You and Nate got this, I promise. And we’re all here for you both. Let me know if you need anything.” Melissa touches your shoulder. 

“I will. Nate’ll take some coaxing, but I’ll reach out, don't worry.” You joke, and Melissa laughs with you

“Good. Now, do you need anything like water or food?” She asks, and you shake your head. 

“All good for now, but thank you.” 

“Alright, just let me know.” She touches your shoulder.

“I will.” You nod and feel your phone buzz in your purse. You pull it out, seeing Nathan’s contact on your screen. “It’s Nate, I'll be right back.”

“Yeah, yeah, go.” Melissa shoos you off, and you press the phone to your ear as you get up out of the seat. 

“Hey, baby.” You speak sweetly into the phone.

“Hey, yourself, did you get to the arena okay?” 

“All in one piece, both me and baby.” You tease, and Nate sighs at your bad joke. 

“Good, let’s keep it that way.” He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Sir, yes, sir.” You snicker and lean into the wall next to you. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, but you married me.”

“That I did, and I don't regret it.” His tone is sincere and warms your heart.

“Better not, 'cause you’re stuck with me, MacKinnon. For the next 18 years, then we can reevaluate.”

“I think I’ll need more than the next 18 years with you.” Despite your many attempts at teasing, he always says something so heartfelt that your chest wants to burst. “How does forever sound?”

“Hmm…forever is a long time.” You try to keep up with your previous antics, but you’re melting by the second. 

“Yeah, maybe, but you’re worth it. Both you and the baby.” You’re going to cry, like burst out in tears. 

“Stop being sweet right now, Nathan Raymond MacKinnon. You have a game to play, and I cannot cry before puck drop.” You scold him, not doing a very good job at hiding your watery voice. 

“Government named? You’re being very serious, alright, I’ll stop.” 

“Thank you. Now, go play a good game. I love you.” You dab at the corner of your eye. 

“I love you too. See you after the game.”

“See you after the game.” You repeat, and the call ends quickly after. You sit back down next to Melissa, and a couple of other WAGs that joined you two in the suite. 

“Y/N! You look amazing.” Tracy Makar, places a soft hand on yours. 

“Oh, thank you, getting bigger and bigger by the day.” You settle back into your chair, trying to get comfortable. 

“All a part of the process is what I’m trying to tell her.” Melissa nudges your shoulder, and you roll your eyes. 

“You and everyone else. But my body was not prepared for this baby at all. She is really comfortable.”

“I bet you two have picked out names?” Kerry Toews, the other wife that joined you, asks. 

“We actually have her whole name picked out. My mom got stuff monogrammed for the baby shower, so you’ll have to see it then.” You and Nate had picked out the name months ago. A combination you both loved and has sentimental value to make it feel special. 

“Ooo, I’m excited. You have great taste, so I trust you picked out something that will suit your little girl perfectly.” Tracy clasps her hands together with a wide grin. 

“We love it.” You feel her kick and rub the spot gently. 

“Take these last weeks in, soon your life will be all baby and nothing else.” Mel pats your hand, knowing full well what’s coming for you and Nate. 

“Oh, I know, it's not ideal to have the baby right near the end of the regular season, but we’ll have to make do.”

“Oh, for sure, but like Mel said, we’re here for you.” Kerry reiterates, and you take a deep breath. 

“Thank you, guys. Wait, did you get the invites for the baby shower?” You look at the other three women, panic rising for a second.  

“Yes, they were adorable. I should have sent back the RSVP.” Tracy nods, and you calm down. 

“I should check that. Should’ve probably been the first thing I did.” You shake your head. 

“You’re all good, Y/N.” Mel pats your arm. “Oh, the game is starting.”

All of you move to the edge of your seats and watch the Avs skate out onto the ice. You see #29 move around on the ice, Nathan looks up in your direction, and you give a small wave. Your baby girl kicks at the same time, and you laugh in awe that she’s able to understand. 

The game starts, and you settle back into your seat. 

•••

“That was a bullshit call!” You yell, knowing full well the refs can’t hear you. You plop back into your seat. There are 45.2 seconds left in the third, and the Avs are only up by one. Baby girl is rolling around from excitement, and every so often, one of her limbs catches on a rib or your bladder. “This is ridiculous.”

“The refs are on something tonight.” Mel shakes her head. “If this game goes to overtime, I think I’m gonna head out. Beat the traffic and say good night to the kids.”

“Yeah, I’m so tired.” You agree. “But Nate has the car keys and would be left stranded if I took them.”

“I can take you home if you need. It’s no big deal.” Mel offers. 

Normally, you would decline, but being pregnant has you yearning for your cozy bed. “That would be amazing, thank you so much.”

“No problem.”

You continue to watch the ice, waiting for the confirmation that this game wouldn’t go to overtime and the Avs would get the win. Your eye is starting to twitch a little from being so tired, and the need to rest your eyes is becoming more prevalent. 

The goal horn goes off, and you’re immediately more alert. The Avs score a goal and win the game, you sigh in relief. You won’t have to stay at Ball Arena for longer than necessary, and you get to go home with your husband. Falling asleep in his arms sounds like literal heaven right now. 

“It was a good game, but I’m not staying here longer than I have to. I’ll see you, ladies soon?” Melissa says as all four of you stand up.

“Yes.” You give her a quick hug, and she does the same with Tracy and Kerry. 

“Do you still want a ride back?” Mel asks as she circles back around to you. 

“No, I’m good, no overtime, so I’m going home with Nate.” You shake your head.

“Alright, rest up, honey.” 

“I will.” Melissa heads out, leaving the rest of you to walk to the family room. 

There are a few other families that probably sat in the stands, waiting to see their respective players. You settle on a chair, your hips and back aching from the length of the day, and your eyes drooping with the heaviness of sleep. If Nate doesn’t get out of media soon, you’re probably gonna fall asleep in the room. 

You luckily don’t have to wait too long. Nate walks through the door back in his game day suit. His eyes search around before landing on you, a smile spreading across his face. 

