#wife!reader

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1988

Michael has been your husband for the past three years. But the two of you relationship and friendship have spanned decades. You’ve fallen in love with the man throughout the years.

You both go on extravagant vacations together and spend so many loving moments. You've met his family and he's met yours.

Just recently, you found out that you were pregnant. The look on Michael’s face was priceless. He jumped around everywhere and started picking you up, extremely happy. He called his parents and siblings to tell them.

Both of you desperately want a baby girl, but can’t agree on baby names or what you’ll paint the nursery walls, however, one thing the two of you have agreed on was to hide it from the world.

You’re far enough to where you have cravings but you aren’t showing too much. You wear baggy clothes to hide the bump from tabloids.

Michael offered to cancel the entire tour to spend it with you but you refused. You couldn’t take his passion away from him

So here you are now. Watching from the crowd despite Michael’s concerns of you being around his fans but you wanted to see him front row in his natural element.

The show was going perfectly. You could’ve sworn the baby started kicking once they heard their father sing.

Michael made eye contact with you throughout most of the night. All of a sudden, you had to pee badly. You make your way through the crowd and towards the nearest bathroom. Quickly doing your business as fast as your pregnant body would let you and then you go to the sink to wash your hands.

You leave the bathroom and walk back towards the seating area. Before you knew it, you were knocked to the ground, your head slamming against the wall.

“Watch where you’re going,” A girl tells you, walking off with her friends. You look up and see a glimpse of their faces and backs. You rub your head and try to get up. Vision blurred.

“Can you- please” you start brokenly. “Get Michael,” you finish.

“Sorry lady, he’s performing right now,” The security guard gruffly tells you. Your vision blurs as you walk away, clutching your stomach. You move to the side, rubbing your temple.

You decided to wait backstage, moving as quickly as you can.

You pull your key from your pocket and unlock the door, immediately flopping on the couch.

Your head is spinning, the baby is kicking, and you can hardly see because of the bright lights and blur. Before you know it, tears pour out of your eyes. You're hysterically crying, not being able to catch your breath.

Thirty minutes pass by and the door swings opens.

“Baby?” Michael says, looking over at you sleeping on your side. He’s quick to your bedside. “Are you okay??” He asks.

“I’m fine,” you mumble to him, wiping your tears.

He brings the back of his hand to feel your forehead.

“Just dizzy…” you continue.

“Dizzy how? Was it the seats?” He asks again.

He pulls your body up and he lays down underneath you.

“Two minutes in, the baby is kicking and I have to pee so badly.” you start. “Leaving the bathroom and walking back to my seat, I’m pushed,” you explain.

“You were pushed??” Michael says, face visibly going paler.

“It’s okay-” you start.

Michael gets up and starts pacing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He says.

“You were performing Michael, plus I tried, the security guard wouldn’t let me?” you tell him.

“Which guard?” Michael asks you, face finally turning to you, he stops pacing.

“I can’t remember” you mumble. He exits the room, door closing behind him.

-

Next thing you know, you heard voices speaking over each other.

“You’re fired”

“It wasn’t my fault”

“Why wasn’t I told that my wife needs me?!” Michael yells. "I don't care if it was because I was performing!"

-

You shake your head.

Michael opens the door and enters.

“The show for today is cancelled.” He tells you. "And I called for a doctor to come."

“Michael!” you shout. “Why would you do that?”

“You’re my main priority, our baby is my main priority.” Michael says. “I have to make sure you’re okay, you were crying.”

“Michael.” you say.

“No.” He quickly answers. He squats down in front of you. "I'm not going to leave your side."

"I promise I'm fine, I was just a bit dizzy," you tell him.

"And just to be sure you don't feel dizzy again, I will stay right here." he tells you softly. "I love you so much, I can't lose you."

He holds your body in his arms, Michael's hand rested protectively over your stomach, your heartbeat can be heard miles away.

"I was so scared." You say.

"I'm here, don't worry." he tells you, kissing your temple.

Bill opens the door and walks in.

"Doctor is here, Mike." he says.

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"What?” Baran mouths with a quirk of her lip, which quickly morphs into a frown as Dana holds up a single finger, silently commanding her to wait.

Dana’s voice drops low, gruff with an edge Baran rarely hears from her. “And how soon will you be here? Okay. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

Dana exhales through her nose sharply before covering the receiver. Baran waits for Dana to scan the bay, look for a resident or a charge nurse or to assist with what Baran assumes is an incoming trauma. But Dana looks at Baran specifically, her eyes don’t drift. Baran lifts her chin, trying to wrest away the nausea that just swept over her.

“What is it?”

Dana crosses the desk, grabbing Baran’s arm and trying to lead her away. "Can I pull you aside for a moment?”

Baran plants her feet. "Tell me here. What’s wrong?”

Dana purses her lips. “Dr. Al-Hashimi, please, follow me.”

“No,” Baran snaps, and a few heads turn their way. “Tell me, Dana. Who was that? What’s wrong?”

Dana levels her with a mom-glare, but Baran is a mom too and is impervious to it. She won't be moved. Dana breaks quick enough.

"There was an MVA,” Dana says carefully. “EMS called ahead because they couldn’t get a hold of you but they know you work here. They’re about eight minutes out.”

“Couldn’t get a hold of me?” Baran breathes, head spinning. “Why would they— was it Y/N?"

"The incident was reported at seven-forty-nine," Dana is saying. She's watching Baran with that careful, steady look. "ETA is four minutes. A teenage driver, illegal street racing, ran a red at the intersection of—"

"Her injuries," Baran says. "What did dispatch tell you?"

"Head trauma, possible rib fracture, lower extremity injury. She was responsive at the scene,” Dana replies. “GCS of thirteen."

Thirteen out of fifteen. Disoriented but not unconscious. Thirteen is not fourteen, which is where she’d want it, but thirteen is also not eight, which is where she’d start to make very different preparations.

"Baran,” Dana takes one step closer. She must’ve been calling Baran’s name, who didn’t hear it. "What do you need, hon? What can I do?"

Baran takes one breath in through her nose and releases it slowly through her mouth, hand coming up to squeeze tightly around her wrist.

"Please get Abbot and Langdon, if he’s still here," she says. "Tell them incoming trauma, MVA, head injury and possible rib fracture. I want imaging on standby and I want ortho paged."

Dana is already reaching for her radio. "Done. Anything else?"

"Yes." Baran straightens. "Would someone grab my phone from my locker? The code is 4-7-1-9."

Dana nods once, her movement slowing to a stop, and her eyes drift back up to Baran. "Are you going to—" She finishes the sentence without words, instead raising a single brow.

Baran only offers one singular nod before she's beelining to the ambulance bay. She hears the siren before she sees the lights, the Doppler shift of it growing closer, and she forces herself to stand still and breathe even as other doctors rush out to help her receive you. Her wife. Baran has been in room after room after room delivering this kind of news about someone that someone loves, and she has watched what they do. There’s usually the one who crumples, or goes rigid, or flees. She always had empathy, but now she has a direct understanding. She wants to do all three. Her chest feels like it’s going to implode. She feels both weightless and leaden, like she’ll either crack through the earth and plummet to its core or float off, somewhere far away.

The ambulance pulls in. The back doors open before the vehicle has fully stopped and the paramedics are already yelling: "-y year old female, restrained driver, T-bone impact on the driver's side, airbag deployment with delayed activation, she's been in and out—"

Your body jolts around like a rag doll as the stretcher bumps its way out of the back of the ambulance. Your head lolls this-way-and-that as if weightless. There’s a C-collar on you, a line in your left arm, a pressure bandage along the hairline where your head must’ve slammed into something. Baran can hardly breathe at the sight of it all as Langdon and Mel descend upon your stretcher, jogging with it as you’re rolled in.

A treating physician cannot have a primary care relationship with an immediate family member. It compromises the objectivity of clinical judgment in ways that can lead to either over-treatment or dangerous minimization, because love is not a diagnostic tool and it never has been.

But Baran is also the chief attending on duty, which means it is ultimately her call to make, which means she can assign Abbot as the primary and oversee, or she can assign Abbot as the primary and step back entirely, or she can (and the protocol is grayer here than people admit) take primary herself on the grounds that she is the most qualified physician in the building and that the injuries in question, while serious, are not so acutely life-threatening as to require surgical intervention, and that her training is specifically relevant to every item on this presentation. Baran is someone whose hands do not shake. They are perfectly steady now, even as her pulse thrummed in her teeth, in her spine, behind her eyes.

She is through the door, back into the ER and coming up alongside your moving stretcher before Langdon can finish his first thought. "Hold on," she says. "What's the reasoning on that?"

Langdon looks up, eyes a little owlish.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi—"

"The reasoning, Langdon."

"I'm cautious about the rib given the mechanism. I want to rule out pneumothorax before we—"

"Breath sounds are equal bilaterally," Baran says, because she can hear them from here, has been hearing them since she walked in. "Trachea is midline. Sat is ninety-seven. This isn't a pneumo." She pulls a pair of gloves from the box on the wall. "Order the CT chest anyway, I want to see the full picture. But we're not holding on that basis."

Langdon holds her gaze for a moment. He is a good doctor and a careful one, and she respects him. But it is more important in this moment that he respects her.

"Sure," he says slowly, letting the words go reluctantly.

"I'll take primary," she says curtly. "Someone get Abbot in here, and Langdon, stay. I want you on the imaging review because I want your eyes on it independent of mine, and you are to say something if you think I'm wrong about anything."

Langdon nods once as Mel rushes off to get Abbot, and Baran steps up in her place.