“Hi darling.”’ Nate can see the need for sleep written across your face. “Ready to go home?”

“Please, I’m gonna fall asleep on my feet here soon.” He pulls you up out of the chair, and you step closer into his side. Pregnancy and tiredness make you clingier.

Nate lets his arm fall over your shoulder, and the two of you walk out of the room. Comfortable silence makes its way between the two of you. Nate played a good game, and you’re too tired to talk about anything other than getting in bed. He’s practically guiding you to the car at this point, places are fading out of view as you possibly fall asleep on the walk there.

Nate helps you into the car and buckles your seatbelt. “Wait, I didn’t say goodbye to Tracy and Kerry.”

“I said goodbye for you, they know you are tired.” He eases your worries. 

“Okay, good.” You nod slowly, and he shuts the door. 

Nate starts the car, and the hum of the engine has your eyes fluttering closed for a second. A short moment. Or what you think is only a moment, but when you open your eyes again, the car is pulling into the garage. 

“Oh my god, I fell asleep.” You run a hand through your hair, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. 

“You needed it.” Nate chuckles and turns off the engine, “Head inside I’m gonna grab a package I saw on the front porch.”

“Okay. It might be the stuff my mom got for baby girl.” You tell him and get out of the car. 

“We can take a look.” 

“Okay. Wait for me to open the package.” You toe off your shoes and wait in the kitchen for Nate to come back.

You hear the garage door close, and Nate walks in with a box underneath his arm. He places the box on the counter, letting you read the label.

“Yeah, this is the baby bag, blanket, and onesies that she got monogrammed.” You tap your fingers on the box, “She thinks it would be cute to have it set up on a table at the baby shower and have people try to guess her name from the initials.”

“Let’s take a look at them.” Nate grabs a pair of scissors to cut the box open. 

You take out the tissue paper and pick up the diaper bag with your soon to be daughters initials on it. NRM is written in pretty white cursive, standing out from the black fabric of the bag. Nate takes it from your hands and runs his fingers over the letters, the same ones derived from his own name.

“People won’t think I’m conceited for giving my daughter my own initials, right?”

“If they do, I don’t care, because I love the name we picked out for our child.” You place a hand on his bicep. 

“You’re right.” He nods and moves to look at the other things in the box. “This blanket is cute.”

He pulls out a pink floral blanket with your baby’s first name written on it. “Oh, it’s just darling.” You smile and take it into your own hands. 

“I can’t wait till we have her actually in our arms, holding her in this blanket. Being able to use these onesies and this bag.” He places a hand on your bump, and your baby girl kicks softly. You know Nate feels it from the smile that spreads across his face. 

“I know, we’re so close. 6 or so weeks, then we get to hold her, and she’ll be real and all ours.” You place your hand over his. Nate leans down and kisses your mouth softly. 

“I can’t wait. Until then, you should get into your pajamas and go straight to bed.” He rests his forehead against yours. 

“Yes, please, my back and hips are killing me.”

“Anything I can do for you, baby?” His hand drifts to your lower back, rubbing up and down your spine. 

“Not right now, I just need to go to sleep.” You shake your head and slowly climb the stairs. 

“I agree. You were out in the car, like there was some traffic and people were honking, but you stayed asleep through all of it.” Nate says, following behind you. 

“I’m really tired right now. Growing a baby takes it out of me.” You make eye contact with the bed, and all of a sudden, there’s a gravitational pull. It has you making a beeline for the plush blankets and soft mattress. 

“Not yet, if you get in bed now, I won’t be able to get you out. Wash your face and brush your teeth, and I’ll get your clothes set out for bed.” He steers you in the direction of the bathroom, and you grumble, even though you know Nate is right. 

“Fine.” You huff, the tiredness in your bones makes everything feel slower and heavier.

You pull your hair away from your face and grab your skincare. Washing your face and freeing it of the makeup you had on makes you feel fresher. You catch a glimpse of Nate folding a pair of shorts and a large shirt for you to wear onto the bed, as you grab your toothbrush. You smile at his meticulous preparation of your sleep clothes before squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste and beginning to brush your teeth. 

“Your sleep clothes are on the bed. I’m gonna shower quickly, and then I’ll join you in bed.” Nate joins you in the bathroom, and you give a nod while continuing to brush your teeth. 

You rinse off your toothbrush and wipe your mouth as steam starts to fill the bathroom. You let Nate shower in peace while you free yourself from the maternity jeans and sweatshirt you’d been wearing. Slipping into bed, you prop yourself up with the pillows. Normally, you’d be able to fall asleep just fine without Nathan in the bed, but right now you need him to be near you.

He’s true to his words, and the shower turns off minutes later while you're burrowing into the covers. He emerges from the bathroom hair damp and wearing sleep shorts. 

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” He says quietly, climbing into bed.

“Just waiting for you.” You move closer to him, and Nate pulls you into his side. 

“Well, I’m here now, and you can go to sleep.” You nod, eyes drooping, heavy with weariness. 

“Okay, g’night, Nate. I love you.” You mumble. 

“Goodnight, baby, I love you too.” He kisses your forehead and wraps his arms around you. A hand lands on the curve of your stomach and says so softly you almost don’t hear. “Goodnight, baby girl, we can't wait to meet you.”

You smile softly, eyes too heavy to open, but in your heart, you know your baby girl will be so loved. You can’t wait to bring her into the world. 

Soon. Really soon.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“That’s not the point,” Rossi interjected. “You don’t get a gold star for playing martyr. Go get checked out.”

“I don’t need to be checked out.”

“You do,” JJ said firmly, glancing toward Morgan for backup.

“Look, man, I get it,” Morgan added. “Hospitals suck. But this one’s twenty minutes away, and we will drag you there if we have to. Besides Savannah will kill me if I don't take you to a hospital.”

Hotch visibly hesitated. He opened his mouth to argue again, but then, clamped it shut. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. Not pain. Not stubbornness.

It was something else entirely.