Close up, it's different. She can see the blood at your hairline more clearly, a gash of maybe two centimeters that has been partially dressed by the paramedics, still oozing slightly. Your hands are resting open at your sides, which is either calm or the absence of enough presence of mind to close them. Baran puts her gloved hand over yours, heart pumping hot blood through her veins. “Y/N, eshgham, can you look at me?"

Your eyes drift around aimlessly for a moment before arriving on hers. She shines her penlight in your eyes as your stretcher keeps moving, apologizing with a raspy voice as you whine.

“Do you know where you are, hon?” Dana asks as they finally reach a room, getting ready to transfer you onto the bed.

"Hospital," you croak.

"That's right. Do you know what happened?"

You groan as they start to jostle you. "There was a car."

"You were in a car accident. Someone hit you,” Baran confirms, "I need you to tell me where it hurts. Can you do that?"

"Head," you wheeze with visible effort: "Side. My side."

"Your ribs?" Baran is already reaching to palpate, carefully, feeling for crepitus. You hiss at the contact, trying to pull away. "I know, I know. I'm sorry,” she responds, blinking the tears out of her eyes, trying to push it all back, down, far away. There’s a fracture, possibly two. "What about your ankle? How does it feel?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to locate that specific pain among the throbbing ache everywhere. You can’t really pinpoint it, so you just supply: “Ouch.”

Langdon huffs out an amused breath as Abbot bursts in, still pulling his gloves on. "What the hell is going on here? Y/N? Baran, you're primary?"

"Yes."

"And you want me—"

"To help. Eyes on everything I do. You countermand me the second you think I'm compromised, you have my full authorization and I mean that." She glances at him then, just briefly. "Jack."

His crossed arms drop as she rounds the bed. "Jesus," he exhales. "Okay. Right. Hi, Y/N. You’re not lookin’ nearly as bad as I thought you would be going off of Baran’s face.”

You hold up a loose-armed thumbs up. “I always look good. Tha’s why she calls me hot stuff,” you slur.

Jack’s eyes shoot up to Baran in amusement. “You drug her?"

"She got two of fentanyl in the field," Baran says. She's already peeling back the paramedic's dressing at your hairline, gazing down at the still-oozing wound. She holds the pressure and looks up. "Langdon, I need this closed."

"On it." He's already moving to the supply cart to get the staples.

She turns back to the room. "C-collar stays until we have the head CT. Cardiac monitor, second IV right arm, supplemental O2 at two liters. Any update from ortho?"

"They said ten minutes,” Dana says.

"Please ask them to be down here in eight."

Dana gives her a look and picks up the phone anyway as the beeping of your heart rate monitor ticks up. All eyes fall on you.

"Baran." Your voice has gone thinner, frightful. Your fingers scrabble at the bed rail. "Baran, I can't— something's wrong, I can't— "

"It's the medication," she softens her voice. Langdon has come back with the stapler and is setting up at your head; she shifts fractionally to give him room without releasing your hand. "Keep your eyes on me."

"Wait,” you gasp, “‘t doesn’t feel right."

"I know it doesn't." She keeps her voice even as an anchor. She has done this ten thousand times with people less important. She can help you through this. "Find my face, honey. Right here." Your eyes find hers and then skate off, glassy and searching. You're trying to reach for something with your left hand, the one with the line in it, fingers splaying open uselessly.

"Hey." Dana catches your wrist before you can pull the IV, "Leave that alone, Y/N. That's keeping you comfortable."

"Well, I don't feel comfortable," you moan.

"I know," Dana says sympathetically, guiding your hand back down on the bed. "But you gotta try to stay still."

"Tracking's better than field report. I'd call her a fourteen,” Abbot updates the room.

Baran knows this, she's been watching. She just nods without taking her eyes off of you. You make a low, distressed sound, head moving restlessly against the pillow, C-collar shifting with it.

"I’m serious, something really feels wrong."

"Nothing is wrong, Verstappen," Abbot says. He has moved down to your ankle now, palpating carefully, watching your face for the pain response. "Your brain is lying and telling you that because of the medication. Your vitals are good."

"It doesn't feel like it's lying," you repeat miserably.

"I know," Baran smooths her thumb along the uninjured side of your hairline, gloved and careful. "That's what makes it convincing. But you’ve got several doctors in here to make sure you’re okay. Including me."

Your eyes squint at Baran, something finally clicking behind your eyes. Then, small and muzzy: "You're not supposed to be my doctor."

Abbot coughs noisly behind you, then oofs as Dana juts her elbow into his ribs.

"No," Baran agrees, ignroing them both. "I'm not supposed to be your doctor."

"Are you in trouble?"

Still hunched, Abbot mouths ‘yes’ behind Baran with an exaggerated nod of his head while Baran’s own expression remains impassive. "Not yet."

You grin, letting your head thunk back against the bed. Your eyes drift shut, then drag back open with visible effort to glare at Langdon who’s approaching you with the stapler. At least he has the courtesy to offer you a sympathetic smile.