And Garcia, who’d been quietly observing from the sidelines, narrowed her eyes. “Wait a second,” she said slowly. “You’re not avoiding the hospital because you hate doctors… You’re avoiding it because you’re married to one.” Garcia had snooped.

The room went quiet.

JJ’s jaw dropped. Emily turned on her heel. “Wait... wait. You mean the reason you’re refusing medical attention is because your wife works there?”

Hotch didn’t respond. He just wiped his brow and winced.

“Oh my God,” Garcia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re scared she’ll scold you.”

“I’m not scared of my wife,” Hotch said flatly, and Morgan snorted.

“You sure about that, boss man? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to march to the principal’s office or dig your own grave.”

“She just… worries,” Hotch muttered.

“I bet she does,” Emily said with a grin. “Considering how often you get shot at work.”

“Enough,” Hotch sighed. “If it’ll get you all to stop badgering me, fine. I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Garcia chirped, already pulling up directions on her phone. “Because I would very much like to witness your wife read you the riot act.”

The emergency department at Bethesda General Hospital was bustling with the usual chaos: trauma codes being called over intercoms, gurneys wheeled past in a blur, and nurses moving with the speed and focus of people who knew lives were at stake if they didn't run faster than a cheetah.

And in the center of it all—calm, commanding, and terrifyingly efficient—was Dr. Hotchner.

“Prep O.R. 3,” you instructed without looking up from the chart in your hands. “Page ortho, and tell Dr. Li I need her on consult.”

“Yes, Doctor,” your intern said quickly, practically sprinting to do your bidding.

You turned just in time to see your husband walk through the sliding doors, flanked by six BAU agents who all looked like they’d come for the show.

And Aaron... oh, Aaron... looked guilty as hell.

You spotted the blood at his side immediately and froze. “Oh my God,” you said, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding through a towel, Aaron.”

The use of his name earned you a few surprised looks from the team. Hotch winced.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift,” he said, tone low, which only made your eyes narrow.

“Uh oh,” Emily muttered under her breath in a sing-song tone. “He’s in trouble.”

“Is this from the case?” you asked, already stepping forward to pull the towel away. Your fingers were gentle, but your eyes were assessing his injury, no-nonsense. “How long ago?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours!? You’ve been walking around like this for two hours!?”

He shifted under your gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I kept pressure on it.”

You exhaled slowly and turned to the nurse behind the intake desk. “I need a bay prepped now.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m walking. Not being wheeled,” Hotch added stubbornly.

You didn’t even look at him. “We’ll see.”

The team shuffled awkwardly, clearly trying not to smirk too much.

“You can wait here,” you told them over your shoulder. “I’ll patch him up and return him in one piece. No promises on whether or not he’s limping.”

Hotch gave them a long-suffering look as you led him down the hall, your hand at his back. “I told you this would happen.”

“You let it happen,” Rossi called after him.

Ten minutes later, Hotch was perched on a trauma bay bed with his dress shirt peeled off, the deep graze on his left side now cleaned and being carefully stitched.

You worked in silence for a moment, your hands steady even as your brows furrowed.

“I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked up, your expression was softer, but no less serious. “Aaron,” you murmured, “you came in bleeding. I’m your wife. I deserve to know when you’ve been hurt.”

He looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“This is my work. You’re my husband, and also, in case you forgot, I’m one of the best trauma physicians in this hospital.” You tied off a stitch and gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice if you walked into the bedroom tonight trying to pretend you hadn’t been shot while leaving a trail of blood on the floor?”

He sighed. “I wasn’t shot.”

“You were grazed. Close enough.” You stepped back to dispose of the gauze and gloves. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major.”

“I know.”

You softened again as you returned to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m just… worried. Every time you walk out that door, I worry. So when you come back hurt and don’t tell me? Yeah, I get upset.”

His hand came to rest over yours. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. But next time? You don’t delay treatment because you’re afraid of a scolding.”

He huffed a laugh. “It was a very convincing scolding.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his temple. “You deserved it.”

When the two of you returned to the waiting area, Hotch was in clean clothes, a set of hospital scrubs, his wound bandaged, and a list of care instructions tucked under his arm.

The team perked up at the sight of you.

“Well?” JJ asked.

“He’ll live,” you said dryly. “No thanks to his decision-making.”

Garcia grinned. “Did you give him The Look? The whole 'I married you, not your death wish' thing?”

“I may have included a variation,” you replied with a smirk.

Hotch sighed, resigned. “Can we go now?”

“Nope,” Emily chirped, handing him a coffee. “Not until we get a photo of you in those scrubs. For the file.”

“What file?”

“The ‘Hotch Gets Owned by His Wife’ file,” Morgan said.

“It’s getting thick and we just started it,” Rossi added, sipping his espresso. "It was nice meeting you."

You chuckled, brushing a hand through Aaron’s hair. “He’ll behave now. Doctor’s orders.”

Hotch muttered something under his breath, but you swore you caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride home was mostly quiet, apart from the occasional hiss from Hotch when the seatbelt shifted against his bandage.

You didn’t say anything, but your hand rested on his knee the whole way.

By the time you walked into the house, the familiar rhythm of your shared space slowly began to dissolve the lingering tension. You took your shoes off by the door; Hotch placed his bag down a little more heavily than usual.

“You need to sit,” you said, already toeing into the kitchen.

“I’m fine.”

“Aaron.”

He exhaled. “I’m sitting.”

When you returned with a glass of water, two Advil, and the strict instructions for how often he could take them, he was in the living room exactly as you’d ordered, but not without the smugness of someone who was used to giving the orders, not taking them.

You handed him the water. “You’ll need to stay on the pain meds at least through tomorrow. No stairs. And I swear if I catch you trying to answer a single email tonight...”

“You’ll what?” he said, raising a brow.

“I’ll forward them all to Strauss and tell her you’re delirious and talking to ghosts with an attached doctor's note.”

That made him chuckle, and you hated how handsome he looked doing it, bruised, and still somehow making you feel like the one who’d just lost a battle.

You sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “I mean it, Aaron. You can’t keep doing this.”

He looked at you then, really looked, quiet guilt spread across his features from the way his brows furrowed.

“I know.”

“I’m not just your doctor, you know. And it’s like you forget how terrifying it is to see you walk in with blood on your shirt and a towel shoved under your ribs like that’s normal.”

“I don’t forget,” he said softly. “I just… sometimes convince myself it’s easier not to worry you.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, gentler now. “I’d rather be worried than kept in the dark. That’s not how this works. We’re a team. You get to yell at me for missing lunch or losing sleep during a thirty-six-hour shift, and I get to yell at you for treating bullet grazes with paper towels.”

His lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”

You let out a breath, leaned forward, and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I thought I was ‘infuriatingly reckless.’”

“You can be both,” you said, settling your weight against him carefully so you didn’t bump the injury. “But right now, you’re a patient. So that means feet up, water, meds, and...”

He groaned. “A heat pack.”

“Yes, a heat pack,” you repeated, shooting him a look. “You know the protocol. Don’t test me, Agent Hotchner.”

He muttered something about bossy doctors and curled further into the couch.

You disappeared for a moment, returning with the hot pack and a blanket and the remote already queued up to one of those slow-burn crime shows he liked but pretended not to enjoy because they were painstakingly inaccurate.

You placed the heat pack gently against his side, then draped the blanket over both your legs. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hotchner?”

“Just this, Mrs. Hotchner,” he said quietly, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

You let yourself melt into his chest, sighing as your cheek found his heartbeat.

“Next time,” you whispered, “you come to me the minute you’re hurt. No detours. No delays.”

“I promise.”

You didn’t look up. “Swear it.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I swear.”

"And I want to meet your team properly, without having to patch you or them up!"

"Deal."

She leans forward to prop her head up on her hands. “Speaking of dick…”

“Nope. Not having this conversation with you.”

“Aw, come on!” She groans. “We never talk about anything fun.”

“We could talk about those charts you still haven’t done for trauma room three,” You grouch back, exiting the chat and putting your phone face-down on the table. 

“Mm. I was thinking more along the lines of men…”

“Not interested in your hockey fuck boys, Ari.” You say, crossing your arms over the sticky break room table and settling your forehead down on them, closing your eyes. “I’m gonna try and take a nap, yeah?”

“Good luck with that,” Ari snorts. “Just go sleep in the call rooms if you’re tired.”

“Nah, one of the med kids had their first GSW case today. They need the bed more than I do.”

“Mm,” Ari muses. “Alright. I’ll try and keep people out.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, and listen to the screech of her chair as she pushes back and strolls out of the room, hitting the lights on her way out. 

You enjoy the silence for a beat, letting yourself settle back into the seat. The quiet hum of the AC, a rattle-whoosh that management still hasn’t paid to fix, lulls you into a loose slumber. You’re about to truly fall asleep when panicked chatter begins to rise in the hallways outside. Ari pops her head back in, flicking the lights on and off. 

“I’m gonna have a seizure,” you groan, already staggering to your feet. 

“Don’t die on me yet, handsome. Need your hands. There’s been a pileup on the 710,” Ari says. “All hands on deck.”

“Fuck me,” You groan. 

“Oh, you wish, honey,” Ari grins, already snapping on a pair of gloves. “You wish.”

“You should have seen it, solnyshko. Hunter was so slow during Islanders game Abrams was able to steal the puck. Is embarrassing. He should be making enough from his AARP checks, yes? Why is he still haunting ice rink?”

“You were watching the game? Ilya, you have a concussion. I thought we talked about limited screens.”

“I was barely watching. Hunter is so slow it did not require much focus.”

“You are the worst fucking patient I’ve ever had, and I treated a guy who got semi-jackknifed under a Ford Explorer and tried to gnaw off my elbow during treatment today,” You grumble, tilting your head to pin your cellphone between your ear and shoulder as you snag a fresh pair of scrubs from the linen closet, holding them out in front of your body to avoid contact with the stained ones you were currently wearing. 

“Ah, krasavchik, I balance it out. I am also most handsome. Sitting here, shirtless, thinking about you…”

“Alright, Rozanov, don’t start something you can’t finish over the phone while I’m covered in blood and vomit.”

“Boo.”

You duck into the locker room, put the phone on speaker, and wrench open your locker to stick it on the hanging metal shelf. “How’s your head?”

“Which one? Because I am only interested in discussing one with you, krasavchik…”

You roll your eyes as you peel off your scrubs and toss them into the biohazard linen bin, pulling on the fresh pair of pants before barking a quick “be right back” and striding over to the sinks. The fluorescent lights of the locker room cast the smears of brownish-red on your forearms into stark relief, and you take a beat to rub harshly at your skin. 

“Alright, back,” You say as soon as you return to your locker, snagging an extra undershirt from your bag before you tug on the top of the scrubs. Ilya crows, delighted. 

“Fantastic. I think I need a house call, doctor. I’m feeling a bit faint.”

You snort and check your phone. Your shift’s almost up. “Alright, yeah. I can be there in two hours. You gonna manage to hang in until then?”

“I am a beacon of strength,” Ilya simpers back, and you laugh.

“Alright, asshole. See you in a few.”

Ilya texts you an address. Once you’ve managed to extricate yourself from the ER and do a couple of breathing exercises over your steering wheel in the parking lot, you’re plugging the location into Google Maps and pulling out onto the frosty Boston streets. 

His house is an easy twenty minute drive from the hospital, and giant — you know your mom would probably go crazy over the architecture. You pull off a haphazard street parking job and slump exhaustedly to Ilya’s door, double checking the address on your phone before you ring the doorbell. 

Ilya wrenches open the door almost immediately. “Krasavchik! My savior has arrived.”

You glance at him — his eyes are slightly squinted, but he looks good. “Hey, Ilya. Go sit down, yeah?”

“No, no. I am good.” Ilya hums, reaching forward to attempt to manhandle you across the threshold. You laugh, and peel his good arm off your waist. 