"I’ll make it really fast,” he promises. “Just a few small pinches.”

You flinch at the first one and make a sound through your teeth.

"Three more," he says.

"I hate this stupid ED," you inform him, though your syllables are all jumbled. His grin spreads wider across his face.

"Two more."

Your grip on Baran's hand tightens with each one, which she happily allows (it makes her feel at least semi-useful.) Her gaze flicks between the cardiac monitor — rate 104, sinus tach, no big deal — and watching your chest rise and fall and watching your eyes.

"Done," Langdon says. He steps back, strips his gloves, reaches for a fresh dressing. There are four staples across your forehead now, injected in a clean line. "Lac's closed."

"Good." Baran looks across at Abbot. He's finished with the ankle, already straightening.

"Displaced, probably," he says quietly, just to her. "Ortho's going to want to look at that tonight." She nods. That's a problem for twenty minutes from now.

"We're going to take some pictures," she tells you. "Head first, then chest. The collar has to stay on until we rule out a neck injury. I know it's uncomfortable."

"S'fine," you murmur.

"Is it?"

You purse your lips. Caught. "No."

Abbot steps up on your left. "Radiology's ready. You want to take her down?"

"Yes," Baran replies quickly. “Please.”

Dana has already moved to the head of the bed, hands on the rail. "Ready?"

"Where are we going?" you ask the ceiling.

"To get your picture taken," Dana reminds you.

A loopy frown pulls at your lips, memory already lapsed. "For what? I look terrible."

"You look fine, hon."

"Liar," you groan, slurred enough to make Dana laugh. Baran takes your hand as they start to move, fingers lacing through yours. Your grip tightens immediately around hers, a tiny little breath puffing from your mouth in what she takes to be near-contentment.

"Close your eyes,” she whispers, leaning down to place one soft kiss to your forehead. “I'll tell you when we get there."

໒꒱ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

when you woke up, you instinctively reached beside you. only to be met with empty, cold sheets. slowly, you cracked open your eyes and saw your husband no longer there. you sigh and roll on your back, stretching your limbs. the smell of eggs makes you sit up. shoto is making breakfast, you loved his cooking. you leap out of bed and throw on a robe, entering the kitchen to greet the love of your life.

"good morning, my husband" you hum softly, a hint of playfulness in your tone as you approach him from behind when he suddenly sidesteps you. you blink, taken aback, huffing in annoyance, "okay... a bit rude."

he pays you no mind-- instead focused on putting his omelet on his plate, cropping some vegetables as his side. you couldnt help but notice how he only made a serving for himself. before you could ask, he moved again, sitting by himself at the dining table. your smile falters just a little.

awkwardly, you stand in the kitchen before finally snapping out of it. "uh… shoto?" you creep over to sit in front of him. he stared down at his plate with a blank expression. youve seen this before, often when he was stressed or lost in his own mind. granted, now he would usually notice your presence and apologize.

hes just distracted.

"you okay..?" you ask, leaning forward in attempt to hold eye contact. still, no response. he lifts his fork and takes a bite. its like you werent even there to begin with. "shoto this isnt funny--" your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms, resting in your lap. you force yourself to take a breath, calming yourself before speaking once more, "did you not sleep well? or is it work?" you paused, your voice wavering. "or is it... me?"

the slience stretches and he releases a quiet sigh. your heart jumps-- finally-- but thats it. just a sigh, nothing more.

he stands up and places his plate in the dishwasher with a clink. your eyes track his movement as he leaves to your shared bedroom, slamming the door behind him. the sound was loud enough that you flinch. he never did that, ever. your hands shake, confusion clouding your mind.

you sit there for a long time. had you done something? you cant remember. the slience is suffocating, its weight pressing down on you. the sound of the door slamming echos in your head, replaying the events of this morning again and again. your hands tremble in your lap, fingers curling and uncurling in anxiousness. your stomach is turning, no matter how much you tried to soothe yourself it didnt work.

what happened?

you try to retrace it-- every word, every action. maybe you said something wrong. maybe you pushed to hard. maybe he is dealing with something you have yet to understand. the thought twists in your stomach, gulit eating at you. but for what? you couldnt recall doing anything to upset him. just yesterday you two were fine, so what changed?

"i didnt mean to upset him," you whisper to no one, your voice small in the empty place. but that didnt make sense either. he didnt look angry, he looked almost... sad.

you push yourself up. right now he need you, it didnt matter if he agreed to it or not. you refuse to let thiis fester.

the hallway floorboards creek underneath your steps, photos of your wedding day hung on the wall. you felt uneasy, your hand resting on the knob. "shoto, can we talk?" you ask serenely, pushing the door open. the room was dim, curtains half drawn to let some light through. he was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees with his head down. he changed into his hero attire, seeming to be lost in thought once more.

relief filled you. he didnt leave.

you step inside, approaching him like a scared animal in hopes he doesnt withdraw completely. "hey.." your voice is soft. "you scared me a little back there."

no response. he doesnt move.