“Yeah, Russia’s Greatest War Machine, huh? You’re real terrifying.”

He pouts but wanders back over to the couch, collapsing against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut. “So mean. My head hurts, y’know. You are bullying an injured man.”

“A concussion will do that,” You laugh, throwing your work bag down on his coffee table and shooting him a look when he tries to push to his feet, wincing. 

“It only hurts a little!”

“You’re going to make me violate my hippocratic oath,” You grouse, shifting to sling a leg over Ilya’s waist and force him back down into the couch. “Sit. Still.”

Below you, he waggles his eyebrows, good arm coming to rest on your hip. “This is not very good deterrent. If I misbehave more, maybe you will kiss me?”

“Or maybe I will kill you. Could go either way, really.”

“You are so mean to me.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen ‘mean’ yet. Maybe I’ll hit you on your head again. Got it on great authority that Scott Hunter’s willing to pay me to take you out of the league.”

“Oh, yes. You are at his beck and call, huh?”  Ilya drawls, Russian accent heavy. “You are sexy when you’re angry. Gets me riled up.”

“You are such a freak.”

“Stop, I’m getting hard,” Ilya deadpans. “Tell me my hair looks stupid. I’m close.”

You laugh. “Haven’t seen you in a bit. How’s Cliff doing?”

You hadn’t seen much more of Ilya over your Christmas vacation once you’ve parted from the hospital — he’d had hockey duties to attend to and you’d had family responsibilities. Whenever you were back in Montreal, your dad pretty much pimped you out to the neighborhood — you’d checked at least fifteen of his buddies for “suspicious moles” and addressed the general aches and pains of what seemed like your dad’s entire apartment complex. 

“He’s okay,” Ilya says. “Doctors could fix exhaustion but not personality, so is very sad for him. You?”

“Rough day,” you answer, flattening yourself down over Ilya, careful to avoid his bad arm. 

“You can rest, now,” Ilya rumbles below you. “I promise I will not die on your watch.”

“Mm,” you groan, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. “Alright.”

Ilya pets up and down your back, nails dragging against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. Ba bump, ba bump, ba bump.

“I’m going to say something to you, and I need you to not react until I’m finished.”

You’re standing next to Ari along the ER’s workstation, a bank of monitors pushed along the sidewall. You close the lab you’d been clicking through, thumb still drumming on the space bar of the keyboard you’d been using. 

“Yeah?” Ari asks, slightly distracted from where she’s updating a progress note next to you. “Is this about that hot new Paramedic?”

“Jesus, Ari, no.”

Grace barks at someone over the phone at the opposite end of the workstation, and you take a beat to watch the way she slams the phone back down in the receiver. When she glances up and catches your eye, her face splits into a sheepish smile.

“It is, uh, about a guy, though.”

Ari freezes. “What?”

“I’ve been, uh, sort of seeing this guy. I’m honestly not positive about what we’re doing.” You admit. Your cursor blinks on the screen in front of you.

“Holy shit, Y/n, is this why you won’t come out with me?” Ari demands, pivoting to stare at you.

“Nah, I don’t come out with you because you have shit taste in men.” You respond, resolutely avoiding eye contact.

Ari waves away the insult, nudging you until you’re facing her. “Who are you seeing?”

“He’s a, uh… public figure,” You ground out. “He’s not out.”

“You are a celebrity’s secret gay boytoy? Holy fuck, Y/n.”

“Christ, Ari, not like that. We’ve, uh, just been hanging out. He makes jokes, yeah, but I can’t tell if he actually means it or he’s just being an asshole.”

“Are you sleeping together?” Ari asks, and you wince. 

“No. I mean he insinuates, but we haven’t actually fucked.”

“Oh, but you want to?” Ari crows, grinning. She has a victorious look on her face. “Is he hot?”

“So fucking hot,” You ground out. “Enough to make me bitter.”

“Well, you’re hot too.” Ari says. “You’re a fucking catch.”

“I’d be enjoying this whole thing a lot more if I knew what the hell we were doing,” You scoff, powering off the monitor you’d been working at. Grace shoots you an amused look from where she’s adjusting an IV line.

“Then just ask,” Ari responds, spreading out her hands. “Simple. Hey, what are we? Are we gonna fuck? If not, I have a super hot friend who’s very, very lonely.”

“Oh, fuck off,” You laugh. 

Ari grips your wrists and stares at you. “Just ask, yeah? If he reacts badly he is not worth the very limited time off you have, Y/n.”

“Okay,” You say. “Just ask. I can do that.”

You do not ask for the next three weeks. In fact, it’s entirely possible that you’ve gone in the exact opposite direction. 

“This is my friend, Y/n.” Ilya says, beckoning you forward. You raise an amused eyebrow at the motion and stay exactly where you are. Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“As you can see, he is very obedient.”

Somehow, Ilya’s been medically cleared to rejoin the Raiders, even though the first medical estimate he’d received had predicted him knocked out for the rest of the season. You’re more than a little dubious, and had insisted on tagging along to monitor him.

“Oh, fuck off, Roz,” Marleau laughs, slinging an arm around Ilya’s neck and pulling him into a headlock. “Welcome back, man.”

You watch the interaction carefully. Ilya’s eyes crinkle in laughter, and he tackles Cliff. His movements seem uninhibited; you’re pretty sure that he’s fine, now. The break in his arm had been minor, and so had the concussion, but you were a bit worried he was flat out lying about his head to get back onto the ice. 

“Y/n is my doctor,” Ilya announces to the crowded clump of Raiders. “He is here to officially sign off on me coming back.”

“Alright, I’m not signing off on anything, dude, and I’m not your doctor. I’m just here to make sure you’re not going to kill yourself if you start playing again.”

“He worries,” Ilya announces in a faux whisper to the players. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go worry from over there,” You say, rolling your eyes, and slog over to the bench. Ilya laughs, and the Raiders pour down the hallway to get changed into practice gear. 

You watch the scrimmage from the bench, hood pulled up against the chill of the arena, eyes tracing Ilya as he dominates the ice. He’s fast, and his movements are quick and sure — he seems fine. Should be good to play again, you guess. 

The Raiders have split into two teams led by Marleau and Ilya, and you half-watch the scrimmage while you scroll on the r/BostonNurses Reddit thread on your phone, trying to figure out which asshole doctors the nurses are describing and sending periodic screenshots to Ari. 

You’re so focused on it that you miss the sick crunch of Hammersmith’s fall.

“Fuck!” A rookie you don’t recognize yelps, slowing to a stop beside Hammersmith. It looks like the rookie had bodied him hard into the boards. You wait a beat. Hammersmith doesn’t get up; maybe he was knocked unconscious?

You’re over the boards before you realize what you’re doing, heavy winter boots crunching on the ice of the rink. Practice screeches to a halt as the players whip around to stare at Hammersmith.

“Move,” You bark, and hockey players in front of you part easily. 

“Y/n?” Ilya calls, voice strained. 

“I’m on it,” You respond. “Go get the team doctor, yeah?”

Ilya points, and the player nearest to the exit of the rink scrambles to obey.

It takes a minute of careful movement to work your way over to Hammersmith — you’ll be absolutely no help to anyone if you wipe out and knock yourself out on the ice. A few feet away, close enough that you can clock the way he’s breathing, you swear and speed up, cautioned be damned. 

“Here,” You say, throwing your phone to the nearest player. They fumble to catch it in their gloves. “Call 911. Now.”

Hammersmith’s chest is rising asymmetrically; the right side of his chest appears fixed while the left staggers up and down. In the hollow of his neck, his windpipe is pushed toward his left ear. Fuck. 

You drop to your knees and press your ear to the right side of Hammersmith’s jersey. It’s silent. When you tap the right side of his ribs, the sound is hollow, almost plastic-like, not the usual dull thud. 

You’re pretty sure that Hammersmith’s got a tension pneumothorax — air is trapped in the space between his lung and his chest wall. For every second that the air builds up, the heart and vessels are further compressed, stopping the flow of blood. His heart will stop if you don’t do something. 

“Alright, everyone off the ice,” You call, quickly realizing you’re going to need to get into Hammersmith’s chest. “Where’s the team doctor?”

The player Ilya sent comes staggering back as you speak, catching the last half of the question. “Not here. It’s just a practice day, Dr. Thompson usually only comes in for official scrimmages and game days. Athletic trainer’s on vacation.”

“Fuck.” You repeat. The Raiders are still on the ice, staring at you. “Alright, well, if this is gonna be a spectator sport, let’s try and be useful. I think I saw a rink response kit next to the AED on the bench. Someone go grab that for me, yeah?”

Three players take off for it at once, skates tearing at the ice. It’s Ilya who delivers it to you, ultimately, and he crouches next to you as you rifle through it. 

“Can I help?” He asks, tense. 

“Yeah,” You say, handing him a pair of heavy-duty scissors from the bag. “Cut his jersey open. Be very careful. Do not move him.” 

While Ilya works, you tear through the rest of the kit, and crow with success when you find an IV start kit. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” You mutter, stripping off the plastic to extract a 16-gauge needle. When you’ve turned back to Hammersmith, Ilya has his jersey cut haphazardly down the middle, fabric opened to expose his chest.

“Good job,” You say, voice purposefully level. “Back up, yeah?”

You wish desperately that Ari — or anybody, really — was here to check your work. You’ve never actually improvised a decompression like this before, but if you don’t act now, Hammersmith is going to die. The guy’s an asshole, sure, but you’d love to prevent that from happening. 

You locate the second intercostal space, roughly two fingers below Hammersmith’s collarbone, and take a breath. “Alright, here goes.” 

The needle goes in at a 90-degree angle, aimed just over the top of Hammersmith’s third rib to avoid the nerves and blood vessels underneath. There’s a terrifying beat, and then an audible hiss of air — the tension is releasing. 

Holy fucking shit. 

Hammersmith gasps, regaining consciousness, and you nod at Ilya. “Hold his shoulders down, yeah? Careful.”

Ilya follows directions carefully, hands braced at Hammersmith’s shoulders to cease his movement, while you talk to the player in a grounded, hushed tone. 

“Hey, Hammersmith,” You say, removing the needle and leaving the plastic catheter in his chest. You grope for a roll of athletic tape in the rink response kit and tear off a careful strip, pinning the catheter in place. “You’re gonna be okay, man. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Paramedics are here!” Someone cries from behind you, and you feel yourself slump in relief. 

Hammersmith groans. He’s growing on you. 

Ilya’s hand lands warm and heavy on the back of your neck. He’s still holding you, like you’re stopping him from falling over, when Hammersmith is wheeled out of the rink. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” You repeat. 

“At work, bug.”

“She home now?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

Bucky suppresses a sigh. “Tomorrow morning.”

That answer goes over about as well as he expected.

Ellie’s face crumples instantly. Rosie, sensitive to the mood shift because apparently babies operate on emotional hive mind logic, starts whining too. Tiny tears gather in her lashes as she clutches the collar of Bucky’s Henley.

“Nooo,” Ellie cries, sliding off the couch dramatically. “Want Mommy bedtime!”

“I know, sweetheart.” Bucky crouches carefully despite the extra weight on his hip. “Mommy’s helping sick people tonight.”

“But I want her,” Ellie sniffles.

Rosie echoes the sentiment with a loud, offended squeak.

Usually, nights when you work late aren’t this bad. Usually there’s enough warning, enough distraction. Usually you FaceTime before bedtime and blow kisses through the screen while Ellie tells you every irrelevant detail of her day and Rosie smashes sticky hands against the phone.

Tonight had been chaos at the hospital. You’d texted Bucky around six.

Emergency surgery. Might not be able to call. Kiss my babies for me :(

So now he’s on his own.

Against two tiny Barnes girls who inherited every ounce of stubbornness from both parents.