"if i did something, you can tell me," you continue, vulnerable. "i can fix it. i just... i dont understand whats going on." the words hang in the air. you rest a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. shoto stiffens slightly, and jerks his shoulder, throwing your hand off. you retract your hand in surprise, eyes widened.

he suddenly gets up and passes you, his arm nearly brushing yours. it was almost intentional how he avoided you.

you turn quickly, watching him go, "wait-- can we just talk? please?" your voice cracks, desperation slipping through despite your effort to hold it together.

he doesnt stop or look back. he walks out like you never spoke at all. a moment later you hear the front door open, then close.

he left for work, youre left alone.

when he comes home its late. so late that you could see the stars shining against the dark sky. you had been sitting at the dining room table and lost track of time, nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock and your own thoughts to keep you company. you were about to fall on the brink of insanity if he didnt explain himself. you hear the front door unlock and he steps in. "shoto?" it feels like theres an invisible wall between you that only keeps getting thicker no matter how hard you try to break through it.

he kicks off his shoes and neatly stacks them on the rack. sweat clings to his skin, dampening his hero suit. theres dirt smeared near his jaw, faint scuff marks along his sleeves and judging by the look on his face he is exhausted. "rough day?" you move toward him. he doesnt look at you. "look i get it, your work is hard-- youre risking your life, but please talk to me. did i do something?"

he neglects to comment.

you dont know why he wont touch you. why he wont look at you. shoto continues walking without answering, his silence stretching so painfully through the house that it starts feeling suffocating. "can you at least look at me when im talking to you?" frustration starts slipping through despite your effort to hold it back. "im your wife, not some stranger you can ignore whenever you feel like it!"

"say something!" your voice cracks loudly through the house desperate to no end. “anything! yell at me, tell me youre mad at me, i dont care anymore just stop acting like im not even here--!” your hand slams down hard against the small counter beside you before you even realize what youre doing. the vase sitting there tips instantly and wobbles awfully close to the edge and crashes to the floor. ceramic shatters violently across the kitchen tile, pieces scattering everywhere in jagged white fragments. he had bought that vase for you, when it felt like you wouldnt see him for days on end-- he would fill the vase with your favorite flowers to let you know he was there when your sleep schudules wouldnt align... and now it laid shattered at your feet. "oh my-- no i didnt mean--" the anger leaves you, like you were splashed with ice cold water.

shoto flinches when it breaks. his eyes dart immediately toward the broken vase, his shoulders tensing. you step closer to him. your hand lifts, about to touch him, wanting to apologize properly, wanting to fix the damage you caused-- but you stop when you see his face.

a mixture of fear and confusion.

your breath caught in your throat. he quietly kneels down in front of the shattered pieces without saying a single word. your heart aches painfully as you watch him clean up the mess in complete silence. he just starts picking up the broken ceramic carefully, sweeping the little shards in a dust pan. shoto finishes cleaning the shattered pieces quickly before dumping them into the a plastic bag. exhaustion written all over his face again, though now he looks even more drained than before.

you hear the shower start running from down the hall. you didnt bother to follow him, not when he had that look in his face, you felt shame and guilt. was he afraid of you? you make your way back toward the bedroom, your heart racing.

you sit down carefully on the edge of the bed, your hands clasping tightly together in your lap as your thoughts spiral uncontrollably. you replay the moment over and over. the room feels cold as you lie down to stare at the ceiling. your eyes sting, and you feel numb. your breathing is uneven as you try to swallow down the horrible tightness in your throat, the more you try to keep it in, the worse it builds. your vision blurs, a shaky breath leaving you. a small broken sound escapes your throat before you can stop it, and tears spill hot down your temples into your hair. you quickly press the heel of your hand against your eyes like thatll somehow stop it, but it only makes your breathing feel more like suffocation. "i didnt mean to…" you whisper shakily to the empty room. you curl into yourself on the bed, one arm wrapped tightly around your stomach as quiet tears continue slipping free no matter how hard you try to calm down.

sometime during the night you fell asleep from the emotional exhaustion. your body shut down simply because it couldnt deal with the stress anymore. even then, rest never truly came. your dreams are terrifying to say the least.

an unbearable, suffocating heat wrapping around your body so tight it feels hard to breathe. the flames are trapping you from escape. then comes the thick smoke flooding your lungs until every breath burns painfully in your chest. you hear shoto and scream for him. the walls are crumbling down around you. flames climb the walls around you, consuming everything in crackling orange and red. smoke chokes the air, barely seeing more than a few feet ahead of you. the ceiling groans somewhere above, pieces of debris crashing down around you as fire alarms scream endlessly in the distance. your lungs seize as you stumble forward blindly through the smoke, coughing harshly into your sleeve. the heat is unbearable against your skin and you see it peeling away. "hello?!" your voice comes out broken between coughs. "shoto—!" another loud crash shakes the building violently beneath your feet.