God help him.

An hour later, the house looks like a war zone.

Ellie refused her bath because “Mommy does bubbles better.” Rosie cried through half of hers because she kept looking toward the door expecting you to walk through it. Bedtime stories turned into negotiations. Then tears. Then outright mutiny.

Now Bucky sits in the rocking chair in Rosie’s nursery with a baby half-asleep against his chest while Ellie lays sprawled across his lap like a tiny, grieving starfish.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, bug?”

“Mommy still gone?”

“She’s still at work.”

Ellie’s eyes fill again. “Does she miss us?”

That one hits him square in the chest.

“So much,” he says softly.

“Then why she stay there?”

Because people need her.

Because your mother has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

Because she’d come home if she could.

Because sometimes loving people means helping them, even when it hurts.

But Ellie’s three. So Bucky smooths her hair back instead.

“She’s taking care of people tonight. Kinda like superheroes do.”

Ellie thinks about this very seriously.

“Mommy superhero?”

“The prettiest one I know.”

That finally earns him the tiniest smile.

Rosie lets out a sleepy sigh, drool soaking into his shirt. Bucky leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes briefly.

He’s exhausted.

Not because the girls are difficult—they’re good kids—but because they love you so much it physically hurts them when you’re gone. And honestly? He gets it.

He misses you too.

Around midnight, Ellie wakes crying.

Bucky hears the tiny footsteps padding down the hallway before she appears in his doorway clutching her stuffed rabbit.

“Daddy?”

He immediately sits up in bed. “Hey, baby. What’s wrong?”

“Dreamed Mommy left forever.”

Jesus Christ.

His heart breaks a little.

He pulls back the blankets instantly. “C’mere.”

Ellie climbs into bed beside him, warm and sleepy and sniffling. He wraps an arm around her small body while she presses her face into his chest.

“Mommy always comes back,” he murmurs.

“You promise?”

“With everything I got.”

She quiets after that, though her tiny fingers remain curled tightly in his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll disappear too.

Bucky stares at the ceiling long after she falls asleep.

His phone sits on the nightstand.

He could call you.

He knows you’d answer if you saw his name. Even in the middle of a shift. Even exhausted.

But he also knows you.

Knows the guilt that already eats at you whenever work pulls you away from the girls. Knows how hard you are on yourself. Knows you cried in the shower last month after missing Ellie’s dance recital because of an emergency surgery.

So he doesn’t call.

Instead, he kisses Ellie’s forehead and whispers, “Mommy loves you more than anything.”

By the time you finally get home the next morning, the sun is barely up.

You look exhausted.

There are dark circles under your eyes, your scrubs are wrinkled, and your hair is falling out of the clip holding it up. But the second you step through the front door, relief floods your face.

“Buck?”

“In the kitchen, sweetheart.”

The moment Ellie sees you, all hell breaks loose.

“Mommy!”

She launches herself off the chair at full speed. Rosie immediately starts shrieking excitedly from her highchair, kicking her tiny feet wildly.

You barely have time to drop your bag before Ellie crashes into your legs.

“Oh my babies,” you laugh tearfully, crouching to gather her up. Rosie cries louder until Bucky lifts her from the highchair and passes her over too.

Both girls cling to you desperately.

Rosie buries her face in your neck. Ellie’s already crying.

“We missed you,” she sobs.

Your expression crumbles instantly. “Oh, honey…”

Bucky watches the exact second guilt starts settling over your features.

So he steps in immediately.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Don’t.”

You glance up at him. “They were upset?”

He leans against the counter with his coffee mug, tired smile tugging at his mouth.

“They missed their mom.”

Your eyes shine. “Buck…”

“But they were okay,” he says firmly. “And you don’t get to feel bad for helping people.”

Ellie sniffles against your shoulder. “Wanted Mommy bedtime.”

“I know, baby,” you whisper, kissing her curls. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky crosses the kitchen then, sliding one arm around your waist carefully despite the children attached to you like koalas.

“They love you,” he murmurs against your temple. “That’s not something to apologize for.”

You melt into him instantly.

God, he missed you.

Missed your voice. Your touch. The way your body naturally fits against his.

You tilt your head up enough to kiss him softly.

“Thank you for taking care of them.”

“Always.”

His hand drifts lower against your back while Rosie babbles sleepily between you.

“You look tired, doctor.”

“I am tired.”

“Hm.” His blue eyes darken just slightly. “Maybe after breakfast and naps… I can help with that.”

Heat blooms across your face immediately because you know that tone.

Bucky grins.

Golden eyes opened slowly, registering bandages wrapping his right arm, the faint sting of treated wounds. A ceiling lantern swayed quietly above him. He turned his head — and froze.

There you were, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside his bed, your small frame curled inward. A physician’s coat slipped from your shoulders, one sleeve crumpled beneath your cheek where you had clearly drifted off mid-watch.

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, though it quickly tightened into a wince. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke:

“So even the Dozing General earns himself a guardian in turn.”

You stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent but didn’t wake. He watched your steady breathing, and warmth pressed against the calm mask he wore. He recalled—fragmented images, then clarity. The ambush at the docks, his forces scattered, the sudden blow that tore through his defense. Darkness had nearly claimed him. And yet… when his eyes had fluttered open again, just briefly, it was your trembling hands staunching the blood, your lips murmuring instructions to unseen assistants.

Jing Yuan tilted his head, observing the faint ink stains on your fingers, the exhaustion etched into your posture. You weren’t a warrior. You weren’t meant for battlefields. And yet you’d dragged him from one, against all odds.

His voice softened. “You always avoid the spotlight, Doctor. But you’re far braver than you realize.”

The words were meant for you, though you were asleep. He let his eyes fall closed once more, not to rest, but to savor the quiet. For once, he allowed himself to be still — trusting that, if the world crumbled for a few more minutes, you would keep it together.

When you finally startled awake some hours later, fumbling to check his pulse, he only smiled lazily at you.