you can barley see, you dont know where to go. everything is so loud, so much pain. you stumble disoriented and terrified, trying desperately to find an exit through the smoke. then you see it, an window just upahead. but it seemed fate was cruel, as a deafening crack echos above you. you look up just in time to see the ceiling collasping. a beam crashes down, crushing you beneath it. you hit the ground hard, a scream tearing from your throat as the heavy beam crushes down across your legs and lower torso. the impact knocks the air from your lungs. you cant breathe or think. the pain is unbearable and your hands tremble as you try to push the beam off you. its no use, its too heavy. you panic, and tears fall from your ash-covered face. "no-- no no no please--" the fire grows closer. every breathe is painful, even coughing hurts. you can feel yourself burning, the smell of your own flesh making you want to vomit. you feel dizzy. the metal of your wedding band was melting your skin off.

you are scared. not of death, but of being alone. you wish shoto were here, he would know what to say to make you feel better. "shoto!" your voice cracks violently as tears spill down your face. "shoto, please!"

you thought he didnt hear you, that you would die alone.

"Y/N!"

through the thick smoke, you see him, running through the flames, panic written all over his face in a way youve never seen before. his eyes are wide with fear as he pushes through the collapsing building to you, ice spreading wildly from beneath his feet in desperate attempts to stop the fire around him. "shoto..." you feel yourself slipping.

he drops to his knees beside you immediately, hands grabbing desperately at the beam trapping you. his face looks frantic "hold on," he says, voice shaking despite himself. "Ive got you. im here." the building groans violently overhead. your vision blurs and you reach toward him when you suddenly wake up.

your shaking, hands clutch tightly at the blankets beneath you as your pulse pounds uncontrollably in your ears. it wasnt real, just a dream. you stay sitting upright in bed, one trembling hand pressed tightly against your chest while the other grips the blankets to wrinkle them beneath your fingers. you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady your breathing.

you swallow hard and finally force yourself to lie back down on the mattress, though sleep never truly comes after that. instead, you spend the rest of the night drifting in and out of restless thoughts while the darkness slowly fades into morning light. by the time sunlight filters weakly through the curtains, exhaustion sits heavily behind your eyes. you stare blankly upward at the ceiling, numb and hollow from the nightmare lingering in your chest. your hand reaches across the mattress beside you.

cold. he must have slept on the couch.

you sit up, rubbing tiredly at your face before dragging yourself out of bed. the house is silent except for faint movement downstairs. the memories from last night come rushing back all at once-- the shouting, the vase shattering against the floor, the look on his face afterward. you feel sick just thinking about it. shame curls painfully in your stomach as you step into the hallway. you dont even know how to face him after that. you make your way to the kitchen and stop when you see him and the vase. it was the same one you broke yesterday; he had glued it back together. shoto stands near the counter with his back turned to you, already dressed. a black button-up shirt stretches neatly across his frame, sleeves rolled carefully to his forearms.

beside him was a bouquet of flowers.

you simply stare at them while something uneasy twists deep inside your chest. you doubt those flowers are for you, and you knew shoto didnt care for them, so who were they for? another woman? shoto reaches toward them, fingers brushing against the wrapping paper with gentleness, and suddenly, your dream flashes through your mind again.

him running toward you, terrified but not for himself, for you. desperate to save you. your heart couldnt take it, because the man from your dream and the man standing in your kitchen felt like two different people. "youre going out again...?" you question.

he doesnt answer, doesnt even react to your question. you stare at his back helplessly, frustration and grief twisting inside your chest it hurts to breathe. "shoto, please," your voice cracks "I dont understand what happened to us. please.... i miss my husband."

he pauses at the doorway before sighing and leaving.

you dont understand any of this. you dont understand why your husband barely speaks to you now. why he looks exhausted every time he comes home. why he flinch when the vase shattered? why does he stare at pictures of you with this awful sadness in his eyes before turning away again, as if looking at you hurts him, yet he cant look you in the eyes in person?

you cant take it anymore, you need answers even if they break your heart. your eyes drift toward the front door, and before you can second-guess yourself, your feet begin moving. you refuse to sit here. you cant stay trapped inside this silent house while your husband disappears somewhere on the weekend, carrying flowers meant for someone else. you cant keep pretending not knowing hurts less than the truth. whatever that may be. you hurry toward the front door as fast as you can. you barely notice the cold beneath your bare feet. by the time you reach outside, shotos car is already halfway down the street, disappearing farther away with every second. "shoto-- wait!!" you know he wont hear you, you need to be faster. cold morning air bites against your skin as you hurry down the sidewalk after the distant car, your breathing growing uneven, embarrassingly fast. you rarely leave the house anymore. the realization flickers through your mind as you move through the neighbourhood, passing strangers who barely glance your way.

the neighbour walking her dog doesnt react to you as you pass her, but her dog does, pulling on his leash. you pay it no mind, rushing after shoto.

you cant remember the last time you left the house, the thought unsettles you, but not enough to stop. you keep moving, your chest burning, while shotos car disappears farther through the city streets ahead of you. the further you go, the stranger everything starts to feel around you. a bicyclist nearly passes straight through where you were before swerving suddenly at the last second with a confused look, muttering under his breath as he rides away. eventually the city begins thinning around you, buildings giving way to quieter streets lined with old trees swaying softly in the wind. shotos car finally slows ahead in the distance before turning through large iron gates.

you pant, a cemetery? this place is making you dizzy, you hold your head as it starts to hurt. focus! you need shoto. confusion rushes through you as you stare toward the gates ahead, your breathing shallow now for entirely different reasons. why would he come here? why dress so nicely? why the flowers? your pulse pounds rapidly in your ears.

you watch him for a moment through the iron gates, and suddenly the exhaustion written into every movement becomes impossible to ignore. his shoulders look heavy and you realise hes carrying something unbearable. maybe youve been selfish this entire time, so caught up in your own hurt that you never noticed how badly he was struggling. "no…" you whisper shakily to yourself, though the words sound uncertain even to you. "no, that still doesnt explain…" doesnt explain the distance or any of his behaviour.

the gravel crunches softly beneath your feet while cold wind brushes against your skin. rows and rows of gravestones stretch endlessly around you, quiet and still beneath the grey morning sky. your breath catches immediately at the sight of him standing there completely motionless before a grave. he simply stares downward then his shoulders begin to shake.

"…shoto?" your voice comes out weak.

he doesnt react. his head lowered, fingers tightening hard enough around the bouquet to crumple the wrapping paper beneath his grip. his breathing turns uneven, and the most heartbreaking sobs escape him. rain begins to fall lightly overhead, but he doesnt notice. your eyes slowly drift downward toward the grave in front of him, and the world stops.

here lies Y/N Todoroki, beloved wife and daughter.

shoto cant breathe. even after all this time, seeing her name carved into stone still feels unreal to him, his mind outright rejects the mere thought, no matter how many weekends he forces himself to come here. she is gone, buried beneath the earth, while hes still standing here, continuing to live without her. it feels wrong in a way he can explain. everyone told him it would get better eventually, that time would make carrying it easier, but they were wrong. time hasnt healed anything. it has only forced him to survive longer without her. every single day since her death has felt like waking up with something missing inside him, something vital ripped out so suddenly his body still hasnt adjusted to the emptiness left behind. like a part of his soul was torn away by the cruelness of fate.

hes exhausted in a way sleep could never fix. he lowers himself slowly onto his knees in front of the gravestone. his trembling hand slowly reaches forward until his fingertips brush against the cold marble beneath her name. the stone feels cold beneath his touch. "i brought flowers again," he says quietly, his voice rough and uneven from crying more often than speaking these days. "the ones you liked." the sentence nearly falls apart halfway through because the memories hit him all at once. he remembers the way her face used to light up whenever he brought flowers home unexpectedly. remembers how carefully she'd arrange them. remembers the teasing smile she'd give him whenever he acted embarrassed about demonstrating his love.

the house doesnt feel like home anymore. it hasnt since the day she died. every room feels wrong without her, empty in a way that feels unbearable. her smell is there, the memories of her laughter-- but never her. sometimes he still catches himself pausing outside rooms expecting to hear her voice before reality crushes him all over again. "youd hate seeing me like this," he laughs weakly through the tears, though the sound is hollow and broken enough to barely resemble laughter at all. "youd tell me to get up. tell me im being dramatic." his voice cracks badly on the last word because he can practically hear her saying it. "i shouldve protected you." the words leave him. "if i had just gotten there faster… protected you like i promised in our vows."

“Y/N, can I sit with you?” Rhae asked, although she was already dragging a chair next to yours and trying to see what you were writing.

“I cannot believe that Egg is gone but not Aerion. How is that fair?” Daella complained, flopping down onto a nearby overstuffed settee with a huff.

You looked up from the letter you were writing to Aemon at the Citadel, giving Rhae a smile before turning your attention to Daella. “I do not think the gods assure us of a life of fairness.”

Daella huffed again and rolled over onto her side to look at you, wisps of her warm brown hair escaping her braid. “You sound like my septa.”

“Well, that may be because I learned that bit of wisdom from my septa.”

“Of course,” she sighed, clearly fed up with the platitudes everyone had been giving her when she complained about Aerion still living.

You blew gently on the letter to help the ink dry and then set it aside, taking care that Rhae could not read the contents. “Where are your septas? Should you both not be in lessons right now?”

Rhae pouted. “They are boring; everyone is so busy with Aerion that they will not even let us go play in the gardens.”