“Don’t look so alarmed. I’m alive. Thanks to you, it seems.”

And though you stammered, cheeks pink as you fumbled for professional composure, Jing Yuan only reclined back, studying you with a gaze brighter than any golden dawn.

“You’ve earned yourself a debt from the Arbiter-General. I wonder how you plan to collect?”

The battlefield smelled of ash. Black tide monsters lay scattered like broken glass, their shrieks finally silenced. And amidst the ruin, Phainon had fallen.

You had found him sprawled against fractured stone, sword still clutched but blood soaking his side where a jagged spear had pierced through. He was still breathing — shallow, labored. Too much blood. Too little time.

You hadn’t thought, only acted. Compress, stitch, burn away the infection with practiced flame. Drag him with trembling arms until your own legs nearly buckled. Somehow, impossibly, you’d hauled him back to the ward.

Hours later, when Phainon stirred, it was to sterile light and the faint rattle of medical carts. His eyes cracked open, immediately clouding with alarm. He reached instinctively for his sword — only to groan when pain lanced his abdomen.

“Stay down,” you whispered sharply, surprising even yourself with how firm it sounded.

His gaze turned toward you. And there you were, collapsed in the chair beside him, one hand still resting lightly over the edge of his cot. You’d fallen asleep that way, head tilted, lips parted slightly in your exhaustion. Your other hand still bore faint traces of ichor, cleaned but not entirely erased.

For a long moment, Phainon simply stared. Memories rushed back — your frantic voice, your hands refusing to let him go even as he sank into darkness.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, awe-laced. “You pulled me back.”

You didn’t stir, only breathed softly, fragile in your slumber. Something within his chest tightened. He, who had stood against titans, who had seen empires rise and fall, found himself undone by the sight of one medic refusing to surrender him to death.

Carefully, painfully, Phainon shifted his hand toward yours, covering it with his calloused grip. Your fingers twitched but didn’t wake. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh.

“Even legends need saving, it seems.”

When you finally woke hours later, heart leaping at the sight of him conscious, Phainon smiled — pained but genuine.

“Doctor. You carried me from the dark. And I swear by flame and dawn — I will never let that debt go unkept.”

And in that oath, you felt the weight of his promise: not obligation, but gratitude blazing brighter than any Coreflame.

It was quiet aboard the Astral Express — too quiet. The crew had gone to rest, leaving only the hum of machinery. In one of the smaller medical cabins, Dan Heng awoke.

His sharp eyes adjusted quickly, narrowing when he recognized the feel of bandages wrapped along his ribs. Memories flashed: the mission gone wrong, the ambush, the sharp bite of steel across his side before the world blurred.

He sat up too quickly — pain flared, sharp enough to drag a grunt from him. That’s when he noticed you.

Curled in a chair, head resting awkwardly against the cot’s edge, you were fast asleep. A medical kit still lay open at your feet, instruments cleaned but scattered. You hadn’t even taken off your gloves, fingers curled in exhaustion.

Dan Heng stared, still as stone. His usual instinct — to recoil, to slip away unnoticed — faltered. He remembered dimly the sensation of arms catching him as he collapsed, your panicked but steady voice commanding him to “stay with me.” He hadn’t expected anyone to risk so much for him, not with his past shadowing every step.

And yet… you had.

His chest ached in a different way now, quieter, harder to name. He reached toward the blanket folded at the bed’s edge, hesitated, then carefully draped it over your slumped shoulders.

“…Foolish,” he murmured under his breath. The word lacked any bite. “You should rest properly.”

He leaned back, forcing himself to settle. His eyes didn’t leave you, though, following the rise and fall of your breathing. Something inside him loosened at the sight — a fragile tether he hadn’t known he craved.

When you jolted awake later, startled by the realization he was watching, you flushed, fumbling for words.

“I-I just… I didn’t want to leave your side in case—”

Dan Heng shook his head, his expression softening in a way you’d rarely seen.

“You saved me. That’s more than I ever expected.”

And though his voice was steady, his fingers brushed the blanket now over your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment. You had seen him at his weakest. And instead of scorn, you had chosen to stay.

For someone who had run from his past all his life, that quiet truth was more healing than any medicine.

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and parchment — someone had left a book half-open on the counter, forgotten.

Ratio stirred, his mind clawing back from the abyss. The sensation was foreign; he rarely let himself be vulnerable, even in thought. His first instinct was irritation at his own lapse — until he noticed movement.

You were there, collapsed gracelessly in a chair beside him, chin resting against your chest, glasses slightly askew. One hand still clutched a chart at an awkward angle, the other dangling near his arm as though you’d been checking his pulse until sleep claimed you.

Ratio blinked once, twice. Then a sharp, incredulous laugh slipped from him.

“Of all things… to be rescued by a shy little medic.”

He tried to sit up, only to feel the sharp tug of sutures across his side. The memory returned — the lab explosion, the collapsing scaffold, his own body failing faster than calculation predicted. And then you, dragging him from the wreckage with hands far too small for such a task, demanding he live.

His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, softened in exhaustion. You, who shied from praise, who flinched when spoken to too loudly — and yet had stared down death itself to save him.

“Brilliance does appear in the strangest of places,” he muttered.

He reached up, adjusting your glasses with uncharacteristic gentleness before they could slip further. For once, he didn’t analyze, didn’t dissect. He simply allowed the warmth of gratitude — foreign, humbling — to seep into his chest.

When you stirred awake later, mortified to find him watching, you nearly dropped the chart.

“Y-you’re awake! I… I wasn’t—”

Ratio smirked, voice dripping with theatricality.

“Careful, Doctor. Your bedside manner is atrocious. Falling asleep on the patient? Scandalous.”

But his next words, softer, betrayed the truth beneath his teasing:

“…Thank you. You’ve ensured this mind of mine continues to irritate the galaxy for another day. An achievement worthy of accolades.”

And though you flushed, stammering, his gaze lingered warmly. For once, his world wasn’t numbers and reason — it was the quiet heartbeat of someone who had chosen to stay.