You leaned back in your chair. Maekar had been particularly tense since all but Aegon had returned home from the tourney. The younger children were not allowed out of an adult’s sight, and you even heard rumors that he was considering recalling Aemon from the Citadel. Aerion had made most of the journey back in an open air wheelhouse, and now that he was under the care of Summerhall’s maesters, he was milking their attention for all it was worth.

“He deserves his injuries; he should never have demanded a Trial by Seven,” Daella said.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Of course, you agreed, but you could not say so.

“Where is Daeron?” Rhae asked, looking around as if he were hiding behind a curtain or bookshelf.

“Probably drinking or passed out in a ditch,” Daella snorted, turning onto her back and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Daella,” you said sharply, giving her a warning look.

“Oooo, you are in trouble,” Rhae snickered.

You gave her a look too, and she fell silent, ducking her head.

Daella was seven and Rhae three when you came to court to marry Daeron, their mother having passed three years prior. As such, you became something of a maternal figure for the girls, more so Rhae than Daella, but you knew it was within your bounds to speak up when they stepped out of line.

Your voice was firm but not cruel. “It is not kind of you to discuss Daeron’s drinking so negatively when you know he is trying to be better. Especially since the maesters and I are attempting to aid him in any way we can. Besides, he is your brother, and he has sacrificed much for you, so I do not want to hear such words again. Do you understand me?”

Daella sat up and folded her arms over her chest, the expression on her face so very like Maekar’s you wished you could show it to him. “But that is what Aerion always says.”

You sighed and rolled out your shoulders. She was still young and bored, pushing boundaries as only a child can. She did not mean it; you knew that. “You want Aerion dead; why would you listen to him?”

Daella tilted her head side to side, thinking on her reasoning before speaking. “Sometimes he says smart things.”

You looked at her flabbergasted. “When?”

“Well, he once told me that love makes you a fool, and then a few minutes later I saw Daeron walk right into a wall because he was too busy staring at a portrait of you. Which is a pretty foolish thing to do, so he was right then.”

You bit back a laugh. “That is not enough to take his word as law.”

“I never listen to Aerion; I like Daeron more,” Rhae chimed in sweetly, hating when your attention was on another for too long. She was so like Daeron in that way.

"Liar," Daella said.

Rhae’s eyes widened. “I am not lying!”

Daella wrinkled her nose at her. “Yes, you are; you are a big, lying babe.”

“Y/N!” Rhae cried, clinging to you, tears welling in her eyes.

“See, you are a liar and a crybaby,” Daella teased.

You pulled Rhae into your arms, letting her hide her face in your shoulder. “Daella, I understand you are bored, but being cruel to your siblings is not the right way to expend your energy. Why not go to your father and see if he will let you play outside if you annoy him enough?”

She perked up. “Do you think he would?”

Gods you wished Daeron was here, but alas, he was discussing plans to retrieve Aegon with Maekar.

“It does not hurt to try,” you said, rubbing Rhae’s back soothingly.

As if on cue, and you thanked the gods for it, Daeron strode in, causing Daella to scramble off the settee and fling herself into his arms. “Brother!”

He caught her, though he stumbled back a step in surprise. “Daella, have you been torturing both our sister and my wife, or only our sister?”

“I have not tortured anyone, ever. Now can we go play in the garden?” Daella asked, looking up at Daeron with a look akin to a pup begging for table scraps.

He chuckled and smoothed down her hair. “Mayhaps later, I have something important I must tell you three. It is a message from Father; he saw fit for me to deliver.”

You met his eye over Daella’s head. Aerion, his fate must have been decided.

Rhae lifted her head, her bottom lip still trembling. “Is it about Egg? Did you find him?”

Daeron’s face fell. You both knew Aegon was with Ser Duncan, but you knew not where exactly. “No, but we are still searching.”

Rhae buried her face in your shoulder again.

“Tell us the news, Husband, then we can take the girls out to the gardens,” you said.

Daeron nodded, steadying himself. “Father has decided that it is best if Aerion be sent away to Lys for a while. He shall be leaving as soon as a ship can be outfitted properly and arrangements are made.”

You thought perhaps Aerion would be sent to Dorne, seeing as the Daynes were kin, but Lys…you were not expecting that.

“Lys, home of beautiful women and expensive wines?”

Daeron nodded, a slight grimace on his face. “Mayhaps Father is hoping he will find a wife that settles him.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Daella said, already skipping towards the door. “Now let us go play; we can say goodbye to Aerion when his ship leaves.”

You shared a glance with Daeron, the both of you trying not to burst into laughter.

“Well, that is not how I expected this conversation to go, but—he stepped closer and took Rhae from you—do you wish to go play as well, little one?”

Rhae smiled. “Yes, can we go now?”

“Of course, as long as you promise to act sad when Aerion leaves.”

“I promise,” Rhae said with all the seriousness a child her age could.

It seemed good enough for Daeron; he held a hand out to you, and to the gardens you went.